what happens at olive garden when theyre grating the cheese and you don’t say “when”
the waiter gets more and more concerned as the cheese starts piling up and you remain silent. they eventually plead with you to stop this madness and just say when, but you hold firm. olive garden fills with cheese, killing everyone in the building as cheese begins to pour out into the street. the world floods with cheese. all is cheese.
“Writing has nothing to do with publishing. Nothing. People get totally confused about that. You write because you have to - you write because you can’t not write. The rest is show-business. I can’t state that too strongly. Just write - worry about the rest of it later, if you worry at all. What matters is what happens to you while you’re writing the story, the poem, the play. The rest is show-business.”—Peter S. Beagle (via writingquotes)
Reaction to the box scene. Um, kind of? A follow up of sorts to this featuring baking and innuendoes and further torturing of Finn.
“Okay now I’ll beat it until stiff…fifty strokes ought to do it.”
“Oh, Blaine, you’re much better than that. Give yourself some credit.”
“Well I guess if I do it faster and harder…”
“Now you’re talking, baby.”
“And you’ll have to take over the creaming. I know how much you like that part.”
“Mmm, then we can knead your dough until it’s nice and firm.”
A bowl is slammed down on the counter suddenly, Finn whipping around to glare at them, wooden spoon covered in cookie dough pointed warningly in their direction from across the kitchen. “I seriously hate baking with you guys.”
Kurt lifts a shoulder, scooping batter out the bowl he and Blaine were working on, then sucking it off his finger with a pop. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Blaine groans as Finn huffs and turns back to his mixing.
Kurt had been planning on watching and flirting and kissing his way through Blaine’s biannual cookie making marathon, but Finn had to gatecrash and insist on helping so they’d be done faster and he could eat all of Kurt’s cookies, so it’s his own fault, really.
Alright, maybe he had been laying it on a little thick.
Kurt sighs and sucks another scoop of cookie dough into his mouth, Blaine focusing so intently on lining spheres of dough onto the sheet that he doesn’t even notice this time. Kurt regretfully gives up on the game and starts scooping spoonfuls out onto the sheet, until Blaine cheerfully announces, “Time to bake my balls!”
Finn blanches, Blaine blushes, and Kurt has to bite his lips together to keep from dissolving into hysterical laughter.
“You know what would be good on these?” Kurt says, voice quavering. “Whipped cream. You just love whipped cream, don’t you Blaine?”
“You win. I’m out,” Finn grumbles, dropping the spoon with a clatter and stomping out of the room.
“Wait! He was just about to put it in!” Kurt calls after him. Blaine sets his hands on his hips, tipping his head to the side in admonishment.
“What? I meant the cookie sheet,” Kurt protests.
Blaine purses his lips, then goes to fuss with the oven, staying silent long enough that Kurt starts to feel a little bad. He’ll whip up some chocolate chip cookies (even though earlier he’d claimed they were plebeian) because they’re Finn’s favorite.
Kurt starts to gather up the ingredients set out on the counter as the chirp of the timer being set fills up the quiet of the kitchen. Taking the high road is seriously no fun sometimes. Then Blaine’s hand on his wrist stops him.
“We have fifteen minutes, get the whipped cream and meet me upstairs.”
And because he’s such a kind and thoughtful and compassionate person, he decides that he’ll give Finn an entire thirty seconds to get the hell out of the house.