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i’m giving this one last shot. hey i’m madge and i’m a chronically ill non-binary person who was recently laid-off from my previous job and have been job hunting for a month now without much success. i could really use some help with upcoming phone & internet bills and would appreciate it so much. 💔
Ghost wish list for 2024 - 1. New album confirmed for 2025. 2. Loma Vista go bust and Ghost get a good record label. 3. Someone invents a good record label.
4. Papa III resurrected 5. World peace 6. Tobias finds the other air pod
Genre: Pure fluff, comfort, kitchenalia, some foreshadowing of future events, an attempt at comedy was made.
Rating: The swears, simulated wanking
WC: 2438 (I have no idea how this happened)
Warnings: A little sappy, threats of violence, light Chapter 16 spoilers. Copia suffering, no door, too many tax receipts, Seestor being a big meanie.
A/N: All HCs are my own damn fault, or taken from various bits of the Chapters, interviews, Tender Father’s ramblings. Also may have been absorbed by osmosis and exposure to the fandom. You are welcome to use them.
The kitchen was Mountain's happy place. The rhythm, sounds and organised chaos was very much like being on stage, his steady heartbeat moving things along, suffusing each dish with a bit of that ethereal ghoul magic. He could be found here most evenings, amongst the polished copper pots, his head deftly bobbing between the battery of cooking implements hanging from wrought iron racks.
There had been a few teething problems involving chipped horns and swollen lumps that had to be soothed by Aether. Even though Aeth had tisked and chided Mountain each time, he was tickled by his new found love for cooking.
The road to hell, in fact, was paved with dinners. Some lavish to the point of obscenity (particularly if the ministry was hosting high-ranking clergy from abroad), some as simple as a bowl of warming soup and dark bread fresh from the ovens. It would of course be slathered with butter made from the milk of Primo's prized dairy cows who doubled as the resident lawn trimmers. Every ghoul was threatened under penalty of death - fuck with the cows and find out at your peril. As such, the ministry kitchens were equipped to feed a small (unholy) army.
The ghouls, however, kept stranger hours- often more active at night and sleeping after dawn crept its fingers over the spires of the ministry chapel. Once the kitchen had cleared of the daytime staff, it was Mountain's preferred spot. A fire would be lit in the hearth again, kicking up embers to light new tinder and carefully stacked logs. Then there was the large bay window that had become home to a variety of potted herbs and trailing ivy - all courtesy of him. The day staff had delighted in the addition, never needing to venture outside in the bitter chill of winter in Lincopia to harvest herbs from the ministry greenhouse.
The one exception to this was Sundays. Papa insisted that he make the ghouls a communal dinner, from scratch, all by himself (unless Dewdrop decided to force his involvement on the former cardinal). Papa had a paternal streak a mile wide, and loved tinkering with old recipes until they were just right for his little band of hellspawn. Dinner on Sundays was usually late, even by ghoul standards.
Oddly, Dewdrop was an occasionally curious kitchen hand, very adamant that he be shown things step-by-step and in great detail. Whenever Mountain would gently inquire, why exactly Dew was so keen, he would be admonished with a sullen stare that hinted at acts of future violence.
On this particular night an English roast dinner had been requested, with Aether claiming he had developed an affinity for them after spending some time in Britian in an earlier century. Under a different, unnamed master.
He had conjured up visions of tables laden with joints of roasted meat, stuffings, potatoes roasted with drippings or lard, vegetables glazed or creamed into submission, sauces aplenty and those strange little puffs of air called 'Yorkshire puddings'.
Mountain had practically galloped to the library - Dew madly scrambling to keep up with him. The library had a considerable collection of antique cook books and treatises on the culinary arts. The siblings of sin had helped him find a volume titled 'Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management', from around the time Aeth said he had been in service.
The book was bound in red linen, with gilt lettering and counted among its charms a stained title page, several pages of the 'Cakes' section glued together by Satan-knows-what and, curiously, an entire chapter on 'Carving at the Table' had been unceremoniously ripped out.
Walking back into the kitchen Mountain set the book on the long wooden trestle table that graced one side of the main kitchen and sat on the well-scrubbed bench seat.
"Well, looks like we're a little fucked on the pomp and ceremony bit but at least we can scrape together some of the easier recipes."
Dew stood behind him, peering over his shoulder, making a range of faces that covered everything from abject disgust to confusion and back to dry wretching.
"It's all so fucking BROWN! How could Aeth even stomach this stuff much less want to eat it again?" Dew hissed through gritted teeth.
Mountain knew that Dew also had questionable taste in food, once having caught him eating spoonfuls of dry spices, but decided to keep that thought to himself. Dew had nearly choked to death in a puff of cinnamon when Mountain had opened the pantry door looking for the fancy fleur de sel Terzo had brought up from France.
"Well, they say that brown equals flavour, buddy. Millions of people can't be wrong, well I mean they can, but let's just go with the former. Alright, let's gather everything we need up, I'll head to the root cellar, can you crank the ovens? Let's do roast pork with crackling, glazed root vegetables, crispy roast potatoes, apple and onion gravy, horseradish cream and maybe some of those yorkshire pudding things?"
"Oui, chef!" Dew practically yelled, puffing his chest out and standing as tall as he could (he was still very small, but the effort was what counted).
Mountain gave an awkward thumbs-up, wondering what the fuck had gotten into him lately? Everyone knew he was a raging perfectionist that mastered every task he was given, but this was just extreme.
There was a door adjacent to the pantry that led down into the root cellar, Mountain practically doubling over to avoid concussion as he descended the narrow stairs. The ministry had long sat unused until the 1930s, and was a former abbey dating back to the 1400s with an extensive network of catacombs, underground chambers and cellars. This was just one storage cellar, the ministry being dotted with them, some still sealed and unused.
The cellar room itself was large enough for Mountain to stand up in, with a small, vaulted ceiling from which hung braids of garlic, onions, dried peppers and woody herbs. The door was always tightly sealed to keep Copia's rats from infiltrating the stores.
Mountain collected his root vegetables (wintered carrots, parsnips and yellow turnips) from wooden boxes and grabbed a large burlap sack of potatoes, still dirty with sandy soil. He relished the smell of soil in winter, even if it was long dry and devoid of the rich aroma of life and death that all healthy earth has. A braid of garlic, a few stray apples (these would need replenishing from the larger store cellars) and six onions were added to his basket.
Upstairs, Dew had collected a pair of ancient roasting tins that would hold two racks of pork, which he was salting and oiling. Mountain tipped his basket out onto the table and brought the onions and apples to Dew.
"Alright, slice these thinly and make a bed for the pork after you put down a little oil. Toss a few sprigs of rosemary underneath the pork as well."
Dew relished the knifework, his fingers flying adeptly just as they did on-stage. Soon sounds of sniffling and cursing could be heard from his corner of the kitchen.
"Mounty, can you pass me some paper towel? Please?"
Mountain dutifully ripped off a few sheets and handed them to Dew. Tears were streaming from his eyes, and they had gotten incredibly red, much more than any human Mountain had seen chop onions.
"Buddy, are you ok? You don't look so great..."
Wordlessly, Dew picked up the knife and pointed it at Mountain's chest.
"I...am...fine...I'm...not...crying. If you tell the others, I will end you."
Dew slowly turned to face his stinky nemesis again, his knife now pointing down at the alliums.
"I am the lord and master of these onions and will prevail. SUBMIT TO ME, YOUR ONION LORD!" Dew exclaimed as he began furiously slicing the onions again.
Mountain stiffly turned back to his own cutting board while questioning the choice of giving Dew access to a large, sharp knife. Maybe he should just give him the vegetable peeler next time...
Soon there were neat piles of chopped veg, minced herbs and bowls of coarse salt and freshly ground pepper in front of Mountain. A large tray lined with baking paper stood ready, as he tipped and mixed everything together. A final flourish of honey from the pantry was drizzled over everything.
Dew had indeed conquered the onions, and the pork was sizzling in one of the large, furnace-like ovens. Little sparks of fire magic were floating around him like orange fireflies, and Mountain could tell that Dew was manipulating the fire, willing the ancient oven to get hot enough to properly cook the crackling roast.
"Thanks buddy, you're doing a great job there."
Mountain gingerly patted him on his shoulder, to which Dew blushed and fumbled a "Thanks, chef."
While the roast was cooking, the pudding batter was assembled, the horseradish grated and gently folded into cream with a little vinegar, salt and pepper (more tears from Dew, Mountain wordlessley handing over paper towels).
It was time for the potatoes to be tipped into hot fat, and the tray of vegetables to be placed into the now less-furnacey oven. Dew had opened the oven and with his golden crown of hair blowing around him, had drawn the heat into himself, then promptly run outside and exhaled vast quantities of steam. Mountain marvelled at how strong his magic could be when he was focused and calm, something he noticed was happening more often these days.
Returning to work, they scrubbed the boards, knives, bowls and utensils, and set the table for Papa and the ghouls. They had a little time to have a cup of tea and biscuits, as the meat had to rest before carving. The siblings of sin always kept a tin of biscuits around for the ghouls, as it was an easy way to barter with them - they had become fond of earthly delights.
Mountain loved the little heart-shaped linzer cookies filled with jam, while Dew enjoyed the dark chocolate shortbreads dotted with orange zest and redolent with spice. They missed them while on tour, and would often request that the kitchen send along a tin or two to fix any cases of homesickness.
The smell of dinner had clearly wafted through the abbey as Aether poked his head through the huge wooden double-doors of the kitchen.
"Almost dinner time, lads? Want me to fetch the others?"
"Yes, and make sure to get Papa as well, I don't care if you have to tear him away from his bloody tax returns, Sister can get fucked for once. Every time I walk past his room he's either playing video games and eating Pocket Coffees from a giant bowl or wringing his hands over a pile of paper and swearing in Italian." Mountain's brow creased in worry - Copia needed a solid meal and some companionship, this work schedule was killing him...
It was time to pour the batter for the puddings into their screaming-hot moulds. Mountain carefully distributed the liquid and then immediately shoved them in the oven to bake.
Dew was already moving the vegetables onto large platters, and pouring the gravy into the Ministry's bizarre collection of animal-shaped gravy boats. His personal favourite was the puking cat.
Mountain was left to carve the pork, quietly working the slices from the rack, the crackling sublimely crisp and shattering. He heard the scrape of a chair behind him and suddenly felt a hat being negotiated over his horns.
"Gotta look the part, hey chef?" Dew proclaimed, as he slid the chair back and stood beside him, wearing a floppy, old-fashioned chef's toque like some bizarre character from an 80s children's show. It was fucking adorable.
"Absolutely bud, only the height of professionalism around here."
The other ghouls began drifting through the doors, excitedly chatting and sniffing the air. The girls coo'd over Dew's hat while also trying to dip their fingers in the gravy boat as he fended them off with a slotted spoon.
Aether and Papa were last, with Aether holding Papa up with an arm while he shuffled in, still wearing his little rat slippers and looking positively dreadful.
"Amici miei....my beautiful children, you are a sight for sore eyes. Sister, she is relentless, she has removed my door! I can't even, you know, ehhh..." he made sad, unenthusiastic wanking motions with his hand.
Suddenly, Copia closed his eyes as his nose began to twitch. He inhaled deeply, a flush of colour returning to his cheeks.
"Quell'aroma meraviglioso...Mountain, Dewdrop, you have outdone yourselves...my mama, she could have never..." Aether sat Papa down at the head of the table, gently tucking a napkin into his burgundy hoodie and pouring him a small glass of wine.
Dew held up his own wineglass, tapping it with his gigantic slotted spoon.
"The chef would like to say a few words..." he announced, chest puffed out again and wiggling an eyebrow at Mountain.
"Uh yeah, Aeth requested this one, so, uh, enjoy this surprisingly delicious brown food."
Everyone clapped, while Mountain's hat slid forward as he bowed. Suddenly, he bolted upright -"Fuck, the puddings!"
Without a hint of hesitation Dew jumped up and ran to the oven, pulling the pan of crispy puffs out with his bare hands. "Got 'em! Nice and golden, sneaky little fuckers."
"CAZZO! Put the fucking pan down, you're going to have terrible blisters, mamma mia!" Papa yelled while clasping his hands over his face, elicting a gasp from the other ghouls.
"Nah, I usually wear oven mitts just so the siblings don't lose their tiny minds when they realise I'm unburnable. Don't want to give them the brain scramblies, ya know?"
The ghouls uttered a collective sigh, of course a pan wasn't going to burn him. They all suddenly felt a little foolish, like they'd been living amongst humans a bit too long.
Swiss, however, looked contemplative, while shoving a hot yorkshire pud in his mouth he began, "The brain scramblies are bad news, like that time Rain dove into the lake and didn't come up for 20 minutes in front of the novices..."
Soon enough, laughter echoed through the hall. Mountain was content, his family was here enjoying the fruits of his labours, while their collective magics mingled in the warm air. Dew offered up a crinkly-eyed smile in his direction, which he returned with a nod and subtle grin.
They would all sleep well, with full bellies and comfortable dreams of warm hearths, surrounded by good friends.
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