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xp_logsMarie-Ange and Darcy re-create the Tinned Pasta Predictions, with slightly more useful but vague results.
Marie-Ange breezed into the kitchen with a purposeful stride, straight to the walk-in pantry, and then emerged only a moment later, with a huff. "Corn starch. How can this entire mansion not have corn starch." She glanced up at the other woman in the room, and the humming microwave, and nodded a greeting. "You ... would not happen to know where a person could get corn starch to test temporary paint that only lasts a few hours, no?"
"Mmm..." Darcy turned to a cabinet near the stove and started to rummage. "I think... yep!" She shook the bright yellow container in victory, then frowned. Her face fell as she opened the lid. "That's... basically empty." She set both parts gently on the counter as the microwave dinged, giving the bowl a generous stir.
"Maybe the ABCs can reveal the corn starch secrets," she continued, holding the bowl out for Marie-Ange's approval.
"Those say "you are destined to an hour of heartburn and high blood sugar." Marie-Ange gave the bowl a distrustful look. "Did we not already establish that this was only good for ... " She frowned at the bowl, and then tapped it with a flick of a finger. "Ah. Wait, no, did we take notes the last time? Because this time you have two actual words in your bowl."
"Pretty sure last time I ate the bowl without looking," Darcy replied. "But what's it say, 'BOO YOU MOO' or something? If I ever notice words it's usually short ones like that, but I got 'czar' once and that was pretty funny."
“I see law, which is short, and easy, but relevant yes? You have…. Passed the bar? Or no?” Marie-Angie pointed at the bowl, and the shorter word. “But more amusing, I also see elevar, which means to raise? And it does seem strange that your bowl of noodle letters would give a word in French.”
"I did pass the bar, but I enjoy doing research and like the rush when I can string seemingly unconnected things together by analyzing the data, so I haven't pushed for more than my clerking position."
Darcy set the bowl down next to the empty cornstarch. "It's convenient, with Laurie's injury, but it's the same shit I started doing when I was still in law school. They trust my analysis more now that my leaps from Q to Y have been proven several times, but maybe the pasta wants me to elevate my work game. Do something bigger with the patterns I see."
"Oh, yes, I forgot she had been injured. In all the chaos of the aftermath, I was more concerned with Doug." Plus Laurie gave Marie-Ange headaches these days, and not the precognitive kind, generally. "I believe the last time, all we predicted was napping and puppies but we knew that would happen. Doug shook the can, I tipped it, and we made sure we gave it to Clint's dog." Marie-Ange pulled a miniature sketchpad from her bag and started taking notes. "So the last time, we treated them as rune stones. Shake, close eyes, tip, and then read whatever comes up. This time, you would have done all the shaking and tipping and stirring, and goodness I hate the vagueries of my power. I hate that this could be legitimate. It could be telling you to go persue another kind of law, or to not take any elevators tomorrow." She pinched her nose. "Blackmailing state senators is less confusing. Then it is just sex and social media accounts."
“I think after Corin posted that dry-ass barbecue he called meat that being embarrassed by social media went out the door,” Darcy quipped, breezing past the comment about Laurie. She knew not everyone got along, and it wasn’t worth the hassle to dwell on it. “I could grab a sheet pan and do a stir and tip. If we record our findings it counts as science, right?”
"Yes, I am well informed it is not science unless I write it down." Her voice was dead serious - but Marie-Ange's mouth quirked a smile. "If we tip your lunch onto the sheet pan I owe you lunch. Which ... is probably better than tinned pasta?"
"You wouldn't owe me lunch, but I wouldn't say no to going out and getting it. The tinned stuff is just convenient when I've been in a zone while working." Darcy opened one of the lower cabinets and plunked a sheet pan on the counter. She stirred the bowl of cooling pasta without looking, then tipped it to roll across the sheet pan. "Alright pasta, spill your secrets."
"At least you are not eating whiskey like Kevin." Marie-Ange said, absently. "Or instant ramen like everyone else in my office. There is some commercial Doug likes where someone snorts the powdered flavoring." She had her head cocked, not unlike a confused puppy, as she poked at the pasta with the least-chipped of her fingernails. "Oh, yes, we have the future in pasta. Brouillard." She pointed at the word, the letters unevenly scattered in a row. "It is, ah, mist, or fog, low clouds."
"Pasta giving me strong 'Reply hazy, try again later.' vibes today," Darcy quipped. "Interesting that it's in French too, maybe I need to pick up a course on Duolingo. Or maybe I need a baguette with ham and cheese and butter for lunch." She glanced over the pan. "Cents? And is that... liver? No. Livre, that's not a word then."
"Or both. I do know a cafe that has good baguettes. Livre is, ah..." Marie-Ange thought for a moment. "The past tense of deliver? So you are going to be delivered fog, or money. Or delivery money during a fog, god I do not like my power at all some days." And other days she hated it. "Or none of that is related, and you are going to deliver something, there will be fog, and money, and all those are vague enough that the pasta could be right even if it was someone else doing the reading."
Then she laughed with an inelegant snort. "You also have Dior and Ricci, perhaps you are going shopping." She pointed to the two names in the pasta. "Your pasta has better taste than itself."
"This pasta is bold to assume that I'd be eating it if I had Dior money." Darcy shook her head, tsking at the tray. "I'm more a Maalouf or Siriano girl honestly. Dior doesn't design with breasts like these in mind." She scraped the contents of the tray into the garbage disposal, rinsing the pan and sticking it in the dishwasher.
"You said you know a good baguette place? Lead the way."
"Perhaps the pasta knows more than we think." Marie-Ange blinked away a mental reminder - get Darcy Lewis' measurements - that felt like it was as much just good practice as it was one of the irritatingly clear portents. "Ugh, if any of this actually comes true I am probably going to have midnight cravings for tinned pasta, but that is still better than migraines, or birds in the elevator again." She watched as the pasta went down the sink, with -evin as the last letters to swirl around in the water, and then nodded. "I know all the good baguette places. I have a reputation to maintain as a stereotype."
"Maybe. Birds in the elevator? That sounds awful." Darcy shuddered at the idea, grabbing her bag off a chair and checking it. 'Keys, wallet, phone.' "Good, you can drive then."
Marie-Ange breezed into the kitchen with a purposeful stride, straight to the walk-in pantry, and then emerged only a moment later, with a huff. "Corn starch. How can this entire mansion not have corn starch." She glanced up at the other woman in the room, and the humming microwave, and nodded a greeting. "You ... would not happen to know where a person could get corn starch to test temporary paint that only lasts a few hours, no?"
"Mmm..." Darcy turned to a cabinet near the stove and started to rummage. "I think... yep!" She shook the bright yellow container in victory, then frowned. Her face fell as she opened the lid. "That's... basically empty." She set both parts gently on the counter as the microwave dinged, giving the bowl a generous stir.
"Maybe the ABCs can reveal the corn starch secrets," she continued, holding the bowl out for Marie-Ange's approval.
"Those say "you are destined to an hour of heartburn and high blood sugar." Marie-Ange gave the bowl a distrustful look. "Did we not already establish that this was only good for ... " She frowned at the bowl, and then tapped it with a flick of a finger. "Ah. Wait, no, did we take notes the last time? Because this time you have two actual words in your bowl."
"Pretty sure last time I ate the bowl without looking," Darcy replied. "But what's it say, 'BOO YOU MOO' or something? If I ever notice words it's usually short ones like that, but I got 'czar' once and that was pretty funny."
“I see law, which is short, and easy, but relevant yes? You have…. Passed the bar? Or no?” Marie-Angie pointed at the bowl, and the shorter word. “But more amusing, I also see elevar, which means to raise? And it does seem strange that your bowl of noodle letters would give a word in French.”
"I did pass the bar, but I enjoy doing research and like the rush when I can string seemingly unconnected things together by analyzing the data, so I haven't pushed for more than my clerking position."
Darcy set the bowl down next to the empty cornstarch. "It's convenient, with Laurie's injury, but it's the same shit I started doing when I was still in law school. They trust my analysis more now that my leaps from Q to Y have been proven several times, but maybe the pasta wants me to elevate my work game. Do something bigger with the patterns I see."
"Oh, yes, I forgot she had been injured. In all the chaos of the aftermath, I was more concerned with Doug." Plus Laurie gave Marie-Ange headaches these days, and not the precognitive kind, generally. "I believe the last time, all we predicted was napping and puppies but we knew that would happen. Doug shook the can, I tipped it, and we made sure we gave it to Clint's dog." Marie-Ange pulled a miniature sketchpad from her bag and started taking notes. "So the last time, we treated them as rune stones. Shake, close eyes, tip, and then read whatever comes up. This time, you would have done all the shaking and tipping and stirring, and goodness I hate the vagueries of my power. I hate that this could be legitimate. It could be telling you to go persue another kind of law, or to not take any elevators tomorrow." She pinched her nose. "Blackmailing state senators is less confusing. Then it is just sex and social media accounts."
“I think after Corin posted that dry-ass barbecue he called meat that being embarrassed by social media went out the door,” Darcy quipped, breezing past the comment about Laurie. She knew not everyone got along, and it wasn’t worth the hassle to dwell on it. “I could grab a sheet pan and do a stir and tip. If we record our findings it counts as science, right?”
"Yes, I am well informed it is not science unless I write it down." Her voice was dead serious - but Marie-Ange's mouth quirked a smile. "If we tip your lunch onto the sheet pan I owe you lunch. Which ... is probably better than tinned pasta?"
"You wouldn't owe me lunch, but I wouldn't say no to going out and getting it. The tinned stuff is just convenient when I've been in a zone while working." Darcy opened one of the lower cabinets and plunked a sheet pan on the counter. She stirred the bowl of cooling pasta without looking, then tipped it to roll across the sheet pan. "Alright pasta, spill your secrets."
"At least you are not eating whiskey like Kevin." Marie-Ange said, absently. "Or instant ramen like everyone else in my office. There is some commercial Doug likes where someone snorts the powdered flavoring." She had her head cocked, not unlike a confused puppy, as she poked at the pasta with the least-chipped of her fingernails. "Oh, yes, we have the future in pasta. Brouillard." She pointed at the word, the letters unevenly scattered in a row. "It is, ah, mist, or fog, low clouds."
"Pasta giving me strong 'Reply hazy, try again later.' vibes today," Darcy quipped. "Interesting that it's in French too, maybe I need to pick up a course on Duolingo. Or maybe I need a baguette with ham and cheese and butter for lunch." She glanced over the pan. "Cents? And is that... liver? No. Livre, that's not a word then."
"Or both. I do know a cafe that has good baguettes. Livre is, ah..." Marie-Ange thought for a moment. "The past tense of deliver? So you are going to be delivered fog, or money. Or delivery money during a fog, god I do not like my power at all some days." And other days she hated it. "Or none of that is related, and you are going to deliver something, there will be fog, and money, and all those are vague enough that the pasta could be right even if it was someone else doing the reading."
Then she laughed with an inelegant snort. "You also have Dior and Ricci, perhaps you are going shopping." She pointed to the two names in the pasta. "Your pasta has better taste than itself."
"This pasta is bold to assume that I'd be eating it if I had Dior money." Darcy shook her head, tsking at the tray. "I'm more a Maalouf or Siriano girl honestly. Dior doesn't design with breasts like these in mind." She scraped the contents of the tray into the garbage disposal, rinsing the pan and sticking it in the dishwasher.
"You said you know a good baguette place? Lead the way."
"Perhaps the pasta knows more than we think." Marie-Ange blinked away a mental reminder - get Darcy Lewis' measurements - that felt like it was as much just good practice as it was one of the irritatingly clear portents. "Ugh, if any of this actually comes true I am probably going to have midnight cravings for tinned pasta, but that is still better than migraines, or birds in the elevator again." She watched as the pasta went down the sink, with -evin as the last letters to swirl around in the water, and then nodded. "I know all the good baguette places. I have a reputation to maintain as a stereotype."
"Maybe. Birds in the elevator? That sounds awful." Darcy shuddered at the idea, grabbing her bag off a chair and checking it. 'Keys, wallet, phone.' "Good, you can drive then."
