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Log Title: Mushroom Bliss

Setting: Shay's Mansion

Log Cast:
Jean-Batiste
Glass
Trace
Walker
Benjamin

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Jean-Batiste knocks, honest. Rap-rap-rap. (for Trace)

Glass opens the door and looks out at the two of you. He's wearing an off-white bathrobe. Unbleached cotton or something trendy like that. A slightly wary look vanishes from his face almost before you can see it, and is replaced by a smile, ""Hi. Come on inside," he says, stepping backward to open the door wider to admit you.

Doug's Bathrobe Desc:
He is perhaps five-ten, this young man - or maybe he is merely a boy. His hair is cut quite short and is bleached an unnatural white-blonde at the ends. A couple of inches of roots show now, raven's wing black. His eyes are a deep soft velvet black, large and liquid under the dark wings of his eyebrows. He is thin but sleek, his light skin evidence of New Orleans' rainy weather. His features lack the ruggedness required to be called handsome, and the dark eyes are too dreamy and gentle. Beautiful is a better word. He is wearing an ivory-coloured bathrobe made of thick unbleached cotton. It's knitted all in round cables and looks quite nubbly and textured. It is belted at the waist but has no other closure, exposing a V of smooth skin and downy black hair on his chest. The robe has big square pockets and hangs to just below his knees, leaving his lower legs and bare feet plain to view.

Jean-Batiste bears a couple paper bags, one of which has a loaf of french bread poking out the top of it. He smiles at Glass, just standing there for a few seconds. "Hey," he murmurs, then remembers to step forward, slipping into the grand entry.

"We come bearing mushrooms," Trace intones seriously, "to be sacraficed to the great Gods of Beastly Appetites." Then a grin spills onto his face and he gestures to the one plastic grocery bag he's carrying. (Batiste never lets him carry his fair share, pout!) Though he belatedly realizes that his bag is not the one carrying the mushrooms, so he drops it back to his side.

Glass grins, "Right on. Did you bring psychedelic ones too?" He pushes the huge door back closed behind you. The latch clicks and he turns back to you, "You want to put that stuff in the kitchen? Walker said he'd be coming, with Ben."

Jean-Batiste stops short, looking momentarily dismayed and contrite. "No, I didn't..." he murmurs. He glances back at the door, as if considering running out and locating some. "I just brought the extra ingredients you said you needed, and I found a cookbook with a recipe I really like, so I got it, too, and..." He trails off and grins apologetically. "The kitchen, yeah..."

Glass blinks, "When did I say I needed extra ingredients? I don't remember." He shrugs, "Okay. You wanna go up behind the stairs? It rings back there in a couple places, if you ring the bell." He heads back to the small unobtrusive door behind the broad sweeping staircase.

Trace shakes his head, and murmurs as he follows after Batiste to find a place to set his bag down, "Sorry... Don't got none either. Wish I'd thought of it." He shrugs. "What? Ring a bell..?" He turns around, stopping short of the kitchen to look confusedly at Glass.

Glass glances back at Trace, "The doorbell rings in the kitchen and in that little smoking area or whatever it is. And a couple of other places." He opens the narrow unobtrusive door that leads down a narrow and undecorated corridor lined with doors.

Jean-Batiste frowns a little, going from contrite to confused. "The other night, when we went through the kitchen...you said you weren't sure you had lots of ingredients for..." He frowns more, shakes his head at himself, then shrugs it off. Cranky cooks aren't good cooks. "Maybe I'm thinking of something else. There'll just be more leftovers, then." There. A positive outlook. He follows after Glass, murmuring, "D'you have a big punch bowl, and lots of ice?"

Trace still doesn't get what the door bell has to do with any of this, but no matter. He looks to Glass. "Coz we got this stuff that should make this drink... Oughta be good." He hefts his grocery bag. Yay, see, *now* its contents are relevant to the conversation.

Glass pads barefoot down the long narrow hall. It widens at end into a room with a round table and several chairs, with another corridor leading off to the left and a narrow staircase opposite the hall you just came down. Glass starts up the stairs, glancing back to Jean-Batiste, "I'm sorry. I really don't remember." He shrugs, "Well, there's lots of ice, anyway. If there isn't a punchbowl there's a big pot."

Jean-Batiste grins back fondly at Trace, and nods. "Yeah, it'll be great. You two will love it, especially, I bet." So he hopes, at least. "As long as there's something to mix it all in, and ice, that'll be okay. I figured we could make battered mushrooms, too, but I wasn't sure...d'you like them?" he asks Glass. "There's lots of other things I could make instead, but...I wanted to ask." Maybe he's trying to hide a secret passion for battered mushrooms.

Trace ponders this and comes up with a grin. "But isn't it like a requirement that big nice places like this have crystal punch bowls fer all the ritzy parties 'n stuff..?" He lights up at Batiste's suggestion, "Yeah! My favorite way t'have 'em. Well, 'sides fried and then stuffed with stuff, but that'd be way too hard and complicated, and I bet most've our mushrooms're too small. But I'd really like t'make some like that... Is it hard?"

Glass laughs, pushing open the door at the top of the stairs and stepping into a kitchen big enough to serve a small resturant. "Sure, battered mushrooms are good. Anykinda mushrooms are good. Except deadly ones, of course." He turns around so he can walk backward in front of you, leading the way toward the part of the kitchen where the ovens and range-top are, where the big metal ring hanging above the worktable actually has pots and pans hung from it, and where a refrigerator stands, looking a little out of place. He says absently, "I think I could get some 'shrooms if that's what you'd like."

Trace looks to Batiste, since he's wanting to get fed more than anything, and Bat's the one who's usually so into tripping. "It'd be cool," he admits. "But like, ya think ya could get 'em that quickly? It'd suck if we had ta eat all yer share've the mushrooms," he chuckles, teasing.

Jean-Batiste finds a spot of countertop a small distance from the oven and starts unpacking the ingredients he brought along, setting the ring-bound cookbook off to the side. He laughs softly and shakes his head. "I probably should finish cooking before I start tripping..." he murmurs. "Hot oil and ovens and all. But...well, maybe later? Or we could save them for another time. This is your treat...you shouldn't have to run and get anything for it." He smiles at Glass for a few moments, then looks over at Trace and says, "Sure, you can help. Everyone can, if they want, as long as they take turns."

Glass laughs, "Hmm, it wouldn't take very long." He stops walking backwards and leans against the counter, "Feel free," he says, indicating the general area around him. He looks back toward the unused part of the kitchen and the stairway, "The chef's stash is around here somewhere, too. But I'd have to go for a walk for shrooms."

The blue-haired boy just gives Glass a small shrug and looks to Batiste again. "I'll leave it up to you two." Moving back to the counter, he murmurs, "Hot oil and ovens. Hmm. Sounds fun, let's get started!" Trace cheerily starts tearing at the plastic wrap covering the basket of mushrooms. "Need 'em washed, right?" Once there's a big enough hole, he reaches in and plucks out a mushroom to examine it.

Glass looks at the mushroom, "How many did you get?"

Jean-Batiste flips through the cookbook and finds the page he'd dog-eared before even leaving the store. Mushroom popovers, it reads. He taps the recipe once, then looks back at Glass and grins. "We can go tripping another time," he promises. "Let's just all stay here today. We can smoke up later and run around sock-foot again?" A look of near-glee crosses his face for a moment, bubbling up into laughter as he looks at Trace. "Yeah, you bet. Washed off, and then tried on paper towel or something." He looks over the supplies, unpacking the second of his paper bags. "I got too many, probably. I wasn't sure if you had any here, so...we might have lots of leftovers." Such a terrible thing. He grins at Glass.

Glass laughs and hikes himself up to sit on the counter, "Okay," he says to Batiste, smiling. He points to a lower cupboard, "There's paper towels under there," he advises Trace without getting up. Batiste captures his attention again and he says, "There won't be leftovers. I love mushrooms. Or if there are leftovers, I'll be happy."

Leftovers? Perhaps. But certain factors either give Trace no appetite at all, or a bottomless black hole of a stomach. And the way he's feeling tonight, it's much more likely he'll be bickering with Doug over the last few of them. With an anticipating grin, he reached down and retrieves the paper towels, then takes his mushrooms on over to the sink. The water is flipped on and he goes to work scrubbing at them.

Jean-Batiste pushes two bottles of ginger ale, a jug of orange juice, and a big bottle of Ocean Spray (accept no substitutes!) white grape juice into a group near the end of the counter, then goes about looking for ice and a punch-bowl-ish object. "Well, I figured I'd make-" He stops himself short, and grins at Glass, asking, "Or d'you want it to be a surprise? Well, as much as a surprise as it can be, with you watching us make it..." He looks over at Trace, watching him clean up the mushrooms, and smiles to himself.Walker comes in from outside.

Walker has arrived.

Glass laughs, "Tell me. I have to know, or I'll be confused watching you cook." His laughter fades to a smile, "You should explain the principles of cooking while you cook." Ice can be found in abundance in the freezer. A punchbowl is a bit more difficult, but there is a big plastic bowl. Benjamin comes in from outside.Benjamin has arrived.

Indeed, Trace's mushroom-cleaning methods are quite entertaining. When he's finished with one, it gets stacked on the paper towel lawn, very carefully lining them up. Little mushroom houses, all in a row. Some of them he manages to balance upright. Trees! Of course, this probably just looks like a boy being way too careful setting the mushrooms out to dry, unless you know how to peek into the kid's brain, but he's having fun, anyway. When he tries to make the mayor's house, which must have two stories of course, coz he's a fascist elite asshole who has to have a bigger house than the rest of the town, he tries to balance the mushroom on top of the other one but it topples and falls onto the floor. He stoops down quickly as possible to retrieve it, re-wash it, and grin sheepishly at anyone who saw the fumble.

Benjamin slips in just behind Walker, chuckling to himself. "That's an honor I'd be glad to let you bestow on them and -not- me, thank you very much." The touchiness is begun, and it will be difficult to retreat from, as Ben wanders up behind Walker and touch his shoulder for a moment or two. "What a beautiful house... where d'you suppose everyone is?" A bell rings, somewhat melodically, really. Even so, it makes Glass jump. He shakes the tension off and hops off the counter, "Be back." He exits the kitchen and heads down the narrow stairs.

Jean-Batiste jumps a little, too, and looks towards Glass. "Okay. See you in a minute." He watches Glass leave the kitchen, then moves over to Trace and drapes an arm around his friend's shoulders. "You're crazy," he murmurs fondly, his grin a wide, happy curve across his face, and kisses the top of Trace's head before moving off to prepare the punch.

Glass arrives to crack one of the big double doors that leads into the foyer open and looks out at Walker and Benjamin. He smiles, "Hi, guys," and steps backward, opening the door to admit them. He's wearing an off-white bathrobe, unbleached cotton it looks like.

"I'm guessin' they're probably making one hell....o, Doug," Walker beams as the door is opened to expose Glass. In a bathrobe? Oo. He peers closely at the young man as he makes his way inside, curiosity plain on his makeup-free face. "Why ya in a robe?" Yes, curious looks aren't enough for him.

Benjamin smiles vaguely at Glass when he appears, admiring the quality of the architechture around the front door and the bit of the foyer that he can see. Sure, he wonderes why the young man is dressed so very informally, but... He rolls his eyes skyward and sighs. "Monsieur l'Chat, I wonder how many lives you have left," Ben mumbles thoughtlessly to himself.

It's a nice bathrobe, all cabled and textury, about knee length and tied at the waist. Glass wiggles his toes as Walker looks him over and says, "Do you think I should dress more formally for our dinner party? I didn't think to change. I don't think Trace or Batiste minds." He glances at Benjamin, smiles, "How many have you counted? Shh, be my friend and do not tell people about my secret life here."

Trace isn't startled by the bell -- it's Batiste's arm that makes him jump, just because he'd been deeply involved in his task of Mushroomville's Chief Architect, but now he looks up at Batiste and quickly squeezes back a hug and grins, "Yeah, I know." Then it's back to washing up the last three. Pretty soon he's finished, and announces it right off. "All done!" He gestures to Mushroomville proudly. "Now what? Are they ready to be fried yet?" Oh my, such wicked plans the architect has for his quaint town! He resists the cackle.

Walker shakes his head, eyes darting briefly to Ben to impart a sly smile. "Nah, Doug. Stay as ya are. I'll be havin' m'fill of formal in about two weeks. So where are the Gallopin' Gourmets, anyways?" He wanders a little further in, once again eyeballing the interior though not quite as captivated as the last time he was here. But you could lay odds that he would be just as enchanted as before by the mural upstairs. Glass smiles, "In the kitchen, making punch and fried mushrooms." He looks to Benjamin and tilts his head to one side, appearently awaiting the man's reply.

Benjamin shares a dreamy smile with Glass for a moment, bending a bit in an all-too-formal tiny bow. "You have my word, I shan't tell a soul," he promises, terribly serious though his eyes flicker with humor. He straightens, and follows Walker inside a few steps, moving aside for Glass to close the door.

Jean-Batiste heaps much ice into a large plastic bowl and pours in the white grape juice, orange juice, and ginger ale last of all. He stirs it a couple of times, then goes looking for glasses, bringing six over to sit beside the bowl. Oh, and a ladle. Can't have people playing Bobbing for Icecubes, now. Once everything's prepared, he grins back at Trace and says, "Yeah, they're ready. You want to help me out some more?" He gestures to the groceries - the loaf of french bread in particular, and the cutting board and knife nearby. "Slice the bread for me? " He putters around, collecting pots, pans, scoping out utensils, and generally being a happy if hectic cook.

Glass chuckles, "Merci, M'sieur. I appreciate that. But you still didn't tell me how many you counted." He turns, gesturing for the two to follow and murmuring, "Come on." Around to the far side of the staircase he goes, and pushes open an unobtrusive little half-hidden door that ought to have a butler coming out of it.

Punch and fried mushrooms. Those both sound quite tasty to Walker. But... "I'm still not touchin' anythin' that has th' word 'r ingredient -spinach- in it." Never hurts to restate ones convictions when they're as played up as that one. He trails after Glass, mentioning in an undertone: "Ya've gotta see th' paintin' upstairs sometime. It's -too- cool." Cool doesn't cover it but wil have to suffice for now.will

Benjamin ohhs apologetically and tsks at himself as he wanders at the rear of the little train into the tiny door. "I'm not sure. I think he ought to have lost -one- for the de-flowering in a cemetary episode he told us about," he murmurs, thoughtfully.

Glass glances back at Walker, "Naw. No spinach, unless Batiste didn't tell me about it." He leads Walker and Benjamin down the undecorated and closet-lined hallway, past the little break room and up the narrow stairs into the kitchen, pushing open the swinging door at the top of the tiny landing. Glancing back to Benjamin he steps into the kitchen, "Me? Deflowered in a cemetary? You are mistaken, M'sieur." He smiles.

Walker hitches a brow, casting a slaunchwise look at Ben, then he's grinning at Glass. "No, he was tawkin' about me..." He's not sure whether Glass knew that little tidbit about his love life previous to now. If not, he does now. And right before supper too. "An' it didn't even come close ta jeopa'dizin' m' life any." And it's on those words he makes his entrance into the kitchen.

Trace ooohs and nods, trotting over to collect the long, hard loaf of bread and bring it over to the cutting board. Hey boys and girls, it's time for Fun with Big Knives! starring your favorite blue-haired host, Trace Anderson! *que that breathy, rasp sound kids make to simulate muffled cheering from the crowd* He positions the board *just so* on the cutting board, then picks up the knife and admires it for a moment. Then he holds it high over his head and intones, "Marie Antoinette, for your crimes against the people of France you have been sentanced death by beheading... hy-ahh!" Thunk! The French bread is quite decapitated.

Jean-Batiste looks over from his spot in front of the range, where he's setting out a couple small saucepans and a skillet, and waves in a rather rambunctious manner to Ben, Walker, and Glass. "C'mon in, the punch is ready, it's right over there..." As if the big bowl, ladle, and glasses couldn't be spotted without his assistance, or something. And then he's back to puttering. Yes, Batiste is a happy streetrat when he's cooking.Glass laughs, leading the pair across the big empty kitchen towards the corner where Trace and Batiste are working. He pauses and opens a drawer along the way, though, taking a cigarette box out of it and pocketing it. He glances at Ben, "And I thought it was I you were calling the cat."

We're having punch? Ben blinks a few times in bleary delight, and ambles over toward Batiste where he's directed. "You do have many cat-like qualities," he agrees, rather more at ease in his manner toward the boy in the bathrobe than usual. "But you're blessed with Bambi eyes. Holly's the one with the cat's eyes. And sometimes," he ladles himself a cup of the punch, pausing to reach over and rufffle Bat's braids in an affectionate welcome, "I think, the tail." Damn, downright talkative tonight.

Glass laughs and hikes himself up to sit on the counter again. He smiles at Benjamin, "Yeah. It's good to have bambi eyes. Girls like it. And boys. And if I look sick I look really pathetic. Make a lot of money that way." Falling silent, he looks around at the four of you. A gentle smile.

Punch! Yay! The sweet drink will make up for the iced coffee he was only able to squeeze a few sips from. Who knew three women could ask so many questions in the space of mere minutes? Never underestimate the gift of gab. Walker reaches for the ladel, pausing in his hunt for drinkage only to raspberry Ben. "Th' only tail I have came with th' package when I was put on this planet." He scoops out a cupful of the drink and dumps it carefully into a cup.

Jean-Batiste smiles up at Ben as the professor approaches and ruffles his braids, giving him a gentle shoulder-bump in return. "Good to see you," he murmurs. "Try the punch, I think you'll really like it..." He looks over at Trace, watching his friend dismember the poor Marie Antoinette effigy with fiendish glee, then starts preparing what looks to be a garden salad. He looks over at Glass and murmurs, "Battered mushrooms, salad with mushrooms, mushroom popovers, and mushrooms in cream sauce. How's that sound?"

Glass grins at Batiste, "Sounds great. Especially the cream sauce." He looks around from his perch on the counter, "Do the rest of you guys want chairs or something? We could bring some in here from downstairs or something? Not that I care if you sit on the tables." He shrugs, then asks, "What time is it?"

Benjamin sips delicately, leaning back against the counter and lingering near the punchbowl. "No, thanks," he responds quickly. "I'm tired of sitting. No matter how comfortable the office chair is, it still puts my rear to sleep." Le sigh. So difficult is the life of the professor, non? A longer drink causes a pleased lift of the brows, nice and fruity delicious, with a bit of zip. "Late."

It would seem that somewhere in the process of bread slicing and the turning gears of an overactive imagination, Ms. Antoinette's body has been converted into William Wallace's. As Trace cuts the slices, he murmurs under his breath, "His left arm they sent to the walls of Coventry..." A slice of bread is set on one side of the cutting board. "His right to York..." Another slice, on the opposite side. "His head was mounted up on the scaffold..." But there's no good scaffold, so he just sends it to York too. Pretty soon the bread is all cut up and fourteen or fifteen of French bread William Wallace's various bits and pieces have been sent all across England. Er, the cutting board. He searches about for a plate and gathers them up, then trots over to Batiste and holds the plate out. With a grin he quickly must surpress, he intones solemnly, "They fought like warrior poets, Batiste." Then giggles brightly.

Glass smiles at Ben, "Okay." He studies the man, "What do you do when you're being a professor, in your chair?" Trace's dismemberment of the bread attracts his attention and he breaks into laughter.

Walker thinks the meal sounds markedly fungi. Good thing he's rather partial to such. "Nah. I can stand f'a while, too. I've been sittin' all day answerin' questions of one person's 'r anotha's. Standin' is a happy thin' right now." He sips at his punch then ferrets the small black circle from his tangle of necklaces. "It's... almost four," he replies to Glass' question as the watch comes open. He blinks at it and gives it a shake. "Oh. Sorry. Three." Snap. The thing's closed and the question of time, alas, hasn't truly been answered by him. He moves back to lean against a nearby wall, thus keeping himself out of anyone's path should they walk in his general direction.

Jean-Batiste laughs as well, looking down at the poor now-Wallace-effigy then turning dark, bright eyes back up to Trace's face. "You mean they were too busy saying 'hark!' and 'thou' and 'thee' to swing their sword around?" He slides the plate of bread down by the stove, still chuckling and shaking his head at Trace as he goes back to finishing the salad.

Benjamin slips into dazed, let the conversation pass over my head unremarked mode. He knows that at one point he was asked a question, but an answer to another one climbed in there and blocked what the first one was. And on top of it all, Bat and Trace are having an entirely different conversation which part of him is urging him to comment on even though he hasn't placed the era of the metaphor exactly yet. Unfortunately, while he's thinking, higher functions such as speech shut down. He can think and speak, or think and drink, or speak and drink (just wait till you see -that- one), but not all three at the same time. Blood, love, and rhetoric.

"You like mushrooms too, Ben?" Trace asks of the dazed professor hopefully. Then he reaches over, tugs at Batiste's sleeve, and smiles sweetly. "Hey... What 'kin I do to help now?"

Glass doesn't seem to mind. He hops down off the counter to pour himself a glass of punch, then hops back up to sip it and watch the activity with a pleased expression. It's so rare that the huge house doesn't seem empty, and he's enjoying the change.

"Scotsmen didn't say 'thou' 'r 'hark' 'r nothin'. That was th' bloody British," Walker corrects. "They said thin's like 'ba'heid' an' 'aye' an' 'hallirackit'." Then, that said, he returns to sipping his punch and trying to figure out what sort of French showtunes a 'mixed crowd' would appreciate.

Jean-Batiste chops up a very healthy amount of mushrooms and adds them to the top of the salad, then sets the bowl aside where it won't get spilt or have grease spattered on it from cooking. He looks back at Trace, then lets his eyes skim over the remaining ingredients. A sudden grin blooms, and he says, "Yeah. I know just the thing." He leads his friend over to a clean bowl, and measures in some flour, followed by a healthy chunk of butter, then hands over the pastry cutter like it was a kingly sceptre. "Keep mashing the butter into the flour until the butter's in tiny piece," he instructs, then steps back to let the butter destruction begin. Then it's time for the cream sauce. He smiles over at Glass for a second, then starts to murmur to him. "Cream, butter, pepper, and a tablespoon of flour, that's all it takes to make a cream sauce. Just cook it together until it starts to bubble, watch it until it thickens, then take it off the heat. You need to keep stirring it, though. Milk burns super easy. If you add parmesan cheese, you've got alfredo sauce, basically." He starts preparing said sauce, humming quietly to himself.

Glass smiles at Batiste and sips the punch. "Really? I thought that was harder." He watches Batiste with interest, carefully noting what he's doing.

"Oh, sure," Ben murmurs distractedly, rousing himself out of whatever he was just thinking about. The explanation of the cream sauce catches his ear and reminds him that staying up so late past dinner really requires a different eating schedule, as suddenly he's starving. Punch will have to do for the moment, and he brushes past the pondering Walker to refill his cup.

Trace beams and takes away the bowl of butter and flour, settling down on a chair and placing the bowl between his thighs so he can get plenty of strength into this mashing business. Gripping the scepter, he peers down into the butter and readies himself. "Butter, prepare to meet thy doom!" Mashmashmash. He flies at it with a vengeance. When he finishes it up and walks on back to Batiste, the butter has been entirely beaten into submission and he grins hugely and announces, "It put up a good fight, captain, but I showed it no mercy." He hands you the butter and salutes.

Glass keeps watching Batiste. After a moment of silence and a sip of punch he says, "I should convince Shay to hire you to be our chef."

Jean-Batiste grins up at Glass and shakes his head. "No, it's so simple, and it tastes so great, right? People just go crazy over it, because it's so rich, and it's a snap to make. You can add whatever spices you want, and change it around. Like...you could add cayenne pepper and serve it with shrimp over pasta, or leave out the pepper and add vanilla and a little sugar instead, and have topping for bread pudding. Or..." He trails off, blinking at Glass. He shakes his head, laughs bashfully. "I'm not a chef. I just know how to cook a couple things and make them work out." He blesses Trace with a bright smile and takes the cream sauce off the heat, setting to work preparing the popovers. From the looks of them, they're more chopped mushrooms than anything.

Glass laughs, "Isn't a chef just someone who's job it is to cook? If she hired you to cook for us, you'd be our chef?"

Walker sips again at his punch then moves to set it down, having to part company with the wall he figures he might as well stay parted a little while longer. "I think I'm gonna go have a smoke," he announces quietly, aiming the comment at no one in particular as he drifts back toward the way he came in. He's going off the assumption that smoking in the elaborate house would be a most heinous crime and so isn't bothering to ask; besides he could stand to be out-of-doors for a bit. After the cramped table at the Raven and just the general -noise- from the day the kitchen's just a little too busy for his nerves.

Glass looks back at Walker, "Where you going?"

Walker pauses just at the entryway to look back at Glass. "Umm... outside?" The answer reeks of question; he was anticipating being asked his destination and while he was sure of it scant moments ago he's now not quite so certain. Though why he's even more uncertain of.

"He's going to go look at the mural..." Batiste guesses softly, as he starts pouring the popover batter into muffin tins and sliding them into the oven. (He preheated the oven. Honest, he did.) Next, the bread - he starts browning the dismembered bits in a skillet with melted butter and garlic. Benjamin looks up a bit himself, fighting against drawing into a little pout. A glance back at Glass; with luck he'll make Walker stay. He shifts his weight, sipping, waiting for outcome.

With no important tasks or beheadings remaining, Trace is left with the duty of stalking the elusive pre-dinner stolen tastes and samples. He peeks about at the food being prepared and snitches a mushroom off the top of the salad, quickly popping it into his mouth. Munch. Okay, so Batiste probably wouldn't even care if he stole a mushroom early. But the fun's in being sneaky about it.

Glass shrugs at Walker, "I just mean, I don't care if you smoke in here." He looks around, "I guess if you're a gourmet you don't smoke in the kitchen, but I do sometimes, while I'm waiting for something. Or after I eat. There's that fume-hood fan thing over the stove, even." He gestures at the fixture in question, seeming mildly amazed at it.

Walker shifts his weight, one hand bracing against the doorjamb. Eep. Trapped between staying in the bustling room or admitting he'd really rather be out in the muggy nighttime heat. He can't quite seem to admit he's feeling a need to retreat but neither can he quite bring himself to return to the kitchen. So he hovers in the doorway, one foot absently rubbing at the calf of his other leg. "I don' want ta smoke around th' food..." he begs off, finding that a pretty good excuse. At least it sounds that way to him. "Get it all... clove-y..."

Glass grins over at Walker, who once by the doorway is really a fair distance from the bustle of the room. He nods, "Cool. Merci."

Benjamin steals a glance over at Walker, trying very hard not to look like he's watching. A little smile seals his lips enough so he can't ask if Walker wants company. Cause obviously, he doesn't.

Jean-Batiste looks over at Walker as he slides the browned, buttery pieces of bread off the heat and murmurs, "Everything will be ready in about fifteen minutes." He smiles a little, then starts gathering plates and cutlery and other eating-type things.

Glass says, "Shall we eat in the great hall?"

Trace is just a tiny bit relieved. Not that he wanted Walker to leave -- quite the contrary! In his opinion, Walker is at rehearsals and out with those other people far too often these days. He just is glad the mushrooms won't be clove-y also. "Great hall?" the boy pipes with curiousity that's already leaning towards approval. "That sounds like somethin' ya'd have in castles, not houses... Wow."

Walker smiles, managing to keep relief from showing in the expression. No need to look like a student needing to be excused to the bathroom. "Awright," he nods to Bat's time given. "Just enough time ta smoke a cigarette..." He starts down the hall, turning to call as he walks backward: "If that's where th' paintin' is, yes!" Then he ducks out of sight, presumably aiming for somewhere outside.

Glass shrugs to Trace, "Well, that's what it is, isn't it? Or is it the dining room?"

"How difficult it must be to be surrounded with admirers and fawners all day," Ben muses to himself over an undrunk second glass of punch.

"Always on stage. Always performing. Always being what he thinks he needs to be..." Either he's just desperate to pontificate his personal views on Walker, or he forgot that he was speaking out loud. As the slender form disappears down the hall, he watches the retreat with somewhat hooded eyes, watching the door swing even after Walker has vacated it.

Trace just grins and shrugs right back. "Uh. Both?" He chuckles. "I never had noplace where the table wasn't like also crammed in the kitchen." He shifts his gaze over to Ben and looks at him with surprise. "That's... jest it, I bet. How we always talk 'bout how he always tries to be so strong, so funny... Tries so hard. Even 'round us! That's jest it," he muses, and shakes his head faintly. "Huh."

Jean-Batiste lays out the plates in a row and splits the buttery bits of bread evenly across them, but doesn't add the rest, just yet - he wants it to be warm for when it's served, after all. "Yeah, we should eat out there. It'll be great. As long as we all sit at one end?" He tosses the salad, and steals a piece of mushroom as well. The popovers start smelling good as they cook, too, a buttery, mushroom-y pastry-smell. As he eats another piece of mushroom, he murmurs, "He relaxes when he sleeps." Deliberate pause. "I think." He grins crookedly but affectionately.

Glass nods, "We'll all sit at the end, and Walker should sit at the big chair, since she's the queen and we're all just Beasts." He reaches over to snatch a bit of mushroom from the top of the salad.

Walker finds his way to the front door without too much problem; the bare walls hold little to distract the eye and once out into the main foyer the door's right there. Weird. He's used to stepping outside of a person's house on occasion when said person wasn't a smoker, but leaving through those big ol' doors seems more like leaving a movie theater or museum than a domicile. Almost like he'll have to pay admission to come back inside when he's done prowling the grounds. Mental note: small entryways in his private utopia.

Benjamin says quietly, "He does. He's... it sounds so cliche, but he really is an angel when he sleeps. And just before he falls asleep..." But Ben shakes his head quickly and realizes that he's sharing perhaps just a bit too much. As if the boys weren't completely aware of how devoted he is to the retreated Riene. He puffs out a soft sigh, blinking and looking around at you all. "Such darling beasts, though."

"Rawr," Trace grinningly comments on that bit of flattery before bounding on out into the Great Hall and peering down at the spread. Ooh... See the wildman Trace stalk the mighty garlic bread. He peeks into the kitchen, then makes a dash for it, snatching it up and cramming most in one bite. Mm. Crunch.

Glass watches Trace's bounding about. He chuckles a little and looks to Batiste, murmurs, "I think we should just carry the stuff out there and fix plates there. Doesn't matter if we make a mess."

Jean-Batiste laughs out loud, swatting at the mighty wildman and missing by a mile. "Save some for supper!" To keep the bread safe, he finishes preparing the main course - the sliced mushrooms and cream sauce are spooned over the garlic toast, with a piece left un-sauced for munching or mopping up the remaining sauce. A heap of battered mushrooms - which Batiste made somewhere in here, but his player forgot entirely to mention, dufus that he is - are added next to them, and last but not least, the mushroom popovers, which are slid out of the oven, looking like biscuits twice as tall as they are round. "Okay..." he decides, stepping back. "Yeah." He nods to Glass. "I wanted to dish up the plates, but the rest we'll take out there...someone grab the salad bowl, and I'll start carrying plates? Oh, and the punch bowl, too." And so the procession of food begins.

Glass hops down off the counter and starts to carry food back through the short corridor that leads to another unobtrusive door in the hall. He makes a few trips before everything's out there.
Glass makes his way up the massive staircase and leaves this area.

Gasp! Caught. Trace giggles and makes the last bit of that bread he stole disappear and then looks after the unsauced bread. He rumbles in a too-deep voice, "Next time, Gadget..!" before striding off to help carry food out to the table.

Jean-Batiste and Walker make their way up the massive staircase and leave this area.

Upper Hall--Rorick Mansion
This hall is wide, empty, silent. Shadows, even in the day, lay over the furniture and the bookcases that line the walls. The curtained windows of the south wall are never opened, but if they were, they would look out over the ill-kept grounds of the estate. Willow trees wring their branches in the wind, standing like widows in the high grass, and the river tiredly pushes its way through reeds.

Dominating the center of the shadowed hall is an oak table. Throne-like oak chairs seat nine; a larger oak chair sits at the head of the table, cushioned in red velvet. The only other furniture in the room is a display of weapons around the vast stone fireplace at the north end of the room. On top of the mantle is a carved and locked wooden box.

The entirety of the cathedral ceiling has been covered with a massive mural. The mural depicts the War in Heaven, where a handsome and powerful Lucifer and his dark angels surround the Host of The Lord. With all the shadows, it is hard to tell the outcome of the battle.

In a forgotten corner of the room sits an empty gilded birdcage.

Benjamin takes the punchbowl, himself, very carefully so that none is spilled. So carefully, in fact, that he doesn't have time to notice the mural overhead while he's carting the bowl to the table and arranging it neatly. Glass goes back into the kitchen, then slips back in, carrying the last item: his glass of punch. He pads over to the bannister, bare feet sounding softly on the polished wooden floor. From there he watches Walker return to the foyer. He waves and calls to him, "Hey! Up here now!"

Walker's timing is an amazing one. Somehow it works out that he doesn't make it back into the house till the last of those things needing moved have been moved already upon his arrival. Uncanny. He takes the stairs two at a time, sort of hopscotching his way up till he's meeting the grand hall - or whatever the big room's called appropriately - with glad eyes. Well, the mural receives the glad eyes, briefly. So does that yummy-looking food.

Glass grins and bows to Walker, meeting him at the top of the stairs. The grand gesture looks a little silly, considering the bathrobe, but he obviously doesn't care, "Your Magesty," he says, "May I show you to the table?" Jean-Batiste is fussing all the plates and salad bowls into their proper locations, as well as the napkins and cutlery and...well, everything he can fuss with, he does. He's always giving the little basket of extra popovers a rather lustful expression. Must be his favourite part of what he's prepared.

Benjamin is easily distracted by the reappearance of Walker, upon whom he bestows the warmest of welcoming smiles. Such a feast laid out, to be shared by the whole family, though in such grand... surroundings. Yup, there it is, Ben's found the mural above and he's lost again. Luckily there's a chair nearby that he can lean on while his head is dropped back, gazing up in slackjawed appreciation.

Trace slips into a seat and squirms until it's finally comfortable. Ah, much better. His eyes watch the food carefully, mighty wildman, waiting for the prey to walk *right* into his clutches, mmyesss...! He grins and leaps up to gather himself a glass of punch as well, peering into it with interest before taking an experimental sip. Wow! His brows lift and he turns to grin appreciatively at Batiste. "This stuff's real good..."

"You most certainly may," Walker responds, not finding Glass' gesture the least bit silly. All right... it is, but it's silly in a good way. How often do you get to see your friends pay homage in a bathrobe? He hooks Glass' elbow with a hand, affecting regal air that might be greatly impressive if he weren't in holey jeans and creepers. His smile slips into something more humored as he spies Ben, just in the position he -knew- the professor would be in upon seeing that mural.

Benjamin relishes his predictability, by God.

Glass turns and leads Walker to the table, looking at Ben with amusement. "Everbody loves that thing, my leige," he says to Walker, then pulls out the huge chair at the head of the table and gestures for Walker to sit.

Jean-Batiste fusses with the table just one second more, then settles carefully into a chair next to Trace and pours himself a glass of punch. He drinks down about half of the fizzy-fruity drink and smiles shyly at Trace. "I'm glad you like it..." he murmurs. His smile widens to a grin as he adds, "And it's good for you, Nyah!" He giggles for a moment, bumping shoulders with his friend.

Benjamin tears himself away from a jag of artistic appreciation, and quickly slips into his chosen seat, rather sheepish. "Heavens, don't tell Trace that it's good for him," he scolds mildly. "He'll never eat at that rate." Warm dark eyes wander over the little gathering, pleased.

Walker settles himself fluidly in the chair provided by Glass, much happier to join company with this seat than several others he's sat in today. This one promises comfort and yummy things to eat and happy smiles. It is a good chair. "Evrabody -should- love that mural," he declares as his eyes roam the spread on the table. "I wouldn't mind havin' a print-a it ta hang on m'wall."

Trace pffbbbts. Raspberries to *both* offenders, actually, swiveling his head to include Ben. Then he grins. "I do *so* like some good for you foods. I like this *punch*... And, um. Um, I like... apples? And. And, uh..." Oh, forget this, there's good food to eat. He glances up briefly at the mural and nods. "I remember the first time Doug showed us this place, 'n we came up here and lay down right on this table and looked up at it and talked a long, long time..."

Glass pushes Walker's extra-large red-velvet padded chair (the only one with arms!) back up to the table. He then picks up his glass of punch and raps on it with a fork, tingtingtingtingting! "No spitting at one another at the table," he says, in reference to Trace's raspberries, "The Queen is about to speak." He looks back at Walker and says, a touch imploringly, "Aren't you?"

Benjamin tries to stifle a deeply amused grin that threatens to break his face. For goodness' sake, don't -smile-, Ben, you might be accused of having an actual emotion. He steals a wink at Trace, we can always spit at each other -after- dinner. Politely, he takes up his glass and turns toward the head of the table, all obedient attention.

Glass takes his seat and looks at Walker expectantly, his glass raised.

Walker hadn't planned on it. But he's said grace over a bowl of nuclear sundae. Why not speak over mushrooms? He peers out quietly over the table, chin lifted and head ever-so-slightly turned to the side. "Though the proof is, as they say, in the pudding..." Curved lips a natural flush rather than midnight pull into a smile that sparkles in his eyes as well. "I'd say tonight it's in th' mushrooms. Let's eat. An' thanks ta all-a y'all f'ya pawts in makin' it happen."

"Yer welcome, Walker," Trace smiles cheerfully. "I'll do the proper food beheadins' fer a meal we share anyday." And on that lovely sentiment, he digs in ferociously. After a minute or two of cramming, it occurs to him to slow down a bit so he can actually enjoy the taste a bit more. "Batiste, I tole' ya before, but you're a magic cook," he grins fondly in the rare time between bites, but quickly shovels another mouthful soon after speaking.

Glass follows Trace's cue and starts to eat, slowly but with all attention. He takes a battered mushroom and bites into it, closing his eyes with pleasure, or to make the taste come through stronger.

"Hear, hear," Ben decides, lifting his cup to Riene, the Beast That Provided the Table, and the Cooking Beasts in turn. And then falls to eating as well, though a bit more delicately and with a little less relish. He's not quite sure how long he can stand the constant taste of mushroom, and he'd best draw it out as long as possible.

Walker is true to his own peculiar eating style, nibbling a little here.. tasting a little over there. No problem with him tasting the food to be sure. "Yeah, magic indeed. Only ya could make a whole meal outta mushrooms an' be able to make it all taste bettah than th' last." Gushy, perhaps, but well intentioned.

Glass grins at Batiste. "Excellent." He looks over the spread, then fills his mouth with salad. A few moments to chew and he adds, speaking again to Batiste, "And all of it stuff I want to eat. That's really great of you."

Jean-Batiste breaks his popover into about seven pieces and munches it down first of all, looking like he's achieved a rather generous slice of nirvana in the process. As he licks a crumb off the corner of his mouth he smiles around at all of you with shy but shining eyes and murmurs, "Thanks. For the help, for...you know. For all of it." He smiles lastly to Glass and adds for him, "You're welcome." He lowers his voice to a sotto voce tone and says, "We'll do the spinach meal sometime when Walker's busy." He grins sweetly at Walker and drains the rest of his punch.

Trace bites into one of those evil battered mushrooms, the kind that squirt hot juice that dribbles down to burn your chin. He rubs it and just laughs it off. It's what he gets for frying up Mushroomville, surely. He glances over at Glass curiously, then looks down to his plate and murmurs 'oh...' as it occurs to him for the first time that this entire meal has no meat! Wow. But trust Batiste to figure out how to make a meatless meal that satisfies the tastebuds of a mighty wildman. Though he's not touching the garden salad. Sorry. He looks over at Batiste -- ohh, so *that's* how you eat them -- and breaks open a popover too.

Walker's nose wrinkles at the mere mention of spinach, as though hearing the word infected his current nibble with spinach taste. "Feel free," he invites. "Spinach lovvas." After another nibble of the same type of salad Trace is avoiding, he mellows a little into thoughtfulness. "Y'all will have th' time, pretty soon. Bobby's got me latched inta a two-week revue stawtin' next week... then there's a pawty eitha aftah 'r durin' that..."

Glass sighs happily, munching steadily away. Walker's news doesn't please him, but it doesn't cut away mushroom bliss. Doug merely stares at his leige and says, "Man, is that two weeks with no day off?"

Jean-Batiste pouts a little. The master of the house (well, the -other- house) is -always- busy. "Is it a party we can go to, too?" he asks hopefully, trying to find a positive slant to look at the two weeks' worth of business from.

Walker cocks his head as he shrugs, making it into a nonchalant gesture that utilizing his whole upper body. He pokes at his popover with his fork, spearing a small triangle of it. "Maybe two weeks, maybe three. Depends on when th' pawty is." He nips the morsel away, then looks at Bat, swallowing. "Ah..." Oh, he hates to say this. "I... doubt it." That's enough explanation. Eyes on his food he prods off another nibble.

Glass looks at Walker and tilts his head to one side, thoughtfully. "We could dress up," he says absently, then bites into another battered mushroom. He eats it carefully, with great interest.

Trace perks up. Party...? But Walker puts that idea down pretty quickly. Of course there's the teensy nagging curiousity of 'Why not?' but he doesn't voice it, because mushrooms are beckoning, and he must answer. Thuck, thuck, thuck... It's that old game of trying to cram as much onto one forkfull as possible. The utensil jabs down at the plate, collecting pieces of mushroom and popover crust. His eyes flicker over to Glass when he speaks up, and the boy demands confusedly, "Huh?"

Walker looks up from the dinner he's begun pushing around his plate; for just a moment his expression waxes assessing, as if... "I don' think it's th' kind-a pawty I can score invites ta," he hedges again. "I'm still not entirely sure what -kind-a pawty it is. Ya know?" Formal, granted. But hell if he knows the occasion.

Glass looks at Trace, "Mm," he says, around a mouthful of mushroom. He doesn't seem very interested in explaining, though, since he takes another bite as soon as he gets that one swallowed. He nods to Walker and gives him a sympathetic look, or at least as close to one as he can get while chewing.

Jean-Batiste looks thoughtfully over at Walker for a few moments, then just nods a little and goes back to cleaning food off his plate. "Okay," he murmurs. "I just feel like partying sometime soon, that's all. Maybe we can find a rave or something, that'd be cool." They can party just fine without Walker, see? As he mops up some peppery cream sauce with a bit of garlic toast, he murmurs a bit louder, "You guys want to do something? I mean...right now, it's something Martin used to do at dinner parties."

Trace slides the hodgepodge fork-full of mushrooms and goodstuff into his mouth just before Batiste asks his question, so he's got to work on getting that huge mouthful chewed and swallowed before he can answer. He works at it impatiently, but finally he's free to speak again and nods. "You mean like a game? Or what?" He takes a gulp from his glass of punch and scrubs the back of his hand against his mouth.

Walker pushes his plate away before he can do any more damage to the food left there. "Yeah..? whatcha thinkin' Bat?" He knows of a couple of raves coming up but there's not one tonight that he's aware. Glass crunches up some garlic toast, looking at Batiste. Obviously he wants to hear the other's suggestion, but he's not going to stop eating yet.

After cleaning the rest of his plate, Batiste smiles around at all of you and leans forward to refill his glass with punch. "It's a game, sort of. It's what he used to do, to get people to start talking, when everyone at the dinner party didn't know eachother. He'd ask a question, and everyone would have to answer it, and it would loosen people up, you know?" He grins a little, remembering, the continues. "My favourite question that he'd ask was if you held a dinner party and could invite any five people from any time in history, who would they be, and why."

Glass swallows, considering this. He has a swig of punch to clear his throat a bit and ask, "Am I allowed to invite as many people as I like from this time, or can I only have the five people?"

Trace has questions too. "And do we just... Say all five at once? Or say one and 'splain it and go on to the next til' we all done five?" You can see even as he asks this he's already turning it over in his head, trying to think up people. "And like, who goes first?"

Walker leans back in his chair, arms finding the convenient rests and making use of them. Contenment. Now if only he could have a cigarette... Rather than asking questions of Bat himself, he leaves that to Glass and Trace and begins thinking about who he would invite. Hmm... tricky question.

Jean-Batiste drinks down some of his punch, then starts answering questions. "Well...the way Martin did it, you could only invite five people, but if you wanted to say more and had a good reason...sure, you could do that." He shrugs easily - he's not too picky about how the answers come out. "And just...each of us says all the people, and why, whatever order you want to do it. I'll go first, so you guys can think about it." He grins a little, his smile touched with nervousness, then pauses to compose his thoughts.

"So why don' ya stawt so we've got an example," Walker volunteers the youth. "Who would ya invite?" From the comfort of the chair he's now dominating he watches expectantly.

Jean-Batiste pushes his empty plate forward a little and leans against the table, looking down at the polished wood for a while. "I've answered this before, and it depends...I mean, I could come up with different lists, but...I think, if I could invite -anyone-, I'd invite Jesus, Mohammed, Moses, Buddha and Confucious. Because...because I'd like to hear what they think of what their religions have turned into...and if they could all get along, where their worshippers can't."

Glass pulls the salad bowl and the remnants it contains closer to himself, since no one else seems to be interested any more. He picks through it with his fork, finding the more choice morsels. "I'd be afraid to invite Jesus," he comments.

Walker thinks that's an Armageddon if he ever heard of one. "Ya put Confuscious in th' same room with Moses an' there's gonna be some beard pullin'," he comments with a playful tone. His attention swivels to Glass. "Why's that? Jesus is touted th' quintessential Lamb. What's ta be afraid-a?"

Glass says, "What if he didn't like me? I couldn't take that kind of rejection." He smiles impishly at Walker and continues with his salad-picking.

Trace bites his lip and finally grins. "I dunno who to invite now, Batiste. Yer answer was really good. I mean... I guess I didn't think of it that way. I know people *I'd* wanna spend dinner with, but I didn't think of it that way, like them talkin' among *eachother* too, y'know?" He twists a braid around in his fingers consideringly.

Jean-Batiste bumps shoulders with Trace and murmurs, "No, I want to hear what you thought of. It'll be great, I'm sure. That's...like, a dream team or something, you know? Like...all really big names. C'mon." He smiles encouragingly at his blue-haired friend.

Glass chews a peice of lettuce thoughtfully, "I'd invite, hm. Bob Dylan. And Mozart. And um, Van Gogh." He seems to think a minute, and picks out another mushroom, "And Gabriel Garcia Marquez. And. Hell. Uh. I dunno." He blinks, grins, "Tesla!"

Walker chuckles at Glass' response, shaking his head. "Jesus was a long-haired hippie that evrrabody's parents-a th' time hated. He's like th' icon of stonahs an' deviants evrawhere. He'd like anybody in this room, I think..." If he actually existed. Which... he doesn't. But that's Walker's opinion. "Tesla? Th' scientist?" Of course the scientest. D'oh. He wouldn't been referring to that old 80's band. "Why that mish-a-mash-a people?"

Glass gestures expansively, quite excited at the prospect, "They'd have some really crazy conversation. It'd be great." He looks at Walker, "Yeah, Tesla the scientist. But he was like, visionary, right? Those people are all, hm, big dreamers, right?"

Jean-Batiste licks his bottom lip, grinning down at the table in a rather sheepish manner. "That's a cool answer," he murmurs enviously. "But..." He blushes a little, embarrassed, and asks Glass, "Who's Gabriel Garcia Marquez?"

Glass smiles to Batiste, "He's the guy who wrote 'One Hundred Years Of Solitude,' or whatever it was. M'sieur Batte loaned it to me. I'd invite him, too. I think it would be better to have a party with my friends and a bunch of famous people from history than a party with just the famous people."

Trace blinks a little as Glass sneaks Batte onto the invite list. "Wow. Didn't know you guys... knew each other." He glances very briefly to Batiste, but them falls silent again, grateful for the extra time to think up his own people. "But I think yer right. It'd be nicer to have friends there too. I'd feel... more confident, I think. Less shy."

Glass nods, "Yeah. So it would be better to have all you guys and M'sieur Batte. He'd want to talk to those famous people."

Walker nods to Trace as well. "It's always nice ta have somebody ya know at ya side. 'Specially when meetin' important people. Lemme see... if I could invite five people..." He clicks his tongue, tonguebar rapping softly against his teeth. "Michaelangelo... George Gordon aka Lord Byron... Robert Burns..." A pause, then: "H.P. Lovecraft... an' Barry White." He reviews his choices briefly, then nods, satisfied as he reaches for his glass of punch.

"So why them?" Batiste wonders, looking over at Walker. "A painter, two poets, a writer, and...a singer, right?" He's hoping really hard on that last name. He finishes the rest of his punch, and reaches forward to refill his glass.

Trace giggles. "Barry White, he sings those songs that're all grovely and tryin' to seduce girls, isn't he?"

Walker sips at his punch then shrugs a shoulder. "Simple. With th' exception-a Barry White, they're all temperamental an' moody awtists of different calibahs. I'd love ta hear their bitch sessions about their awtistic trials an' tribulations. Michaelangelo's years on his back paintin' th'ceilin', Byron's general irritation with people in general... it'd be a great stress-relievah. An' ya'd get insight ta all sorts-a their stuff." He looks over at Trace, grinning broadly. "Yep. An' that's why he'd be here. Ta sing ta evrabody from th' shadows an' keep 'em mellow enough not ta kill each otha."

Glass laughs! "That's great." He grins to Walker.

Trace thinks back and murmurs softly, "I 'member Burns. He was great... He had stuff ta bitch 'bout, though. That thing 'bout eatin' the Irish babies fer population control..." He snickers. "His poems were okay, but that's what I liked best from him." He bites his lip and chuckles softly. "I really... miss English classes. Oh well. Anyway." He looks around. Uh-oh, has everyone else gone...?

"That's cool, that's really cool..." Batiste murmurs, grinning widely at Walker. "You guys have way better answers than mine. Mine were all stuffy, sort of." He shrugs easily, though - they're still five people he'd love to see at a dinner party. His attention turns to Trace then, and he gives the blue-haired boy another encouraging smile and a gentle shoulder-bumping. "Who'd you invite?" he asks.

Trace shakes his head. "I liked yer choice, Batiste. It was great... I'd wanna be there too. An', well, ya said I'd choose big, but I can't get much bigger'n yer 'dream team', y'know?" he chuckles, then his eyes turn very thoughtful as he looks down at his plate. "Well," he tells the mushrooms. "I mean. I guess... First I'd invite..." Then he grins and blurts, "Bluebeard. Coz I mean, coz there's so much I'd wanna ask him, like what's it *really* like to pry that chest open and see, wow, treasure! And I'd ask 'bout his loyal men, and if they were like family... And what's it like to have seven wives?" He giggles. "Anyway. Next I'd invite Salvidore Dali. I can jest'... get lost in his paintings. They're *so* amazing. And so fucked up sometimes. I'd love to sit down and ask him about a bunch've them. Next I'd invite Ralph Fletcher. I think he's still alive, but he's this... *wonderful* poet. He's jest so great. And then I'd invite... hmm. I'd invite Benjamin Franklin. Coz I read this story on his life, right? And some've the stuff he said, and believed... And I just really think he was great, and I see why he was all popular and like dripping with French ladies even when he was like seventy. He rocked." He grins and peeks up from his mushrooms, but soom his eyes are lowered again, and he stalls, pushing a mushroom about on his plate for a moment. Then he admits, "I guess the last... would be my dad. Coz all those people, I know about 'em, and... are interested in 'em, coz they were all in books on this little dusty shelf I found in our attic, and it was *his*, I jest know it. They were all... people he loved, I think. So I'd want him to meet 'em too." He falls silent, and looks up hesitantly.

Walker blinkblinks. Wow. A very itemized list and an intriguing one as well. "Ya nevva met ya dad?" He has to ask since the floor was opened. He's been very careful not to pry too much into anyone's history, figuring the doors would open as they will.

Glass stops picking at the salad and leans back in his chair to look at Trace.

"Wow..." Batiste murmurs, leaning back in his chair as well. It's not a loud exclamation, but saying 'Oh...' would have been too neutral, so 'Wow' it was. He blinks several times, just smiling slightly as he regards Trace, then slips an arm around his friend's shoulder and hugs him gently. "That's a great list," he says. "And I love the reasons for it, that's..." He can't decide what word to use, so just trails off to a smile and another hug.

Glass pulls the cigarette pack that he picked up in the kitchen from the pocket of his robe. He tosses it to Trace, "I think your list was the best. You win first prize, which is the right to light our after-dinner doobie." He grins.

"Oh..." Trace leans into the one-armed hug, but resists the urge to burrow into it, peeking up to regard Walker. He chews on his lip just a moment before answering Walker somewhat easily, considering. "I did. I did meet 'im. I... was four when he died. My sis was still in mom's belly. Ma always said I was like him." Too much like him, his tone implies. Then he's getting something thrown at him and catches it clumsily. A grin spreads onto his face, blushing and flattered, but of course denying the claim with perfect honesty. "My list wasn't best. Jest people on a shelf I dusted off. Adopted heros."

Glass shrugs, "Well, you thought about it more than I did. I don't have special feelings for those people or anything. They'd just have an interesting conversation." He grins at Trace, "Besides, none of us put together a really good party. No girls."

Trace laughs and mock-whispers, "Well, actually I had Bluebeard bringin' his wives..."

Glass grins, "And Ben Franklin his French tarts?"

Walker giggles, pushing his chair out a little to better enable himself to sprawl. "At least ya's got dusted. Mine I didn't even dust." One of his legs manages somehow to find its way up onto the arm of the chair, his torso easing subtley to the side to make himself comfy. He turns to Glass, grinning broadly. "Well, that's why they call it history, ya know. It's his-story." He giggles again, fingers running through his hair to catch and shove it back over his shoulder.

"Hell yeah!" Trace giggles. "Powdered wigs flyin' at my party..."

Glass wiggles his dark eyebrows, "It might reach the very edge of the unseemly," he says darkly, then joins in with Trace's giggling.

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