Logs:Qiddesh

Qiddesh
Dramatis Personae Clint, Kitty, Lucien	2021-02-21 "Not sure it's for me, but what I've seen of it suggests it's ongoing, and highly subjective."
Location <PRV> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. For all the cold outside and ice still layered over the city it's cosy-warm in here, a rich herby smell suffusing the home -- strongest of all in the kitchen, where Lucien is still putting the finishing touches on what will eventually be movie night supper. There are frangipane tarts cooling on the kitchen nook table, a simmering pot of soup on a burner. At one counter Lucien, dressed in sharply tailored blue jeans and soft moss green crew sweater over a gray oxford shirt, the top button undone and sleeves currently very precisely folded up to his elbows, has been at work with a paring knife, cutting small rings out of a neatly rolled out sheet of dough. He's been singing very softly under his breath as he works, quiet baritone mostly drowned out by the sound system he's singing along with, currently piping the SpongeBob Squarepants musical's "BFF" through the lower level of the house. He's careful as he transplants the dough rings to the upper crusts of the twin pot pies waiting to go into the oven -- in the center of one there's already a spiky dough silhouette of a hedgehog cut out; in the other, a round and mustached Robotnik waiting to be surrounded by the rings. When he looks up, it's with no smile but a very solemn gravity etched into both his expression and the earnest weight of his tone. "That ought to suit, I think?" Kitty’s grin is wide, leaning over on her tip-toes to inspect Lucien’s work. Her attire is cozy, much like the air of the Tessier household, in a tunic length cream sweater draping over dark blue starry leggings and warm black socks. Her pendant, a Magen David dotted with stars, dangles over her Tupperware, still sealed tight, but the triangular cookies visible through the plastic. “It’s perfect,” she says, just as earnest but with a touch more amusement. “I’d hate to eat it and ruin your work. But also, it looks delicious.” Clint is leaning against the wall beside the back door, watching his host. He's wearing a dark purple henley over a gray waffle thermal shirt and much-worn blue jeans, his socks mismatched. At Lucien's question he straightens to inspect the pies. His expression remains neutral, but he gives a firm nod, once up and once down. "I've had 'A Little Priest' stuck in my head this whole time," he admits equably. "I'm sure you will put Mrs. Lovett to shame, though. Have either of you seen this movie?" "Mmm." Still no smile, precisely, but there's a pleased crinkling at the corners of Lucien's eyes as his head inclines in acceptance of the others' validation. "It should be just about ready by the time DJ has finished his --" His brows furrow. "Holiness." He tamps down one crimped edge of a pie just-so and stoops to set both in the oven. His eyes have gotten ever so slightly wider by the time he straightens and turns back to his guests. "I have ever so many siblings, after a time you need to --" His eyes flick briefly to the oven, then back up. "-- get creative as to what to do with them." His hands spread, his smile now touching his lips, quick and pleasant. "Fast? Blue? I admit that is the extent of my Sonic knowledge." “Lucky siblings.” There is a touch of wistfulness in her tone. “Hedgehog, rings?” Kitty rests her elbows on the counter, eyebrows scrunching together. “The first trailer had Sonic with human teeth and the internet got upset. Um, Ben Schwartz is Sonic, which may make Sonic a Jewish icon? That’s all I got.” Her shoulders shrug, forehead smoothing back out as she returns to an unworried, easy smile. “It’s supposed to make more sense than CATS.” Clint raises an eyebrow, mouth quirking to one side. "Not everyone has the opportunity to be a part of such culinary masterpieces." His eyes flick to the pies, then back to the others. "I used to be pretty good at the games. Sonic has to save his animal friends and keep Doctor Robotnik from collecting the Chaos Emeralds to...end the world, or something." He gives a small shrug. "You suppose that man is ever really finished being holy?" "Yes. I'm only sorry Matthieu cannot be joining us tonight." Lucien turns aside to tuck the few dishes he hasn't already fastidiously washed in the process of cooking into the dishwasher and wash his hands, leaning back up against the counter to face the others as he dries them on a towel. "Animal compatriots. Jewish hedgehog. Chaos gems. I am taking strict mental notes. -- Wait, should my embellishments have included the teeth? Well. Notes for next time, I suppose." He doesn't seem all that fussed about this decorative lapse, in honesty, a small amused twitch at one corner of his mouth. "How do we count holiness? I'm not certain any of us can ever be said to be finished." Kitty nods at first, stops halfway and pulls her face into a distressed expression. “I think, no teeth, is preferred.” Her lips curl over her own teeth briefly, almost defensively. Her hand reaches up, thumb rubbing over the surface of the pendant. “Well, what are you counting? The state of being holy, or the time working towards holiness?” She pushes up onto the balls of her feet, once, twice, three times. “Either way, I don’t think DJ's counter stops when he leaves temple.” Both of Clint's eyebrows go up this time. "I don't mind gamey, and I don't mind teeth, either." The corners of his mouth twist down momentarily. "As long as they're made of pastry and not. Teeth. I'm guessing Kitty's against either." He settles back against the wall, eyes flicking between his companions speculatively. "I don't have much personal experience with holiness. Not sure it's for me, but what I've seen of it suggests it's ongoing, and highly subjective." "I would only use the highest quality teeth in my pies," Lucien assures the others, folding the towel neatly and hanging it back on the oven door. "And they are not in season." He unrolls one sleeve carefully, pulling it back down and buttoning the cuff before sliding the sweater into place as well. He's in the process of meticulously turning down the second sleeve when he speaks again, thoughtful. "I've not much confidence in speaking to how DJ views it, but -- I can't imagine it's worth much if it is an achievement you tick off." When he goes to add a drizzle of cream to his soup and stir it in slow turns he doesn't quite shift, sideways to the counter so the others can still see him. "I know I am but a terrible heathen but I have always felt holiness is a thing we have to help make, here." Kitty nods in quick agreement with Clint’s assessment - she seems mostly reassured by Lucien’s declaration, though, relaxing her lips from their protective position. She shifts her weight onto her left foot, leaning slightly against the countertop. “I think you’re both right — or, at least both of those fit with how I see it.” A small shrug as her thumb rubs over the surface of her pendant again. “We didn’t spend too much time on the topic in Hebrew school — mostly talked about how to treat holy objects. Not so much time on the general concept or how to pursue it.” "Thank God," Clint says mildly. "Or whoever's in charge of your seasonal pie fortunes." He watches the others--Kitty more closely--gaze steady and thoughtful. "Heathens can be holy," he adds simply. "Granted, I don't meet a wide range. I feel like we're the setup to a '...walks into a bar' joke that never quite gels." He lifts one hand and rubs at his left temple. "It'd probably work better with '...and a Mormon' instead of '...and a lapsed Episcopalian who flirts perfunctorily with atheism.'" "By whose standards? I'm sure depending on who is counting, you meet plenty." Lucien's eyes dip to Kitty's pendant as she rubs at the star. "How to make the world good." It's a quiet musing, and he turns his eyes to the ceiling once his sleeve is back in place. "I imagine if we came up with the conclusive answer to that we could all quit our -- everything." He switches the stove burner down to low and gestures with one hand out to the living room. "Hmm. It's a good thing we have some short time to find a punchline before DJ gets here, then." Kitty snorts. “A Jew, a self-proclaimed heathen, and… a Clint?” She cringes slightly. “And a Mormon walk into a - hm. No, this needs workshopping.” Kitty abandons the Tupperware on the counter as she migrates to the living room, walking backwards for the first few steps. “Maybe it’s a Always Sunny title card. ‘The gang discovers holiness,’ or something.” "The heathen's own standards are probably the only ones I much care about." Clint considers this for just a tick. "Come to think of it, though, I don't often ask." He gives a half-shrug, one shoulder hitching up, though the gesture doesn't, somehow, seem dismissive. Neither does the quick breath, almost, almost a laugh. "Can't speak for the setup, all I know's the punchline is 'Shirley Temple'."