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[something_true]

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<HermosaFlor> You have reached Isabela Madrigal

Comments

Mid-July - [Action]

[heyunderoos]

[Peter already knows this is going to go over like a lead balloon, but he has to try. He doesn't want things to be... frosty with Isabela. She's Bruno's niece and before things went bad, Peter did like talking to her.

Its how he ends up at the castle, knocking on the Madrigal's door nervously with his free hand. He has a bag with carefully wrapped latkes in his other hand. If it's Isabel he'll just hand her the food and run. Mirabel and Bruno, he could at least have a conversation with.]

[something_true]

[Isa has taken to sleeping much later in the mornings than she used to. Her changes have her up much later at night and so exhausted. She took a few days off of work to try to readjust. Thus, she's conveniently home when the knock comes on the door.

One of the perks of being a were is she looks perfectly human when she answers the door. The smile on her face fades when she sees who it is.]

Oh. If you're looking for Bruno you're better off coming back at night.

[heyunderoos]

[He should have guessed this was going to happen. Parker Luck. He has to look up even more at Isabela now, having lost a few more inches over the last few weeks since they last saw each other.]

Oh, uh, no, I- [He stumbles over his words, trying to not just slink off in discomfort. The urge is so strong.] These are for you guys, all of you if you want it I mean.

[He holds out the bag a little nervously.] I made latkes and wanted to share.

[something_true]

[She's back to her normal height, so no more Pooka height similarities here.

She rolls her eyes, sighing impatiently as he stutters. Ugh! Just spit it out!

Then the smell of the food in the bag hits her nose. Heightened senses are a perk occasionally. Potatoes... Onions... Oil... It's missing some ingredients but it's still so painfully similar to something her mother used to make.

Her posture softens and she blinks a few times, looking a little confused. Her tone has definitely lost its edge when she speaks.]

What's a latke?

[heyunderoos]

[He doesn't miss the eye roll and feels stupider by the second. He should have... just messaged Bruno or Mirabel instead of showing up.

He tries to not get defensive, at best his voice a bit quieter. He's stammering a little less.]

It's...a traditional food for Jewish people. Families made them together I mean. They're like potato onion pancakes. My uncle, before he died, used to make them with me. I made a lot of them. I wanted to share them.

[something_true]

[His words hit her hard. Her demeanor completely shifts as she thinks about this.]

That... sounds like something similar to Lapingachos. They're a kind of potato cake where I'm from. [Pausing, she looks down.] My mother used to make them for us. [Another pause.] I'm... sorry about your uncle.

[Clearing her throat, she realizes how awkward she's being. She steps back and gestures.]

Would you like to come in?

[heyunderoos]

Oh, Lapingachos sound familiar, I'm sure they're super great. [The shift in her demeanor makes Peter feel even less sure, but he's trying to be friendly.] I bet your mom made them perfect too.

[He shrugs a little.] Um, thanks. It's just- [Her question throws him off a little.

Uh- sure! If you're okay with that. I thought I'd just drop them off so you guys could enjoy them. I don't want to intrude on your time.

[something_true]

[She nods.] She does.

[Smiling a little, she gestures again.]

Food is meant to be shared. Besides... this was such a kind gesture. The least I can do is invite you in.

[heyunderoos]

Thank you, I appreciate it. [Peter takes Isabela at her word, relaxing just a little as he walks forward over the threshold.]

[He loosens his hold on the bag slightly as he manages a tentative smile at Isabela.] Is there anywhere, in particular, you'd like me to put the latkes?

[something_true]

[She closes the door and gestures for him to follow.]

Come into the kitchen. I'll pour you a drink. What would you like? We have water, juice and lemonade.