I haven’t had the chance to return to TS4 yet, but it’s still on my mind.
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@beatingpans
I haven’t had the chance to return to TS4 yet, but it’s still on my mind.

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I will never be quiet. Never again. As a White person writing Black characters, you absolutely must be vocally anti-racist. As an American, in this presidency, you must be loud. Democracy dies in broad daylight. Do not let it also be silence.
Our president, sat in The Oval Office, berated not just another human being, but the president of an allied nation in need; in front of the entire world. He yelled at him. He gestured at him. He made fun of his clothing like a bully. I will not be silent. Trump and Vance belittled him and the Ukrainian people on an international stage.
Our president, on his official social media account, posted an AI video of what he called Trump Gaza. Raising hotels, erasing the Palestinian people further. He imagines himself drinking by the pool with war criminal Benjamin Netanyahu, while the richest man in the world eats hummus.
I love my country; I love its people. I love my Appalachian grandma and her homeplace in the hollar. I love Shenandoah and it’s autumn, painted by god himself. I love Detroit with our outfacing attitudes as cold as our December. I love the places and the people I have seen. The people we can be. I love that we are a melting pot, in time, in culture, and in architecture. I love us, I love The US, and I will not go quietly into the darkness on my biggest platform while the people at the top ruin the things that make us.
Beating Pans - A Culinary Symphony is going through a rebranding.
Stay tuned for our story, soon to be presented in a new format and with a refined aesthetic. Previous episodes will be reposted to maintain consistency.
Tradução e Texto Alternativo em Português abaixo do corte.
Willow Creek, the 2nd day of Spring
Augustine’s holiday trips to Willow Creek were always bittersweet. She loved the warmth she felt from her family, the shared laughter at the dinner table, and the smell of Winterfest’s gumbo. But it wasn’t every tradition from the Beaudelaire household that filled her heart with joy—actually, there were very few things she loathed as passionately as the ‘career summit’ her dad, Gust, would hold every year, a seasonal reminder of her less-than-stellar progress in the San Myshuno music scene. “Augie, chère, get on over here. We need to have a serious conversation,” he called as he entered the living room, already cleaned of any holiday decorations. He ran a hand over the ornate armrest of a baroque chair, a familiar gesture that always made Augie feel like she was stepping back in time. It was his world, one that made more sense to him than her fast-paced reality. “Hey, Dad, what’s going on?” she answered, taken from her daydreaming, standing beside the tall but narrow windows that framed the sunset outside. As soon as she processed her father’s words, she was struck by the ‘serious conversation,’ a significant change in her dad’s MO, since he usually started with a casual conversation, and would sneak in the progress check, painted as paternal interest. "Don't get me wrong, kid," he said, his voice already taking on that familiar, serious tone. "I hate to bring this up again, but this music career of yours—we gotta talk about it." Augie sighed. "Please, not again, Dad…" She knew her father was worried about her, and she appreciated it like every other child, but the familiar drill was exhausting. Why can’t he just show some faith in me for once? “I respect your dream of becoming a musician, darlin’” he started tentatively. “You know that. But, come on now, let’s be real.” His casual dismissal of her dream stung like a slap. “You’ve been grinding it out in San Myshuno for a good while now.” Her father grimaced, preparing to deliver the familiar lecture. Augie crossed her arms, bracing herself. “What have you accomplished that you are proud of—what do you have to show for all that hard work?” It wasn’t the first time Augie had dealt with her father’s demands, not even the first time after she moved to San Myshuno, but it never got easier. The feeling of letting her dad down, even if it was his own fault for holding such expectations, not hers—made her sick. Augie hesitated. “I know I haven’t achieved much yet, but—” “Oh, come on, Augie!”, he interrupted, snapping just like she knew he would, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Flea markets and tiny bars aren’t a career!” She could practically recite the lines herself. He'd bring up the construction company any second now. “You’ve got the brains to be an engineer, work at the company—it’s your legacy too!” That was where he would really piss her off. “This music thing is a hobby, not a life.” “It’s not like I’m just messing around, Dad!” she blurted, her hands flying as she spoke, her words fueled by fierce determination. “Every late-night gig, every song I pour my heart into—it’s all building toward something. Yeah, it’s slow, and yeah, it’s though, but this is my dream, and I won’t give it up!” “Then prove me wrong.” her dad challenged, his face reddening, a vein throbbing in his neck. “Show me how playing music for passersby and getting their spare change is a viable career.” “And how am I supposed to do that?”, she replied, her voice in the same volume as his, her blood thrumming just as fast. Then she took a deep breath. No one ever won an argument by screaming. She stared at her father’s eyes, then closed her own for just a second, her hand on her forehead as a new headache was forming. “I’m working my tail off, Dad, but it is hard when not even you believe in me.” Her father’s temper got tamed by her frailty, his shoulders falling as he breathed in a calming pattern.
“You know I love you, chère, but I can’t just watch you flounder.” To his credit, he sounded sincere. “I know it’s tough love, but you need something concrete, something that shows you’re on the right path.” A chill ran through Augie as her anger subsided, so she crossed her arms again, waiting for her father to continue. “You have one season, Augie.” His words settled heavily in her stomach. “One season to prove this is a viable career. If not, you come back home, go back to college, and join the family business”, her father offered. “Deal?” Her first thought was a defiant no. Three years of work—just to give it all up now? She was independent; he couldn't force her. Augie had grown up with a military dad. She knew better than to disobey Captain Beaudelaire. And she was just as stubborn as he was. She would not show her fear. “Deal.”
Tradução e Texto Alternativo em Português abaixo do corte.
Tartosa, the 1st day of Spring
Nico goes outside to check the mail. Among the bills and flyers from internet providers, an envelope with the letterhead of SimNation caught his attention. Wondering what it could be, he opened the envelope while walking back into his home. The letter was sent from San Myshuno Municipal Office. Nico hasn't been there since he was a teenager and the letter brings back memories he didn't fondly recall. Walking through the entryway, Nico starts reading.
"Dear Mr. Carcinelli, We hope this message finds you well. It has come to our attention that the property previously housing Nonna's Diner has remained unused for an extended period."
As he finishes the second complete sentence in the letter, he stops walking, standing still with his eyes locked on the paper in his hands.
"As per the municipal regulations of San Myshuno, properties within urban zones must be actively utilized to contribute to the community and local economy. We kindly urge you to take necessary steps to repurpose or activate the property. Failure to comply with these regulations may result in significant penalties, including substantial fines. Continued non-compliance could ultimately lead to forfeiture of the property, as stipulated by city ordinances."
His face falls as he finds out his Nonna left him some kind of quest. Maybe he should've paid more attention to the papers he signed after her passing. But the idea of losing Nonna's Diner, the legacy left by his grandmother, who taught him everything he loves the most—cooking and singing—is just too much. With wobbly legs, he reaches the sofa, still covered by the cushions and blanket his Nonna made him, and sits.
"If you require assistance or guidance regarding permissible uses for the property or need support navigating this process, please do not hesitate to contact our office. We are here to help ensure a smooth resolution to this matter. Thank you for your prompt attention.
Sincerely, San Myshuno Municipal Office"
Nico reads the letter again and again, trying to find something—anything!—to help him figure if this is a mistake, but deep down he knows it isn't. Scratching his chin, he can't help but remember his summer days with Nonna in that kitchen, her voice resonating in the tiles on the walls. He couldn't let it be taken from him, He had already lost his parents, he had lost Nonna, he can't lose Nonna's Diner too! He had no choice but to reopen the restaurant. Except for a tiny detail: Nonna taught him how to cook and how to sing, but she never taught him anything about running the place. He didn't even have a lemonade stall as a kid! In college, he would sell cupcakes and other baked goods to his friends and colleagues, but his roommate, Giaco, was the one to handle the finances of Nico's sales. Frustrated, Nico cursed at the sky, talking out loud about how his Nonna must be laughing at him from wherever she is. Every time he's in the kitchen, Nico feels Nonna's presence around him. How would it be if it were in her kitchen, the one she cherished so dearly? And just like that, Nico knew what he needed to do next: buy a ticket to SimNation, pack his bags, and reopen Nonna's Diner.

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