The Undomestic Goddess
Page 54
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“Yes,” I mumble, my head bowed, hoping she won’t start probing for details.
“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
“Not really. No. I don’t.”
As I look up there’s a thread of understanding in her eyes.
“That’s fine by me.” She picks up a knife. “Now let’s start. Roll up your sleeves, tie back your hair, and wash your hands. I’m going to teach you to chop an onion.”
We spend all weekend cooking.
I learn to slice an onion finely, turn it the other way, and produce tiny dice. As I first watch Iris wielding her knife I can’t imagine doing the same without chopping off a finger—but after two ruined onions I just about crack it. I learn to chop herbs with a rounded blade. I learn how to rub flour and ground ginger into chunks of meat, then drop them into a spitting hot, cast-iron pan. I learn that pastry has to be made with quick, cold hands, by an open window. I learn the trick of blanching French beans in boiling water before sautéing them in butter.
A week ago I didn’t know what blanching even meant.
In between cooking I sit on the back step with Iris. We watch the chickens scratch in the dirt, and sip freshly brewed coffee accompanied by a pumpkin muffin or salty, crumbly cheese sandwiched with lettuce in homemade bread.
“Eat and enjoy,” Iris says each time, handing me my share. My impulse is to gobble down my food—but Iris always shakes her head in dismay. “Not so fast. Take your time! Taste the food!”
As we’re stirring risotto on Saturday afternoon, Iris puts on a CD of Puccini and tells me how she spent a year in Italy at the age of twenty, learning to cook and speak the language. She tells me how she came home for a holiday, intending to return to Italy after a month. She’d been offered a cooking job there. But she met Benjamin, Nathaniel’s father—and never took the job.
“He must have been an extraordinary person for you to do that.” I look up from the risotto.
“Yes, he was,” says Iris, her face softening. “He was funny and warm … and full of life. And kind. Most of all, kind.” Then she notices my stationary spoon. “Keep stirring!”
On Sunday afternoon, under Iris’s calm guidance, I make roast chicken with sage and onion stuffing, steamed broccoli, cumin-scented carrots, and roast potatoes. As I heave the huge roasting tin out of the oven, I pause for a moment and let the warm, chicken-scented air rise over me. I have never smelled a more homey smell in my life. The chicken is golden, its crisp, crackly skin speckled with the pepper I ground on earlier, the juices still sizzling in the tin.
“Gravy time,” Iris calls from the other side of the kitchen. “Take the chicken out and put it on the dish—and cover it up. We need to keep it warm. Now tilt the roasting tin. Can you see those globules of fat floating on the surface? You need to spoon those out.”
She’s finishing the topping on a plum crumble as she speaks. She dots it with butter and pops it into the oven, then seamlessly reaches for a cloth and wipes down the surface. I’ve watched her all day, moving swiftly and precisely around the kitchen, tasting as she goes, fully in control.
“That’s right.” She’s by my side, watching as I whisk the gravy. “Keep going … it’ll thicken in a minute …”
I cannot believe I’m making gravy. Making gravy.
And—like everything I’ve learned to make in this amazing kitchen—it’s working. The ingredients are obeying. The mishmash of chicken juices, stock, and flour is somehow turning into a smooth, fragrant broth.
“Very good!” says Iris. “Now pour it into this nice warm jug … sieve out any bits … See how easy that was?”
“I think you’re magic,” I say bluntly. “That’s why everything works in here. You’re a cooking witch.”
“A cooking witch! Ha! I like that. Now come on. Pinny off. Time to enjoy what we’ve made.” She takes off her apron and holds out a hand for mine. “Nathaniel, have you finished the table?”
Nathaniel has been in and out of the kitchen all weekend, and I’ve got used to his presence. In fact, I’ve been so taken up with cooking I’ve barely noticed him. Now he’s laying the wooden table with rush mats, old bone-handled cutlery, and soft checked napkins.
“Wine for the cooks,” says Iris, producing a bottle from the fridge and uncorking it. She pours me a glass, then gestures to the table. “Sit, Samantha. You’ve done enough for one weekend. You must be shattered.”
“I’m fine!” I say automatically. But as I sink down into the nearest chair, I realize for the first time quite how exhausted I am. And how much my feet hurt. I close my eyes and feel myself relax for the first time that day. My arms and back are aching from all the chopping and mixing. My senses have been bombarded with smells and tastes and new sensations.
“You don’t want to talk about it, do you?”
“Not really. No. I don’t.”
As I look up there’s a thread of understanding in her eyes.
“That’s fine by me.” She picks up a knife. “Now let’s start. Roll up your sleeves, tie back your hair, and wash your hands. I’m going to teach you to chop an onion.”
We spend all weekend cooking.
I learn to slice an onion finely, turn it the other way, and produce tiny dice. As I first watch Iris wielding her knife I can’t imagine doing the same without chopping off a finger—but after two ruined onions I just about crack it. I learn to chop herbs with a rounded blade. I learn how to rub flour and ground ginger into chunks of meat, then drop them into a spitting hot, cast-iron pan. I learn that pastry has to be made with quick, cold hands, by an open window. I learn the trick of blanching French beans in boiling water before sautéing them in butter.
A week ago I didn’t know what blanching even meant.
In between cooking I sit on the back step with Iris. We watch the chickens scratch in the dirt, and sip freshly brewed coffee accompanied by a pumpkin muffin or salty, crumbly cheese sandwiched with lettuce in homemade bread.
“Eat and enjoy,” Iris says each time, handing me my share. My impulse is to gobble down my food—but Iris always shakes her head in dismay. “Not so fast. Take your time! Taste the food!”
As we’re stirring risotto on Saturday afternoon, Iris puts on a CD of Puccini and tells me how she spent a year in Italy at the age of twenty, learning to cook and speak the language. She tells me how she came home for a holiday, intending to return to Italy after a month. She’d been offered a cooking job there. But she met Benjamin, Nathaniel’s father—and never took the job.
“He must have been an extraordinary person for you to do that.” I look up from the risotto.
“Yes, he was,” says Iris, her face softening. “He was funny and warm … and full of life. And kind. Most of all, kind.” Then she notices my stationary spoon. “Keep stirring!”
On Sunday afternoon, under Iris’s calm guidance, I make roast chicken with sage and onion stuffing, steamed broccoli, cumin-scented carrots, and roast potatoes. As I heave the huge roasting tin out of the oven, I pause for a moment and let the warm, chicken-scented air rise over me. I have never smelled a more homey smell in my life. The chicken is golden, its crisp, crackly skin speckled with the pepper I ground on earlier, the juices still sizzling in the tin.
“Gravy time,” Iris calls from the other side of the kitchen. “Take the chicken out and put it on the dish—and cover it up. We need to keep it warm. Now tilt the roasting tin. Can you see those globules of fat floating on the surface? You need to spoon those out.”
She’s finishing the topping on a plum crumble as she speaks. She dots it with butter and pops it into the oven, then seamlessly reaches for a cloth and wipes down the surface. I’ve watched her all day, moving swiftly and precisely around the kitchen, tasting as she goes, fully in control.
“That’s right.” She’s by my side, watching as I whisk the gravy. “Keep going … it’ll thicken in a minute …”
I cannot believe I’m making gravy. Making gravy.
And—like everything I’ve learned to make in this amazing kitchen—it’s working. The ingredients are obeying. The mishmash of chicken juices, stock, and flour is somehow turning into a smooth, fragrant broth.
“Very good!” says Iris. “Now pour it into this nice warm jug … sieve out any bits … See how easy that was?”
“I think you’re magic,” I say bluntly. “That’s why everything works in here. You’re a cooking witch.”
“A cooking witch! Ha! I like that. Now come on. Pinny off. Time to enjoy what we’ve made.” She takes off her apron and holds out a hand for mine. “Nathaniel, have you finished the table?”
Nathaniel has been in and out of the kitchen all weekend, and I’ve got used to his presence. In fact, I’ve been so taken up with cooking I’ve barely noticed him. Now he’s laying the wooden table with rush mats, old bone-handled cutlery, and soft checked napkins.
“Wine for the cooks,” says Iris, producing a bottle from the fridge and uncorking it. She pours me a glass, then gestures to the table. “Sit, Samantha. You’ve done enough for one weekend. You must be shattered.”
“I’m fine!” I say automatically. But as I sink down into the nearest chair, I realize for the first time quite how exhausted I am. And how much my feet hurt. I close my eyes and feel myself relax for the first time that day. My arms and back are aching from all the chopping and mixing. My senses have been bombarded with smells and tastes and new sensations.
