creatures into boiling water while they were still alive?
Tess knew she couldn’t afford to be squeamish. She drew a deep breath and reached for a pair of long-handled tongs that hung beside the stove, but when she lifted one crab out of the pail and it waved a claw sluggishly in her direction, she nearly lost her resolve. With a heartfelt apology, she used the tongs to send the poor creature and his brethren to their death, and she could only hope she didn’t have to wring the neck of a chicken or butcher a lamb any time soon.
An hour later, exhausted and nursing a few cuts and burns, Tess arranged the cooked crabs on a large platter, still feeling somewhat sick at how they had met their fate at her hands. Trying not to think about it, she carried the platter into the dining room where she had set two places at opposite ends of the long dining table. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry about that. A cook didn’t customarily dine with her employer, but the idea of each of them eating alone in separate rooms according to custom seemed so absurd when they were the only two people in the house.
An unpleasant smell greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, and with a groan of dismay, she raced to the stove. The potatoes had boiled dry, and their scorched smell permeated the room. With a sigh, she pried them from the pan with a fork, cut off the browned edges, and piled them into a bowl. She tossed butter over them, hoping for the best, and turned her attention to the carrots, putting them in a separate bowl and sprinkling some thyme from the garden over them for artistic effect.
She opened the oven door to check on the apples baking in a juice of sugar, brandy, butter and cinnamon, a recipe she'd invented out of necessity because she'd had no idea what else to do with them. To her relief, they seemed all right. They smelled heavenly and were turning a nice, delicate shade of brown. Pleased, she closed the oven door and carried the bowls of vegetables to the dining room.
The meal might be a simple one, but as she studied the food on the table, she felt rather proud of herself. For the first time in over two years, she had done something truly worthwhile. As Nigel's wife, she had been an ornament whose only accomplishments were looking attractive and being obedient. Cooking, she decided, was much more satisfying. After flicking a speck of dust off the table with the edge of her skirt and taking another moment to admire her achievement, she went in search of Monsieur Dumond.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the dining room behind her was the wine. He picked up the bottle on the table and looked at it, then glanced at her. “You found this in the cellars?”
She nodded.
“Four years,” he muttered as if to himself. “It seems a lifetime ago.” He fell silent, staring at the bottle, but after a moment, he roused himself from his own thoughts, and added a bit ruefully, “Let's hope it hasn't turned to vinegar.”
He uncorked the wine with the corkscrew she had laid beside the bottle, then poured a bit of the wine into a glass. He lifted the glass, staring at the liquid, which was a surprising shade of apricot-yellow. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Just a hint of blush.”
She frowned, puzzled, and walked over to stand beside him. “The label said it was red wine.”
“It’s Dumond Red.” He smiled slightly, swirling the glass, studying the wine. “Made with Muscat white grapes. The pink blush is from adding a slight amount of Muscat Hamburg. Not a high-quality grape, but being red, it gives the wine its unique color.”
He swirled the wine in his glass once more, then held it beneath his nose, inhaling the fragrance. At last, he sampled it. With a satisfied nod, he picked up the bottle and filled both glasses.
Taking the one he offered her, she took a sip as he watched. It was marvelous, full-bodied and fruity, like swallowing sunshine. “I like this wine,” she told him, licking a droplet from
Tess knew she couldn’t afford to be squeamish. She drew a deep breath and reached for a pair of long-handled tongs that hung beside the stove, but when she lifted one crab out of the pail and it waved a claw sluggishly in her direction, she nearly lost her resolve. With a heartfelt apology, she used the tongs to send the poor creature and his brethren to their death, and she could only hope she didn’t have to wring the neck of a chicken or butcher a lamb any time soon.
An hour later, exhausted and nursing a few cuts and burns, Tess arranged the cooked crabs on a large platter, still feeling somewhat sick at how they had met their fate at her hands. Trying not to think about it, she carried the platter into the dining room where she had set two places at opposite ends of the long dining table. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry about that. A cook didn’t customarily dine with her employer, but the idea of each of them eating alone in separate rooms according to custom seemed so absurd when they were the only two people in the house.
An unpleasant smell greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, and with a groan of dismay, she raced to the stove. The potatoes had boiled dry, and their scorched smell permeated the room. With a sigh, she pried them from the pan with a fork, cut off the browned edges, and piled them into a bowl. She tossed butter over them, hoping for the best, and turned her attention to the carrots, putting them in a separate bowl and sprinkling some thyme from the garden over them for artistic effect.
She opened the oven door to check on the apples baking in a juice of sugar, brandy, butter and cinnamon, a recipe she'd invented out of necessity because she'd had no idea what else to do with them. To her relief, they seemed all right. They smelled heavenly and were turning a nice, delicate shade of brown. Pleased, she closed the oven door and carried the bowls of vegetables to the dining room.
The meal might be a simple one, but as she studied the food on the table, she felt rather proud of herself. For the first time in over two years, she had done something truly worthwhile. As Nigel's wife, she had been an ornament whose only accomplishments were looking attractive and being obedient. Cooking, she decided, was much more satisfying. After flicking a speck of dust off the table with the edge of her skirt and taking another moment to admire her achievement, she went in search of Monsieur Dumond.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the dining room behind her was the wine. He picked up the bottle on the table and looked at it, then glanced at her. “You found this in the cellars?”
She nodded.
“Four years,” he muttered as if to himself. “It seems a lifetime ago.” He fell silent, staring at the bottle, but after a moment, he roused himself from his own thoughts, and added a bit ruefully, “Let's hope it hasn't turned to vinegar.”
He uncorked the wine with the corkscrew she had laid beside the bottle, then poured a bit of the wine into a glass. He lifted the glass, staring at the liquid, which was a surprising shade of apricot-yellow. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Just a hint of blush.”
She frowned, puzzled, and walked over to stand beside him. “The label said it was red wine.”
“It’s Dumond Red.” He smiled slightly, swirling the glass, studying the wine. “Made with Muscat white grapes. The pink blush is from adding a slight amount of Muscat Hamburg. Not a high-quality grape, but being red, it gives the wine its unique color.”
He swirled the wine in his glass once more, then held it beneath his nose, inhaling the fragrance. At last, he sampled it. With a satisfied nod, he picked up the bottle and filled both glasses.
Taking the one he offered her, she took a sip as he watched. It was marvelous, full-bodied and fruity, like swallowing sunshine. “I like this wine,” she told him, licking a droplet from
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