“Samantha. Welcome.” Iris looks up, and I can see her taking me in, head to foot. “Just let me finish this.”
Nathaniel gestures to me to sit down, and I cautiously take a seat on a wooden chair. The kitchen is at the back of the house and is filled with light and sun. Flowers in earthenware jugs are everywhere. There’s an old-fashioned range and a scrubbed wooden table and a stable door open to the outside. As I’m wondering whether I should be making conversation, a chicken wanders in and starts scratching at the ground.
“Oh, a chicken!” I exclaim before I can stop myself.
“Yes, a chicken.” I can see Iris looking at me with wry amusement. “Never seen a chicken before?”
Only in the supermarket chill counter. The chicken comes pecking toward my open-toe-sandaled feet and I quickly tuck them under my chair, trying to look as though I meant to do that anyway.
“There.” Iris picks up the dough, shapes it efficiently into a round shape on a tray, opens the heavy oven door, and pops it in. She washes her floury hands at the sink, then turns to face me.
“So. You want to learn how to cook.” Her tone is friendly but businesslike. I sense this is a woman who doesn’t waste words.
“Yes.” I smile. “Please.”
“Cordon Bleu fancy stuff,” chimes in Nathaniel, who’s leaning against the range.
“And how much cooking have you done before?” Iris dries her hands on a red-checked towel. “Nathaniel said none. That can’t be right.” She folds the towel and smiles at me for the first time. “What can you make? What are your basics?”
Her intent blue gaze is making me feel a little nervous. I rack my brains, trying to think of something I can make.
“Well … I can … I can make … um … toast,” I say. “Toast would be my basic.”
“Toast?” She looks taken aback. “Just toast?”
“And crumpets,” I add quickly. “Tea cakes … anything that goes in a toaster, really.”
“But what about cooking?” She drapes the towel over a steel bar on the range and looks at me more carefully. “What about … an omelet? Surely you can cook an omelet.”
I swallow. “Not really.”
Iris’s expression is so incredulous I feel my cheeks flame. “I never really did home economics at school,” I explain. “I never really learned how to make meals.”
“But your mother, surely … or your grandmother—” She breaks off as I shake my head. “Anyone?”
I bite my lip. Iris exhales sharply as though taking in the situation for the first time.
“So you can’t cook anything at all. And what have you promised to make for the Geigers?”
Oh, God.
“Trish wanted a week’s worth of menus. So I … um … gave her one based on this.” Sheepishly, I get the crumpled Maxim’s menu out of my bag and hand it to her.
“Braised lamb and baby onion assemblé with a fondant potato and goat’s cheese crust, accompanied by cardamom spinach puree,” she reads out, in tones of disbelief.
I hear a snort and look up to see Nathaniel in fits of laughter.
“It was all I had!” I exclaim defensively. “What was I going to say, fish fingers and chips?”
“Assemblé is just flannel.” Iris is still perusing the sheet. “That’s souped-up shepherd’s pie. We can teach you that. And the braised trout with almonds is straightforward enough.…” She runs her finger further down the page, then at last looks up, frowning. “I can teach you these dishes, Samantha. But it isn’t going to be easy. If you’ve really never cooked before.” She glances at Nathaniel. “I’m really not sure …”
I feel a flicker of alarm. Please don’t say she’s going to back out.
“I’m a quick learner.” I lean forward. “And I’ll work hard. I really, really want to do this.”
Please. I need this.
“All right,” says Iris at last. “Let’s get you cooking.”
She reaches into a cupboard for a set of weighing scales, and I take the opportunity to reach into my bag for a pad of paper and a pen.
“What’s that for?” She raises her chin toward the paper.
“So I can take notes,” I explain. I write down the date and Cooking lesson no. 1, underline it, then stand at the ready. Iris is slowly shaking her head.
“Samantha, cooking isn’t about writing down. It’s about tasting. Feeling. Touching. Smelling.”
“Right.” I nod.
I must remember that. I quickly uncap my pen and scribble down Cooking = all about tasting, smelling, feeling, etc. I cap my pen again, only to see Iris regarding me with incredulity.
“Tasting,” she says, removing my pen and paper from my hands. “Not writing. You need to use your senses. Your instincts.”
She lifts the lid off a pot gently steaming on the cooker and dips a spoon into it. “Taste this.”
Gingerly I take the spoon in my mouth. “Gravy,” I say at once. “Delicious!” I add politely. Iris shakes her head.
“Don’t tell me what you think it is. Tell me what you can taste.”
This is a trick question, surely.
“I can taste … gravy.”
Her expression doesn’t change. She’s waiting for something else.
“Er … meat?” I hazard.
“What else?”
My mind is blank. I can’t think of anything else. I mean, it’s gravy. What else can you say about gravy?
“Taste it again.” Iris is relentless. “You need to try harder.”
My face is growing hot as I struggle for words. I feel like the dumb kid at the back of the class who can’t do the two-times table.
“Meat … water …” I try desperately to think what else is in gravy. “Flour!” I say in sudden inspiration.
“You can’t taste flour. There’s none in there. Samantha, don’t think about identifying the taste. Just tell me what the sensation is.” Iris holds the spoon out a third time. “Taste it again—and this time close your eyes.”
Close my eyes?
“OK.” I take a mouthful and close my eyes obediently.
“Now. What can you taste?” Iris’s voice is in my ear. “Concentrate on the flavors. Nothing else.”
Eyes shut tight, I block out everything and focus all my attention on my mouth. All I’m aware of is the warm salty liquid on my tongue. Salt. That’s one flavor. And sweet … and … there’s another taste as I swallow it down.…
It’s almost like colors appearing. First the bright, obvious ones, and then the gentler ones you’d almost miss.
“It’s salty and meaty …” I say slowly, without opening my eyes. “And sweet … and … and almost fruity? Like cherries?”
I open my eyes, feeling a bit disoriented. There is Iris, smiling. Behind her I suddenly notice Nathaniel, scrutinizing me intently. I feel a tad flustered. Tasting gravy with your eyes closed is a fairly intimate thing to do, it turns out. I’m not sure I want anyone watching me.
Iris seems to understand. “Nathaniel,” she says briskly. “We’re going to need ingredients for all these dishes.” She scribbles a long list and hands it to him. “Run down and get these for us, love.”
As he leaves the room, she looks at me with kindness. “That was much better.”
“By George, she’s got it?” I say hopefully, and Iris throws back her head in laughter.
“Not yet, sweetie, by a long chalk. Here, get a pinny on.” She hands me a red-and-white striped apron and I tie it around my waist, feeling self-conscious.
“It’s so good of you to help me,” I venture. Iris is pulling onions and some orange vegetable I don’t recognize out from a bin by the door. “I’m really grateful.”
“I like a challenge.” She takes a knife from a block on the counter. “I get bored. Nathaniel does everything for me. Too much sometimes.”
“But still. You’d never even met me—”
“I liked the sound of you.” Iris draws down a heavy wooden chopping board from a shelf above. “Nathanie
l told me how you got yourself out of your mess the other night. That took some spirit.”
“I had to do something,” I say ruefully.
“And they offered you a pay rise as a result. Wonderful.” As she smiles, fine lines appear round her eyes like starbursts. “Trish Geiger is a very foolish woman.”
“I like Trish,” I say, feeling a stab of loyalty.
“So do I.” Iris nods. “She’s been very supportive to Nathaniel. But I do sometimes wonder—” She pauses, her hand resting on an onion.
“What?” I say tentatively.
“Why she needs quite so much help. Why the full-time housekeeper? What does she do with her time?” She looks genuinely interested.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I haven’t quite worked it out.”
“Intriguing.” Iris seems lost in thought for a moment. Then she focuses on me again. “So you’ve taken the Geigers in completely.”
“Yes.” I smile. “They have no idea who I am.”
“And who are you?”
Her question takes me completely by surprise.
“Is your name really Samantha?”
“Yes!” I say in shock.
“That was a little blunt,” Iris acknowledges. “But a girl arrives in the middle of the countryside out of nowhere and takes a job she can’t do …” She pauses, clearly choosing her words with care. “Nathaniel tells me you’ve just got out of a bad relationship?”
“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.
“Don’t fall asleep!” Iris’s voice jolts me back to the present. “This is our reward! Nathaniel love, put Samantha’s roast chicken down there. You can carve.”
I open my eyes to see Nathaniel carrying over the serving dish bearing the roast chicken, and feel a fresh glow of pride. My first roast chicken. I almost want to take a photo.
“You’re not telling me you made this?” says Nathaniel.
Ha ha. He knows full well I made it.
“Just something I rustled up earlier.” I wink at him. “As we Cordon Bleu chefs do.”
Nathaniel carves the chicken with an expert ease, and Iris dishes out the vegetables. When we’re all served she sits down and raises her glass.
“To you, Samantha. You’ve done splendidly.”
“Thanks.” I smile and am about to sip my wine when I realize the other two aren’t moving.
“And to Ben,” Iris adds softly.
“On Sundays we always remember Dad,” Nathaniel explains.
“Oh.” I hesitate, then raise my glass.
“And now.” Iris reaches for her knife and fork. “The moment of truth.” She takes a bite of chicken while I try to hide my nerves.
“Very good.” She nods at last. “Very good indeed.”
I can’t stop beaming. “Really? It’s … good?”
Iris lifts her glass to me. “By George. She’s got roast chicken, at any rate.”
I sit in the glow of the evening light, not talking much but eating and listening to Iris and Nathaniel chat. They tell me stories about Eddie and Trish, about when they tried to buy the local church and turn it into a guest cottage, and I can’t help laughing. Nathaniel outlines his plans for the Geigers’ garden and draws a sketch of the avenue of limes he created at Marchant House. When he gets animated he dra
ws more and more quickly, his hand dwarfing the stub of pencil he’s using. Iris notices me watching in admiration and points out a watercolor of the village pond, hanging on the wall.
“Ben did that.” She nods toward Nathaniel. “He takes after his father.”
The atmosphere is so relaxed and easy, so different from any meal I’ve ever had at home. No one’s on the phone. No one’s rushing to get anywhere else. I could sit here all night.
As the meal is finally drawing to a close I clear my throat. “Iris, I just want to say thank you again.”
“I enjoyed it.” Iris takes a forkful of plum crumble. “I always did enjoy bossing people about.”
“But really. I’m so grateful. I don’t know what I would have done without your help. Is there any way I can repay you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Iris takes a sip of wine and dabs her mouth. “Next weekend we’ll make lasagne. And gnocchi!”
“Next weekend?” I stare at her. “But—”
“You don’t think you’ve finished? I’ve only just started on you!”
“But … I can’t take up all your weekends …”
“I’m not graduating you yet,” she says with a cheerful asperity. “So you have no choice. Now, what else do you need help with? Cleaning? Washing?”
I feel a twinge of embarrassment. She clearly knows exactly how much of a mess I got myself into the other day.
“I’m not really sure how to use the washing machine,” I admit at last.
“We’ll cover that.” She nods. “I’ll pop up to the house when they’re out and have a look at it.”
“And I can’t sew on buttons.”
“Buttons …” She reaches for a piece of paper and a pencil, and writes it down, still munching on the crumble. “I suppose you can’t hem either.”
“Er …”
“Hemming …” She scribbles it down. “What about ironing?” She looks up, suddenly alert. “You must have had to iron. How did you wriggle out of that one?”
“I’m sending the clothes out to Stacey Nicholson,” I confess. “In the village. She charges three pounds a shirt.”
“Stacey Nicholson?” Iris puts her pencil down. “That flibbertigibbet?”
The Undomestic Goddess Page 14