The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  The onion was a sharp one. She could tell the instant that she pierced it with the pointed tip of her knife, bringing the skin off in a swift, single movement to expose the firm flesh beneath. Bright tears stung the corners of her eyes as she cut it cleanly in half, her sobs rising as she sank in her knife again and again.

  Since she had no butter, she severed the fatty rind from the rasher of bacon, melting it in the pan until it browned to a crisp, a wide pool of its flavorful fat surrounding it. Then she removed the rind before carefully lining the pan with the sliced mushroom caps, scattering the chopped onions and mushroom stalks around. The scents blended together to form a rounded earthiness, like the woodland itself, a sensation that swamped the back of her nose and throat, almost strong enough to taste.

  “Herbs,” she said quietly, looking toward the dresser for the tidy pile she and the boys had collected from the wood. Unpiecing it, she took out a few sprigs of cicely and pinched off the leaves with her fingernails. A fragrance similar to anise expanded around her as she coarsely chopped the leaves, pushing them to one side of the board with her knife.

  Back at her small bunch of herbs, she looked through. “Ah, meadowsweet, used in aspirin. Let’s have a bit of that, shall we? Maybe it’ll numb the pain.”

  The smell seemed to permeate through her, winding fine threads of tranquility from her lungs into her fingertips and to the soles of her feet.

  “One more,” she murmured, going back to her bundle of sprigs, leafing through her assortment, holding the occasional sprig to her nose. “Not quite right.” The window stood open, and her gaze fell upon the variated colors of the vegetable garden.

  “I’ve got it,” she said suddenly, heading to the back door. “I have some garlic growing for Mrs. Quince.” She strode out to the edge of the vegetables, pulled up a bulb, and brought it back to the kitchen. Cutting it open and crushing a clove, she brought it to her nose. “Precisely what we need.”

  The pungent smell radiated through the kitchen as she added the herbs to the softly simmering mushrooms.

  “Now a drop of dry sherry to add a subtle sharpness.” She darted into the pantry, where her hand ran down the length of bottles on the top shelf, stopping and selecting a green one.

  A swift glug went in, a luscious steam rising off the pan.

  Next, she took a spoon of flour, stirring it briskly into the mushroom juices to thicken it.

  The stock posed a quandary. Usually vegetable stock would go into her mushroom soup, but the beef one that she used for the meat pies was already made, sitting in the hay-box in the pantry. Every evening she would put it on the stove and bring it back to the boil, adding any bones and leftover meat, and then she’d replace it in the wooden box packed with hay to let it cook by itself long into the night.

  “Let’s give it a try.”

  The stock was glutinous and dark, an oxtail and some short ribs boiled up with onions and carrots and celery. Perfect, she thought as she ladled in just the right amount, along with a little boiled water from the kettle.

  Wafts of mushrooms blended with the robust smell of beef and the fragrant bouquet of herbs. Just one last ingredient before she would taste it.

  Back in the pantry, on the big, cool marble shelf, she took the bottle of milk and checked the level. “We’ll have to drink our tea black until next week,” she said, going back to the stove and carefully pouring some in, stirring as the dark-brown bubbling mixture became swirled with white.

  After bringing it back to a simmer, she took out a fresh spoon and lowered it into the pot, bringing it up to her mouth, the luscious smell powerful around her nose.

  Tentatively, she tried it, letting the flavors linger in her mouth. The velvet texture of the soup dotted with chunks of delicious mushrooms, the slight curl of the tongue on the dry sherry, the fullness of the milk, and the floral undertones of the fresh herbs, they all came together to create a bold yet undeniably sumptuous combination of tastes.

  “Gosh, that’s marvelous,” she whispered, leaving it on a very low heat while she dashed about trying to find a silver dome.

  “I know I have one somewhere.” Pulling a chair to the dresser, she stood on it to reach the very top, pulling out a series of bowls, inside of which was a silver dome.

  The tray was set. An old silver soup spoon sat beside a deep ivory bone china bowl, the dome ready to go over the top. Plunging the ladle in for the finest portion, she set it into the bowl. Then she garnished it with finely chopped cicely, giving off a touch of aniseed.

  No time for changing her clothes. No time for makeup or styling her matted curls.

  She had to hurry to the village hall for the contest.

  Gathering up the tray, she picked up the telegram and pushed it into a pocket.

  “You’ll be with me in spirit, my darling.”

  And off she went.

  Audrey’s Mushroom Soup

  Serves 4

  1 pound mushrooms, chanterelles are good

  1 tablespoon butter or bacon fat

  1 onion, finely chopped

  A few garlic cloves, minced, if available

  Herbs (cicely, meadowsweet, marrow leaves, if available), finely chopped

  A drop of sherry or wine, if available

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 pint stock (beef, chicken, or vegetable)

  ¼ pint milk or cream (optional)

  Finely chop the stalks and slice the caps of the mushrooms. Put the butter or fat into a hot pan and cook until melted and brown. Add the mushrooms and onion and slowly fry until translucent. Add garlic if you have any.

  Scatter the herbs over the mushrooms. Add the sherry or wine. Stir in the flour. Add the stock and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the milk or cream a few minutes before serving, or swirl a little over the top.

  Lady Gwendoline

  The village hall was bustling with activity as the large orderly clock on the wall chimed seven even tolls. Rows of chairs were filled with eager onlookers from Middleton and other nearby towns, some even from London. Ambrose had been talking about the first round on The Kitchen Front for over a week, and the excitement was palpable. Radio technicians with headphones ran around setting bulbous microphones along the table onstage, one standing at the side for Ambrose.

  Lady Gwendoline felt a flutter of eagerness.

  My very first time on the radio!

  The first of many, naturally.

  Newspaper reporters were also there to capture the event, some with boxlike cameras with flash sets. A photograph of a wartime cooking contest would look superb on the cover of any newspaper—especially when the other news was so dismal.

  And particularly as I will be the winner, Lady Gwendoline mused smugly.

  She recognized a number of faces in the audience. Any free entertainment was readily taken these days. The war had left many women at home on their own, desperate for a bit of a break, especially when it took their minds off worries for their men far away from home.

  Lady Gwendoline imagined herself on the front page of The Times.

  That’s precisely what I need. I’ll show those society women, and my husband, too, she thought.

  The place was buzzing with gossip. Lady Gwendoline had heard that bets were being taken at the village pub. Mrs. Quince was the favorite, naturally, as she was a locally renowned cook. Annoyingly, however, Lady Gwendoline’s own sister, Audrey, was close behind, and she herself only running third.

  As if Audrey stands a better chance than me!

  A long table had been set up across the stage for the cooks, and she took the first spot. Going at the beginning was bound to set her at an advantage. Ambrose’s palate would be fresh and enthusiastic, unsullied by her rivals’ attempts.

  After much consideration, she had decided to wear a formal maroon dress that she often wore for her de
monstrations, a crisply ironed white apron over the top. It gave precisely the right impression of a well-to-do lady entering a wartime contest while also representing the authority of the Ministry of Food.

  She watched as her fellow competitors began to arrive. First, Mrs. Quince tottered in, struggling to make it up the stairs on the side of the stage. Thank heavens she had the maid helping her. Then, bang on time, in rushed Audrey, looking a complete fright in her men’s trousers. She hadn’t even brushed her hair!

  Ambrose Hart stood to one side, busying himself with his notebook. His task this evening was not to be envied: judging four women, each of whom considered herself to be a cook of the highest caliber. He had been right when he’d told her that the contestants would be watching out for favoritism. Any sign of unfairness, and he’d be in trouble. He pulled out a smartly folded handkerchief to dab his already furrowed brow.

  Five minutes late, the last competitor, Zelda Dupont, paused at the door for everyone to turn and look. Her painted mouth twisted in misplaced triumph as she looked confidently over the crowd.

  How on earth could she think she possibly stands a chance in this village where she knows no one?

  Bringing her silver-domed platter to the front, she walked slowly up onto the stage, ignoring the other contestants before taking her place at the very end of the row. And if Lady Gwendoline wasn’t mistaken, a glance was exchanged between Zelda and Audrey—what could that mean?

  But before she had time to consider this, a technician at the side said to Ambrose, “Shall we start?”

  He nodded, donning his stage smile, and the technician counted down with his fingers—three, two, one.

  “A very warm welcome to everyone at this first round of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest,” Ambrose began, standing before the microphone like it was second nature. “I would like to thank you, one and all, for coming, especially the members of the press.” He looked down at the half-dozen men and gave them a practiced pose while a lone camera snapped a shot.

  “Get on with it!” a thin voice called out—was it the vicar?—and Ambrose coughed and continued.

  “This is the first of three rounds, at the end of which the scores will be added together to find a winner.” He looked eagerly from one contestant to another. “That person will join me as a presenter on The Kitchen Front.” This was said without relish. “Without more ado, I will begin the judging.”

  He turned and walked over to the first contestant.

  “Lady Gwendoline, please introduce yourself and tell us what you have for us this evening.”

  “I am Lady Gwendoline Strickland, one of the Ministry of Food’s dedicated home economists. We visit local towns to speak about how to stay happy and healthy on the rations. An experienced professional speaker, I would be perfect for the BBC role.”

  She paused to prompt a photograph from the newspapermen, then as none seemed forthcoming, she whisked off her silver dome with a flourish.

  “Today I’ve made a favorite of mine from my wartime demonstrations: sardine rolls, spruced up with chopped herbs and vegetables fresh from the garden.”

  Her precious two pastries lay on a gold-encrusted Royal Doulton plate. The pastry on the rolls was golden, flaking slightly at the edges, indicating that it was impeccably well made. Beside them, a garnish was made of an inner lettuce leaf, curled like a little bowl, a few small radishes piled in the middle to make a nest. With the emphasis on wartime austerity, she knew she was onto a winner.

  For a brief moment, she thought that Ambrose’s face fell. Perhaps she should have prepared more of a restaurant-style dish? She knew his tastes were sophisticated, with a penchant for delicacies. Maybe she had misjudged the weight given to home-style food? But wasn’t that the focus of The Kitchen Front?

  However, she quickly pushed any doubts aside, musing to herself, He can’t afford to ignore my status in this little place. Nor Sir Strickland’s power over him.

  Ambrose was evidently struck by the same notion, as his face quickly lit up in a generous smile, bestowing good humor all around.

  Murmuring rumbled among the audience. A few titters came from one of the younger newspapermen, before being promptly shushed as Lady Gwendoline began to speak.

  “The dish makes the best use of one of our wartime staples: tinned sardines. The big surprise bonus of this recipe is that you use the oil from the tinned sardines to make the pastry, thus not using a single ounce of your precious butter rations. The pastry can taste a little salty due to the fish, which is why I added chopped, cooked vegetables—in this case a carrot, a leek, and a potato.”

  The audience sat in awed silence.

  Bending his head, Ambrose cut through one of the rolls. Lifting a smallish chunk to his mouth, he paused to smell it, unable for a moment to contain a brief look of anxiety, before silently counting to three and popping it into his mouth. During some copious chewing, he glanced around, a look of satisfaction on his face, only his eyes giving away a sense of desperation, before he swallowed, hard, twice.

  Everyone was on tenterhooks as he paused, trying to work something out from between his teeth with his tongue.

  Eventually, he gave his broadest smile and said, “Superb texture to the pastry. Perhaps the flavor is a bit fishy, but it makes first-class use of tinned sardines in these difficult times.” Bestowing a congratulatory nod, he moved on.

  Next in line, Mrs. Quince gestured for the kitchen maid to remove the dome. Beneath it, a large plate was set with a narrow, roasted leg, a rich, dark sauce pooled beside it. The leg had been thinly carved and fanned out, showing a delicately pinkish center, and the whole thing was decorated with a small heap of something dark—could it be berries of some sort?

  Mrs. Quince leaned uncertainly toward the microphone on the table in front of them. “We are the cooking staff at Fenley Hall. I’m the head cook, Mrs. Quince, and this is the kitchen maid, Miss Nell Brown. Today we have made a leg of wild hare with a sauce made from elderberry wine, accompanied by caramelized elderberries.” Mrs. Quince nodded with pleasure, pulling the maid forward. “Nell did most of the work with this, didn’t you, Nell?” The maid glared at the ground, as if willing it to swallow her up.

  “Well, since you prepared it, young lady, why don’t you tell us how it is cooked?” Ambrose asked.

  Nell blushed hotly as Mrs. Quince shuffled back, pushing the young maid up to the microphone. “W-well, the elderberries come from Rosebury Wood,” she said very quickly, like a speedy little kitchen rodent desperate to get out of sight. “A-and, and the h-hare was caught in a nearby field.” She stopped, looking as if she might faint, and then quickly backed away, hustling Mrs. Quince back to the microphone.

  Is that the best she can do?

  Mrs. Quince continued. “Wild game is a good way to get meat without using rations. Since the elderberries have a natural sweetness, we didn’t need to use much of our sugar rations, and the wine adds a slight tang to the dish, evening out the flavors.” Her voice was that of an old woman, soft and knowledgeable, an experienced cook who knew about food.

  Lady Gwendoline felt a shudder of annoyance. Mrs. Quince would work a treat on the radio.

  Thank heavens she doesn’t want the presenter’s job for herself, only for the tongue-tied maid who won’t stand a chance.

  Meanwhile, Ambrose’s eyes seemed to open wide with excitement at the dish before him. This was the type of starter he was used to eating in his London clubs. He quickly leaned in and cut a large amount of hare, dolloped it in the sauce, added a slurry of the elderberries, and swept it into his mouth.

  Chewing slowly as he moved the food around his mouth, he nodded with delectation.

  Lady Gwendoline’s heart sank. That was the look he was supposed to have had for hers. She eyed the clumsy maid behind the plump cook. Perhaps she was going to be more competition than she appeared.

  Ambrose
began his analysis. “Beautiful flavors. The hare is exquisite, rich, and gamey. I’d forgotten how different it is from rabbit, darker and much stronger in taste.” Ambrose gazed appreciatively at the remaining meat. “The elderberries really add to the dish, don’t they?”

  “We thought they went perfectly.” Mrs. Quince stepped in to speak, utterly calm, as if expecting it all to go well. In contrast, the maid stood twisting her hands.

  “Very good.” Ambrose nodded, moving on to the next contestant.

  Audrey was looking especially bedraggled, her hair pulled up into a makeshift bun, dotted with what appeared to be flour.

  “I’m Mrs. Audrey Landon,” she said without enthusiasm. “I’m a busy housewife and mother of three boys, and I have a small business baking pies and cakes for local cafés and restaurants.”

  She took off the silver dome with more of an exhausted sigh than any relish. Before her sat a tawdry bowl of soup, grayish brown with a mass of fresh green herbs in the center.

  “Wild mushroom soup,” was all she said.

  Ambrose took the spoon, and as he brought it to his mouth, he paused to linger over the smell. Even from where Lady Gwendoline stood, she could sense the depths of flavor.

  Wild mushroom soup was a clever choice. Lady Gwendoline glared at her sister with displeasure.

  On tasting, the look on Ambrose’s face summed it up: The soup was heavenly. His forehead creased, his eyes closed with languor, and his head slipped slightly to one side, as if in devotion to this one, special soup. He stopped for another few extra spoonfuls. “Just to be sure.”

  “Can you tell us why you chose this dish?” Ambrose asked.

  “Wild mushrooms are free for collection, from any wood, field, or hill,” Audrey muttered without aplomb. “You only need to know what you’re looking for—and make sure you don’t use any poisonous ones.”

  Everyone laughed, except Ambrose, who eyed the bowl.