The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  “The first thing I do is to show you how to cook real Italian food. See, here I have made a fire, and wait here.” He darted into the shed, coming out with two platters of raw ingredients. “Here we have the food to cook. I show you how to cook for your contest, and then you taste my Italian food.” He grinned. “And then you will come to meet my grandmother, when this war is over.”

  He brought out a large cooking pot and laid a gray blanket on the ground to use as a rug, beckoning her to kneel beside him.

  “Where did you get all these things?”

  “The old barn where we sleep has blankets. The guards, they let us cook our own food, so it was easy to take the pot and some bowls.”

  He took a small bottle and poured in some oil, setting the pot on a grill propped over the fire. The flames began to lick the bottom on the pan.

  “There is no olive oil here, so I use just a little vegetable oil.”

  A platter with portions of meat sat beside him.

  “Chicken?” Nell asked.

  “Shh.” He put his finger to his lips. “I took one from the hut for you. It is for Barlow’s black market, and they have so many they won’t notice one missing.”

  Gently he placed them into the oil, watching them sizzle. “Beneath the bird’s skin, there is fat, so we crisp up the skin and melt it to add more oil.”

  Beneath the flickering sunlight, she could see the portions browning, the meaty, homey scent of the frying chicken legs and breasts filling the warm summer air.

  “I add bacon, too, for the fat and for the full flavor.” The crackling bacon added a new, smoky smell that made her mouth water.

  After turning the meat and bacon, he spooned it out, leaving the fats and juices.

  Next came the onions, chopped into slim crescents, the sharp tang changing quickly to sweetness as it fried. Then he added chopped celery and carrots.

  “In Italy we use capsicums, but here we have none, so celery and carrots it will be.”

  He turned away to get something else. “Now the piece that makes the cacciatore into the best dish in the world.” He leaned over and collected two handfuls of ripe, red, plump tomatoes. “Feel how good they are.”

  He handed one to her, and when she pressed it, it gave softly under her fingertips, so utterly tender it was almost falling apart. Swiftly, he chopped then added them.

  “Doesn’t your mouth long to taste it?” Paolo looked at her with his wide smile, then he put up a hand to wait. “But not yet! We have more to come.”

  He vanished into the hut once more, this time returning with a small jar in one hand, which he said was stock that he had made. In his other hand was a jar with a small amount of liquid. “Cider vinegar. In Italy, I use red wine, a beautiful Chianti, but here we are”—he lifted his hands to the trees—“in the middle of a wood, in the middle of a war, and this is the best I can do.”

  “We get wine at the hall,” she said. “I suppose that’s black market, too.”

  He laughed. “Barlow always has the black market food—he makes a lot of money, him and Sir Strickland.” He continued to stir the pot.

  Nell’s forehead creased with doubt. “Really? I thought the extra production was only going to us, for Fenley Hall. He’s selling food from the farm on the black market, too?”

  Paolo put on a stern face, pretending to be Barlow making two piles. “Half the farm produce goes to the Ministry of Agriculture, and half goes to the black market truck that comes over every day. They have a big business. I saw the account book. He hides it under the floor below his desk. They get a lot of money.”

  She laughed. “Maybe Sir Strickland’s factory business isn’t going as well as he says.”

  The next bottle to go in was between them, so she opened it and took a deep breath of the brown liquid. “Mmm, stock! How did you make it?”

  “It is just made with vegetables. As prisoners we don’t have meat often.” He poured it in, then scooped the browned meat and bacon back into the pot, coating them in the thick, bubbling mixture.

  “And now,” he said with aplomb, “for the herbs.”

  First, he gave her a few sprigs, their leaves fragrant with sharp flowery scents.

  “Thyme.” She breathed. “Sorrel and a bay leaf. Perfect!”

  “And finally, the herb that made me want to cook for you. Oregano—or in our case, mar-jo-ram.”

  She took the proffered leaves, tore them apart, and put them into the pot. Paolo added more. “They are not as strong as my usual oregano, so we must use a lot. And then, we only have to cook, stir, taste, and finally”—he took her hand in his—“we will eat.”

  They stayed for a moment, beside each other on the blanket, surrounded by the rich, tomatoey smell of the cacciatore while it quietly bubbled above the crackling fire, the shifting amber and bronze lighting their faces.

  Humming at first, he began to softly sing to her. It was a lilting melody, this time slower, the music richer with cadences and minor keys.

  It must be a love song, she thought, as he took her fingers, his eyes on hers.

  And it was suddenly as if the world had come together for that one magical moment: the song, the smell of the cooking in the woodland air, the sunlight dappling around them, as if they were stars on their own private stage.

  At the end, she urged him on. “Please, another song.”

  “Now it’s your turn again. Do you have something to sing for me?”

  She looked at her hands. “Well, I did learn another song,” she said timidly, for a moment worried that it was foolish, childish.

  But his face lit up immediately.

  “You are magnificent!” he exclaimed. “Please, will you try?”

  She laughed nervously. “My voice still isn’t good, but since you said…”

  He put his hands forward encouragingly, his warmth and spirit goading her on, and she began.

  Are you going to Scarborough Fair?

  Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme

  Remember me to one who lives there

  He once was a true love of mine

  Her voice was stronger this time, spurred by confidence and practice. She even held her head up, singing out, smiling, enjoying it for the first time. A woman in the village had taught her all the verses, and she knew them off by heart, singing them out, a lone female voice echoing through the wood.

  After she finished, she made a mock bow.

  “You are wonderful!” He brought his arms around her.

  She blushed. “I’ve been practicing around the kitchen.”

  “You must learn more for me. Your voice, it is like you are an angel.”

  And as they knelt, gazing at each other, it was as if two magical threads, as fine and invisible as spider’s silk, had connected them, drawing them together like they were magnetized by the sun and moon above. Slowly, gently, he bent his head toward her, his eyes closing, his breath warm and sweet, and before she knew what was happening, his lips touched hers, briefly, softly.

  “You are the most beautiful girl, Nell, not only on the outside, but also in your heart.”

  She smiled, not her usual placating smile, but a new, warm, and natural smile, as if the sunshine had lit her up on the inside. It radiated from her.

  There they remained, entwined in each other’s arms before the golden red of the fire, and eventually the smell of the food drew them back to their cooking. Together they took a spoon, dipped it inside, and brought it out brimming with the robust tomato sauce.

  “You have the first taste, Nell.”

  She let him put the spoon up to her lips, then sipped the deep red stew, lapping it up, opening her mouth, suddenly greedy for the whole spoonful. “That’s incredible,” she gasped. “It’s delicious. Taste it.”

  Taking the spoon from him, she dipped it into the cooking po
t and brought another spoonful out, this time holding it over for him to try. His eyes on hers, he tasted it.

  “It is the very best, like this afternoon together, like you.”

  “Do you think it needs more herbs or flavors? Fennel maybe?”

  “Let me taste again.” He urged her to get more for him. Thoughtfully, he savored the flavor. “A little more vinegar,” he said at last. “And yes, fennel. You have a good taste.”

  “Palate. The English word is ‘palate.’ The head cook, Mrs. Quince, has been teaching me since I was fourteen.”

  “You were only fourteen when you leave home to work?”

  Her face fell. How could she tell Paolo that about her childhood? The familiar sense of shame washed over her. Some of her friends from the orphanage wore it like a battle scar, brazenly boasting that they were tough: They had survived. But when Nell looked into people’s eyes, she only saw their discomfort, their pity, their careful plan to get away from her.

  But she looked over at Paolo, his eyes looking into hers so lovingly. Would he understand? She wasn’t sure. But there was one thing she knew for certain.

  Now is the time to be brave.

  Taking a deep breath, she began. “I came from the orphanage. My parents died when I was born—or at least that was what I was told. I was brought up by women who were too busy to give us anything. The older girls were sometimes nice to us—I tried to be kind when I became one of them, looking after the little ones. You learn to get by, to keep out of t-trouble.”

  Without a word or a breath, he reached forward and took her hand in his. “Nell, that is so very sad. It must have been lonely for you, all alone in this big world.” His arm went around her shoulders, his dark eyes meeting hers. “You must join my family. It is so big, so loving, and we have space for you, too.” He smiled warmly. “And maybe one day we can make a family of our own, have our own children. We can teach them how to cook, just like my grandmother showed me and Mrs. Quince showed you.” He held her tightly, urgently. “You will never be alone again.”

  But she pulled back. “Don’t play games with me, Paolo. Please, whatever you do, don’t lead me down a path only to let it dissolve into air.”

  He took her hands—one in each of his—and pressed them. “You can have faith in me, Nell. When I met you that first day, on the path beside the meadow, you turned back, and I saw something—the future maybe. You are the one for me. I know it, inside my heart. You make me feel so safe when I am so very far from home. Being with you is like I am at home. You understand who I am, and not just what this war says that I am. You make me forget that I am a prisoner here.”

  His steady, emphatic gaze met hers, and she felt the frightened shell that had coated her insides for all these years melt away. She knew she had the strength to do it—she had to, after all. Her alternative was to simply go on existing in a world she could no longer bear.

  And so it was that right there, in front of the fire, where their ingredients and cooking joined and combined, so did their hearts. Gently, one kiss at a time, they talked, they shared the stories of their lives.

  When the chicken was cooked, he led her to the table, sat her down, and served her.

  The cacciatore was heavenly. The flavor deep and rich, the tomatoes adding an intensity to the sweetness of the browned onions and the succulent density of the stock. Hints of marjoram lifted it, providing a floral freshness that bit into the rich gravy. The tang of sizzling bacon underlay the whole dish, the chicken sweet and gamey, cooked to perfection.

  They tried each element, discussed the merits, shared it, leaning across the small table to feed each other. Their passion for food, for cooking, combined with a tenderness so real it was as if the world had meant for them to be together.

  Or perhaps not.

  Suddenly, a gunshot sounded.

  Then another.

  Their eyes met.

  Fear gripped her. She was not allowed to be there, and he most definitely wasn’t either.

  Quickly, they rose.

  “Who can it be? It must be four o’clock by now, later even?” she gasped.

  “Someone’s hunting, maybe a poacher.”

  “Could they be looking for you?” Her heart thumped.

  “We should put this away, hide.”

  Together they sped around the clearing, bringing the pots and plates into the shed, stamping out the fire.

  Another shot sounded, closer.

  Who were they? Were they coming for her? For Paolo?

  Meeting his eyes, they communicated only one thing: Hurry!

  Within minutes, everything was inside the shed, the clearing was as it had been, the wood wilder than ever. Their hours of magic over.

  Quickly, they went in and closed the door. In the pitch darkness, she felt Paolo’s arm around her back, pulling her close.

  “At least we are together,” he whispered.

  Another shot came, and she clung to him in fear. “What will they do to you if they find you here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shh! I hear something.”

  Voices carried through the wood. Someone was in the clearing.

  “It smells like cooking.” A man’s voice came through from the clearing.

  Paolo whispered as softly as he could, his lips beside her ear. “It’s Barlow. He must be out shooting with someone.”

  Barlow’s voice came toward them. “Do you think someone was here?” He sounded panicked, worried someone had found his illegal game in the hut perhaps.

  Footsteps in the undergrowth, and then a new voice, this one young and educated. “How extraordinary! It looks like someone’s been cooking over a fire.”

  “It’s one of Sir Strickland’s assistants. I recognize the voice,” Nell whispered in a panic. If he found her, she would be punished like an errant mongrel.

  “Why would anyone be cooking in the middle of Rosebury Wood?” Barlow asked, and the sound of him kicking logs filtered through the thin, wooden door.

  “It could be spies, Nazi parachutists,” the assistant said darkly. There was the sound of his rifle being cocked, Barlow’s following suit.

  Nell gripped hold of Paolo. “Are they going to shoot us?”

  Then, suddenly, the hut door was flung open, two guns pointing straight at them as they stood, clasping each other.

  “It’s one of the Italian POWs,” Barlow said, lowering his gun and striding forward, pulling Paolo away by the collar.

  “And a girl,” the assistant added, his eyes running up and down Nell, who stood alone, her hands covering her face so that he couldn’t recognize her.

  “What are you doing here?” Barlow demanded of Paolo. “You’re not allowed to fraternize with the locals.”

  Paolo stood silent, inscrutable, his eyes flickering sternly from one man to the other.

  “I’ll have to take him back,” Barlow said apologetically to the assistant. “Looks like he’s trying to take advantage of our women. They warned us about you Italians,” he added with a snub to Nell.

  The assistant’s eyes lingered over Nell. Did he recognize her? She was rarely in the upstairs part of the hall, never in the offices. “You take the Italian back,” he said. “I’ll deal with the girl. We’ll get back to our hunt another time.”

  As Paolo was walked away, Barlow’s shotgun in his back, his eyes turned beseechingly to Nell’s. It was a look so powerful, so intense, that she could feel his heat, his warmth spread through her once again, filling her with strength.

  And then, he turned, and it was gone.

  She was alone in the wood with only the frightening presence of the assistant, giving her a snide smile, his gun still pointed at her.

  “What are we going to do with you?” he asked, cocking his head.

  Instinct kicked in.

  If there w
as one thing she’d learned in the orphanage, it was how to sidestep unwanted advances, and as soon as he lunged toward her, she slipped to one side of him, darting through the door and out, out into the wood. Weaving between the trees, hearing his commands and curses fade into the distance, she ran through the trees, over bushes, ignoring scratches to her legs, her arms, her face. All that was in her mind was one thing: escape.

  By the time she stopped for breath, she was completely lost. She stood, completely still, listening. There was no trace of the assistant’s menacing voice or his footsteps chasing her. Only the same owl hooting softly in the distance.

  She was alone in the woods.

  Catching her breath, she began walking toward the edge of the wood. It wouldn’t take long to find her way out, and then she could make her way back to the hall, slip back into her usual world.

  All she had to do was pretend that none of this had happened, while deep inside she felt as if everything had changed forever.

  Paolo’s Chicken Cacciatore

  Serves 2 to 4

  1 tablespoon oil or fat

  1 chicken, jointed (or another similar meat)

  2 rashers bacon, sliced

  2 onions, sliced

  3 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped, if available

  A handful of sliced vegetables (capsicum, fennel, carrot, or celery)

  A handful of sliced mushrooms

  1 tablespoon flour

  1 pound ripe tomatoes, crushed

  1 pint stock

  3 tablespoons red wine, 1 tablespoon cider, or 1 teaspoon vinegar

  2 tablespoons fresh herbs (thyme, sorrel, marjoram, or oregano), or 2 teaspoons dried herbs

  1 bay leaf

  Heat the oil or fat, then brown the chicken, making sure the skin is crisp, then add the sliced bacon and cook well. Lift the meat and bacon out, add the onions, and sauté until browned, then add the garlic for another few minutes. Add the sliced vegetables and mushrooms and cook until browned. Mix in the flour, stirring to thicken the juices. Add the crushed tomatoes, then the stock, red wine or cider or vinegar, and the herbs and bay leaf, and bring to a boil. Simmer for an hour, or until the chicken is thoroughly cooked and the juices are thick and rich.