The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  Lady Gwendoline

  “Where is he?” Lady Gwendoline was pacing around the Fenley Hall kitchen in a flurry—partly for the contest and partly because of the chef. The maid had scrubbed the ovens and tables clean for her and Chef James to cook her second-round course. Saucepans gleamed copper from their hooks. Black pots stood at the ready on the electric stove. Silver knives glinted on the rack, sharp enough to slit a pig’s throat in a single, swift movement.

  The chef had been due to arrive, along with the ingredients for her main-course dish, eighteen minutes ago. They only had four hours to cook—four hours to be alone—before getting to the village hall for the next round.

  “Has he forgotten me?” She felt her insides unravel in panic.

  As she spoke, the door swung open to behold the tall, fine-looking chef. Breath failed her for a moment as he hastened over, took her hands in his, brought them to his lips to kiss. She hadn’t been wrong—hadn’t imagined it in her loneliness. There truly was a connection between them, a thrilling, intense pull that she’d never felt before.

  “The trains were delayed. I’m so terribly sorry, there was nothing I could do.” He put the large bag onto the table with that half smile of his. “But now I’m here, so you can sit down, relax. Leave it all up to me.” His presence soothed her in a way she’d never known. Finally she had someone who understood her. When she was with Sir Strickland, the focus was always about him. Kindness and warmth were outside of his scope.

  Why have I never seen it before?

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she murmured blissfully.

  Tiptoeing quickly to the door, she peered outside and then shut it tightly. Today, she didn’t want to be seen.

  Returning to him, she leaned back against the table, willing him to kiss her.

  She’d had enough time to think it through. Other people had affairs, didn’t they? And didn’t she deserve it, after all her mistreatment? Yes, it would be chaotic and out of control, dangerous in the extreme—she didn’t like to think about what Sir Strickland would do to her if he found out. But something inside her had been unhinged, and she couldn’t—she simply couldn’t—leave it alone.

  A look of understanding came over his face, and he leaned forward, taking her into his arms, kissing her. As if his touch were sustenance itself, she let herself be carried away with the moment, feeling herself submerge beneath his hands.

  Their kissing became more and more ravenous, until a sound from the door made her jolt away.

  But it was nothing…wasn’t it?

  Unnerved, she bit her lip, rearranged her clothes, and remembered the contest, the cooking, the bag of ingredients on the table.

  “Why don’t we cook?” she whispered. “We’ll have time later to carry on where we left off.”

  He picked up her hand and led her to the bag. “Come and see what I have.”

  Reaching in, he brought out an onion and two shallots; a small package, “scraps of bacon and bacon fat”; a sprig of thyme; a few handfuls of loose, varied mushrooms; a stoppered glass bottle with a dark liquid, “my special beef stock”; and a final, larger package, “a pound of whale steak.”

  “Is it fresh?”

  “After they catch a whale, they cut it up and freeze it on board. Fishmongers buy it frozen and have to thaw it—I know, it’s odd that it’s sold by a fishmonger when it’s more like venison, but people think it’s a fish because it lives in the sea.”

  “I’ve never actually tasted it. What’s it like?”

  “Rich and gamey, which I suppose makes sense since it’s a wild mammal. It can be a little salty, too, but I’ve had it soaking for a few days.” He put a fond hand up to stroke her cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful about smoothing out the flavors.”

  Her heart fluttered with his touch.

  But then, as the vile stench of the whale meat seeped from the packet, she felt herself choke. It was like rotten flesh oozing furiously into the air.

  “Argh! Is it off?”

  He laughed. “I’m afraid it smells rather foul before it’s cooked. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine once I boil it down.”

  She held her nose as daintily as she could. “How long do you need to cook it?”

  “It can be a bit tough, so we’ll need to give it a good two hours.” He looked around for knives, a chopping board. “First we need to fry the bacon and chopped onion.”

  Lady Gwendoline hadn’t a clue where anything was kept in the hall kitchen, so time was spent poking around in cupboards and so forth. Quite often they found themselves head to head in a cabinet, their faces inches away from each other, his lips so soft and inviting.

  Was she so wrong for wanting him so much?

  She was married—even if her husband was a tyrant, a man she feared and loathed.

  And yet part of her couldn’t contain the pull she had toward the dashing chef.

  She watched his skillful, manly hands as he took the meat out of its wrapping. It looked like a massive deep-red fillet steak. He quickly sliced it, saying, “If you cut it thinly, the flavors of the sauce get the chance to dilute the meat’s strong taste.”

  This is a proper chef, she thought, watching him heat the pan, add the bacon and onion, moving them by swirling the pan rather than using a spatula. He swept in the small shreds of meat, browning them among the onions, and then scooped in the chopped mushrooms, which soaked up the fats and in turn released their own hearty flavors.

  “Do you have flour?” he said. Then, remembering himself, he gave her one of his beguiling smiles. “Sorry to bark orders, but I’m caught in the middle here.” He laughed a little.

  “Here it is.” She passed him the flour with a small, ironic curtsy. “I’ll be your sous-chef. Tell me what to do, and I’ll be happy to oblige.” She rather liked that idea, and the notion struck her that he could order her to lie back on the kitchen table, the buttons down the front of her dress slipping undone.

  He glanced around at her, his eyebrow cocked in suggestion—was he thinking the same thing? He took the flour, his fingers meeting hers, and sprinkled it in, not bothering to measure it out as she always did.

  “How clever you are to know the right proportions,” she murmured, coming up behind him.

  “You need to have a gut feeling for it, an eye for estimating.” His eyes flickered over her body.

  He reached over to pick up his beef stock, opening the stopper and taking a deep breath of it before handing it to her to smell the rich, beefy liquid.

  “What a powerful stock. How did you make it?”

  He grinned, adding the entire bottle. “That’s my secret recipe. But just wait, it will have the whale meat tasting of the finest beefsteak in no time.”

  The fine, flavorsome tang of herbs, beef stock, and mushrooms was soon wafting deeply through the vaulted kitchen.

  As the whale meat boiled away, she began to look for pie dishes for the next stage. After scrutinizing the pantry and finding nothing, she met him as he was coming in.

  “Pantries can be like dead-end alleys,” he said with a smile.

  “How very cozy!” she said, squeezing her body past his.

  But on the way, he stopped her. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

  Blood pounded through her body. It felt as if he were looking straight through to her heart. “I know. It’s happening to me, too.”

  Their eyes urgently met, as if undressing each other, unpacking the whole of their lives.

  “I’ve never felt so connected to anyone,” he murmured. “It’s as if we truly understand each other.” He picked up her wrist, looking anxiously at the bruise he saw the previous time. “Even though you say it wasn’t, I know it was your husband who did this.”

  Slowly, she nodded, feeling a tremor run through her. No one had ever cared enough to ask before, and it sudd
enly struck her how incredibly lonely she had become. How much she yearned for human contact.

  “You can’t let him do this to you. My father was a cruel man. He beat my mother, yet she stayed. She wasn’t strong enough to run. As soon as I was old enough, I begged her to leave. We could escape somewhere he couldn’t touch us, somewhere we could be free. You, too, need to escape.”

  “I know,” she whispered. He was right! She shouldn’t have to put up with anyone who would do this to her. This handsome chef somehow understood what she was going through—what she had been going through for years. “B-but he always says he’ll stop, that he’ll make it up to me.”

  “And has he?”

  “Well, no, but…” She looked around. The big house, the jewelry, the prestige, it was everything she had always wanted. “My life has always been so hard, all the way from the very beginning. I wanted this to be so right.” She felt tears prick her eyes and quickly wiped them away.

  I can’t let myself go like this!

  But his caring, urgent gaze was bringing it out of her.

  He took each of her hands in his. “I know. We’re just the same, you and I. We have to do what it takes to get to the top. Life has been one struggle after another for both of us. We’ve both had to take advantage of opportunities, using our ingenuity and charm to get ahead.”

  She thought of how she’d planned every move in her orchestrated life, all her wit and grace for Sir Strickland’s dinners, all her attempts to ingratiate herself with the haughty upper class. How Chef James had done likewise, having to get by using resourcefulness and smiles. Feeling her heart melt, she murmured, “How I’ve yearned for someone to finally understand.”

  He smiled softly at her. “We’re kindred spirits, you and I.” His arms enveloped her with a sense of belonging that flooded her with something new: a feeling that this was what it was like to truly feel alive.

  And yet all the time, a coarse voice inside repeated the same question.

  How could you be so disloyal?

  Chef James’s Whale Meat

  and Mushroom Pie

  Serves 6

  1 pound whale meat steak

  Milk, if available

  Salt and pepper

  1 tablespoon oil

  1 tablespoon flour

  2 onions, chopped

  2 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped

  1 pound mushrooms, chopped

  1 tablespoon mixed herbs (thyme, chives, rosemary)

  3 cups chopped carrots and potatoes

  ½ cup red wine or ale

  2 cups beef stock

  1 teaspoon paprika

  1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce or brown sauce

  1 teaspoon English mustard

  1 bay leaf

  For the potato pastry

  ½ cup butter or meat fat

  2 cups flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  2 cups mashed potatoes

  1 beaten egg or dried egg equivalent, or milk, for glaze

  First prepare the whale meat. If it is frozen, thaw it quickly and use it at once—slow thawing makes the taste worse and the texture pulpy. Then soak it in water overnight to help reduce the smell and fishy taste—milk is better for soaking if you have enough. Drain it well and steam cook it for 2 hours. Cut it very thinly to allow the flavors of the sauce to penetrate the meat properly and season it well with salt and pepper.

  Brown the meat in a lightly oiled pan in two batches to prevent steaming and to ensure all sides are seared. Remove and coat the pieces in flour and put them into a deep cooking pot.

  Brown the onion for 5 minutes, then add the garlic, mushrooms, and herbs for a further 5 minutes. Add them to the pot with the chopped carrots and potatoes. Deglaze the pan with a little red wine or ale, then add this to the pot.

  Add the stock, paprika, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, and bay leaf. Stir well, then bring to the boil. Reduce to a simmer, cover, and cook for 1½ hours.

  Make the potato pastry. Preheat oven to 350°F/180°C. Rub the fat into the flour and baking powder, then add the mashed potatoes. Slowly add water until it is the right consistency. Roll it out into two parts, one to line the base of the pie dish and the other to form a top for the pie. Line a lightly greased pie dish with the pastry, and spoon in the whale meat mixture. Don’t add too much sauce as this can make the pastry bottom soggy; rather reserve it to use as a gravy accompaniment. Use a little water or milk to fasten on the pastry top. Glaze it with whisked egg or a little milk. Cook for 30 minutes, or until golden brown.

  Audrey

  Audrey’s vegetable garden looked as spruce as usual, bathed in late-afternoon sunshine. The runner beans were reaching up their tented poles. The beetroot leaves cascaded purple-green from great bulbous roots. The rows of vibrant green spinach, lettuce, and carrots stood upright and ready for combat. The hens clucked and scraped the ground, unaware that their numbers were about to be lessened by one, on account of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest.

  On its surface, it had been an easy decision. Audrey needed meat for her main course dish; Gertrude had never actually produced an egg. All the other hens laid one every other day or so. They were too valuable to eat.

  Gertrude, however, was expendable.

  As she clucked around, her squiggled beak made her look ruthless and determined, as if life was something to be relentlessly pecked at until it saw sense and gave in.

  “Little does she know,” Audrey mumbled, feeling the handle of the hatchet heavy in her hand, throwing a little extra grain in the hen’s direction.

  She swallowed, and then clenched her teeth with determination.

  “Have you killed a chicken before?” Zelda had come up behind her. It was her afternoon off, and she’d come out to collect some herbs to take to the factory kitchen for her own main dish. Her pregnant belly was now large beneath a blue shawl lent to her by Audrey.

  Audrey turned to her, trying to keep calm. “Obviously I’ve never killed a hen—we’ve only had them a year. I’ve never killed anything! But farmers’ wives around the world do it every day. It can’t be that difficult.” Then she added more quietly, “I don’t suppose you have any experience in this department?”

  Zelda took a small step back, grimacing. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, I’ll have to do it one way or another, so I may as well get on with it.” Audrey took a decisive step forward, then paused. “Do you think we should say a prayer first or something?”

  “I don’t know what people usually do, but it can’t do any harm.”

  Audrey gently placed the hatchet on the ground beside her and clasped her hands together. With a final look over at Gertrude, who pecked away, unaware of her doom, Audrey closed her eyes, lowering her face to the ground.

  “Dear God, please accept the spirit of dear Gertrude into your heavens. She has been a great bird, even though she never laid an egg in her life.” She paused, thinking hard about Gertrude’s other attributes. “She was quite nice to the other hens, even though she was known to peck at any who got too big for their boots. Some might say she was a good leader, some might say a tyrant, but there’s no doubt about it, her life has been full and happy.”

  Taking a big breath, Audrey plunged into the final part. “Please forgive me for what I am about to do. I prefer to be a person who brings life into the world, and frankly, it doesn’t come easily to kill something—especially when there’s already so much death and carnage in the world as it is.”

  She broke off, suddenly unable to control her tears. Zelda came and stood beside her. “Do you really have to cook Gertrude?”

  Audrey looked over at the tough old bird, her wonky beak and beady eyes. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be awfully tender.” But then her laugh tu
rned into a little sob. “But the contest. I don’t see any other choice.” She picked up the hatchet and said gruffly. “You don’t understand, I simply have to win this contest. It’s my only chance. Do you know how impossible my life is?” Her hands fell to her sides in frustration. “And now, after my husband has been killed on the front line, I have to kill my own hen.”

  “I’m sure if you have a good think you can come up with another dish.” It was unlike Zelda to be so thoughtful, but Audrey was so absorbed with her own immediate dilemma that she was only grateful for it. “One thing is plain. You’re not a killer, Audrey. You’re one of the good people. Someone who looks after things, cares for things.”

  Audrey’s hand clenched the hatchet firmly. “But I need to be stronger, tougher. It’s the only way I can get through this ruddy war.”

  “But Audrey”—Zelda looked annoyed suddenly—“you shouldn’t do difficult things if you don’t have to. Being tough changes you.” She grabbed Audrey’s hand and pulled her toward the house. “Come on. Let’s think of another dish to cook tonight.”

  Zelda’s fingers reached up and slowly peeled the hatchet away from her, letting it fall to the soft trodden earth with a faint thud.

  “I love that hen,” Audrey sobbed. “I love all of them.” And she sped forward to pick Gertrude up, collecting her in her arms, holding her so tight she might burst.

  Gertrude, as if understanding her deliverance, seemed to snuggle into her, relaxing into her grasp and laying her small head against Audrey’s shoulder. Beneath the stringy feathers, Audrey could feel the hen’s heart beating away, the energy of life flowing through the little thing for all its might.

  Tears slid down her face. “How could I even consider it, you dear, dear, thoroughly annoying hen?”