The Kitchen Front

by Jennifer Ryan

  “But, d-don’t you want to join us?” Nell’s voice was small, stammering.

  “Your restaurant sounds like a simply marvelous idea, but I need to get back to the top city restaurants.”

  Gwendoline leaned across the table. “But you could be working in the Ormsley for years before they give you the chance to become head chef, and even then…Can’t you see that it’ll be easier for you to get a job as a head chef if you’ve already been one? This might be the opportunity that gives you that step up.”

  “I’m not sure that working in a provincial village will impress anyone.” She tried to keep the dismissive tone out of her voice. What did these people know about life in London? “No one in London has even heard of Fenley. It would be like I’d gone to the moon.”

  There was a moment of silence, only the quiet tick of the clock.

  The other three looked demoralized. Perhaps her words had been a bit thoughtless, disparaging.

  “But you’ll be fine without me,” she said, in a vain attempt to restore spirits.

  “We would be better with you,” Gwendoline said quietly.

  It had not escaped Zelda’s attention that she’d been offered the job of head chef at their new restaurant, when any one of the others could have done it. There was no denying that she had the best experience in restaurant cooking and would make a massive success of the place.

  She swallowed hard.

  After all they’d done for her, a small voice in her head kept asking a question she had never considered.

  Am I letting them down?

  Audrey

  The smell of autumn seemed to arrive before the season had officially commenced. Audrey trod carefully down the path to the beehive, wearing thick gloves and a net veil tucked around her hat. The morning was blustery. A fierce, fresh wind made her tighten her scarf around her neck, while droplets of rain hung in the air, debating whether to surrender to a full downpour or remain ambivalent.

  “Hello, bees.” Her voice was light, as it usually was with the bees.

  Christopher was with her, his little hand slipping in and out of hers. He wore the other net veil that the beekeeper had given them. “Hello, bees.” He mimicked her in his singsong way. “We’re going to take some of your honey for the contest.”

  Audrey laughed, whispering, “We shouldn’t just come out and say it. We’ve got to break it to them gently.”

  “Don’t they like us taking their honey?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s always best to be on the safe side, especially when you might upset someone’s feelings, don’t you think?” She gave his tummy a little tickle and he buckled in, giggling.

  “I’m always nice. It’s Ben who says stupid things. Not me.”

  The distant throb of a plane broke through the silence of the day.

  “Oh, look,” she said quickly, trying to sound cheery to cover her worry.

  The noise gathered pace. This was no little Spitfire. This was a big bomber, maybe more than one.

  And before she knew it, there they were, charging over the horizon from the coast, four huge black-gray planes pounding through the air in a precise diamond formation. They had to be Nazis.

  “Quick,” she whispered, frantic. “Let’s get under the tree.”

  She grabbed his hand tightly and pulled him the few yards to the shelter of the cherry tree. Enemy planes liked to strafe any civilians they saw—especially in the countryside where they were more visible in fields and lanes…and vegetable gardens. A vision of her son on the ground, blood oozing from his small frame, flashed before her eyes. She fought it away.

  The thunderous sound was deafening and guttural. They were flying low and the clouds were directing the noise down to the ground, immersing Audrey and Christopher with the roar, the accompanying wind whirling their hair and clothes.

  Under the sparse branches, they huddled, Audrey leaning down over her son protectively, worrying about the others: Were they safely underground? She prayed they weren’t out in the open. Wouldn’t it be typical if Ben was just standing in the street looking up at them, not thinking about what could happen?

  “Let me see, Mum!” Christopher wriggled away from her.

  Far from frightened, he was peering out from under the tree. “It’s all right, Mum. They’re Short Stirlings.”

  “Short Stirlings?”

  “They’re our biggest bombers. Look at them—they’re massive! They must be on their way home.”

  He walked out, standing in the open beside the beehive, waving his arms in the air, cheering the planes on. “Come on, Britain!”

  She quashed an impulse to run out and grab him back under, just in case.

  No, she told herself. I have to let them live their lives.

  As he put his hand up to shade his eyes, she saw the smile on his face. “Aren’t they magnificent, Mum? I hope Ben’s watching this, too. He’ll be really annoyed if he missed it,” he added with relish.

  The planes vanished almost as quickly as they’d arrived, the sound of engines fading. She stepped out and looked at the sky, back to its drab grayness, and put her hand on his little shoulder. How clever of Zelda to see that all they needed was to be armed with knowledge.

  Christopher dragged her back to the beehive. “I can’t wait to try the honey.”

  “Oh, I’ve forgotten the box for the frames. Why don’t you run back to the house and fetch it for me? It’s on the table,” she called after him as he started to dash away.

  The sight of him, trotting back in his lilting way, made her smile. They always did, her boys. She quickly banished the thought of Ben being mown down by enemy planes, of Alexander going to war. It wasn’t for a few years. She had to enjoy each day as it came.

  “There’s no sense dwelling on the future,” she told the bees. “This war is as much a matter of chance as anything. Everyone says that a bomb might ‘have your name on it,’ but the reality is that it’s completely arbitrary. You could be sitting in a shelter, thinking you’re safe, when wham! A bomb has a direct hit. Or you could be struck by one of those random bombs, dropped willy-nilly by Nazi bombers dumping their loads anywhere so that they can make it home before they run out of fuel. No warning, no sirens, no reasoning, just a split second and it’s upon you.”

  Christopher was running back, the large box in his small arms. “Here you are, Mum.”

  Close behind came Ben, charging up like it was the most exciting escapade in the world. “Did you see the Short Stirlings, Mum?”

  Audrey grinned. “Yes, we were out here getting honey.”

  “Oh, that’s fantastic! I’ve been dying to try it,” Ben said excitedly. “But won’t the bees get angry and sting us?”

  “We have to talk to them first.” Audrey took both boys’ hands and stepped toward the hive. “Bees, I know you need honey to keep yourselves going through the winter, but you usually make at least twice the amount you use, so there’s always some to spare. We wondered if we might have a bit, for our cooking contest.” Then she added the usual wartime refrain. “It’s all in aid of the war, you know.”

  A few bees buzzed around them lazily.

  “I think that means it’s all right with them.” She took a step toward the hive.

  Christopher peered around from behind her, while Ben ran back to the house to assemble a makeshift veil out of an old, frayed cheesecloth tucked under his school cap.

  As she lifted the lid off the wooden frame, a knot of bees came out and began circling them.

  “It’s all right,” she told the bees. “I’m not here to take all your honey.” She turned to the boys briefly. “I told them that Zelda’s baby is due soon, so that’ll be why they’re a bit energetic. Bees love a new birth, especially after the death of poor Mrs. Quince.”

  Ben’s face screwed up. “Do bees even have ears?”

 
But as she pulled a frame out of the hive, his eyes grew large with delight. The screen was bulging with honey, gooey wax thickly covering it.

  It was also crawling with bees.

  “Aren’t you lovely, bees!” Audrey said soothingly as a throng joined the others, swirling around them. She took out a dustpan brush and gently swept them off the frame. “You don’t like this part, do you, my little honey-makers.”

  Ben leaped sideways into a bed of rhubarb. “Ouch! One got me!”

  “That’s because you’re frightening them. You have to speak gently to them,” Audrey said calmly. “They love a bit of adoration, don’t you, my little darlings?”

  Christopher helped Ben up as Audrey placed three frames into a box and replaced the lid on the beehive.

  “You’ve got five frames left, bees, so you’ll be absolutely fine for the winter,” she said decisively, heading back into the house with the box.

  They all piled into the kitchen while Audrey put the box on the table, Ben fighting off the remaining bees, swishing them back outside.

  “Get them to leave me alone!” he yelled to Audrey.

  But Audrey was already heating a large kitchen knife in boiling water, standing one of the frames in a large ceramic bowl. Once hot, she used the knife to thinly slice off the top yellow-brown crust of beeswax, letting the golden honey beneath ooze out.

  “It’s better not to damage the wax structure too much, because then I can put it back and the bees don’t have to do so much work next year.”

  Next, Audrey popped down to the cellar, returning with a large metal pot. “This is the spinner,” she said, putting it on the table and setting the frames inside. “There’s a drum inside and a turning handle on the lid.” She demonstrated. “When it’s closed tightly, you spin the drum around—” She spun fast for a few minutes, then opened it up, peering through to the bottom. “The honey comes out due to the centrifugal force.”

  She took out the frames and tipped the pot, pouring the thick, golden honey into first one jar and then another. “We’ll need some more jars.”

  Dipping a teaspoon into one of the jars, they all tasted it.

  “That’s the best honey I have ever tasted,” Ben declared.

  Audrey looked at the glossy honey that coated her fingertip. It was thicker than the honey from the shop, swollen with sugary goodness. Then she smelled it, soaking up the sweet scents of honeysuckle, rose, and cherry blossom—flowers from her very own garden.

  Her mouth began to water, and she put it onto her tongue.

  The flavor hit her hard. It burst with butterscotch and caramel, underlaid with a strong floral taste, all condensed into their most concentrated form. The sweetness was awakening and soothing in one delicious glow.

  “Utter perfection! Now it’s time to get some apples. Come and help me, boys.”

  Together, they stalked back out to the orchard, selecting the juiciest, sweetest-looking apples. They were pippins, beautiful orangey-pink spheres that smelled of ripe juiciness.

  Ben made a large crunching sound as he bit into one of them. “What are you going to make? I hope it’s going to be better than all those horrid wartime cakes.”

  Audrey picked another few apples. “It’s going to be an apple and honey cake. We have apples, and we have honey, both of which provide sweetness without needing sugar rations.”

  Christopher piped up. “Can I help cook it?”

  “Of course you can.” She ruffled his hair, and then tried to do the same with Ben, who managed to dodge her. “Have we got enough apples?” She glanced at everyone’s handfuls. “Then let’s go back inside.”

  After taking off their hats and veils, the boys settled in for a good cooking session. They loved it when their mother let them help, mostly because it meant treats, a little sugar, a spoonful of freshly drawn honey, or a chance to lick the bowl.

  “First we peel all the apples,” Audrey said, bringing a chopping board over to the table and taking a seat.

  “What, all of them?” Ben looked aghast.

  “Yes, we take half to make into applesauce. It helps to moisten the cake so that we don’t need so much butter. Then we’ll use half flour and half oatmeal, as that is homegrown in Scotland so it doesn’t need to be shipped.”

  Side by side, they sat peeling and chopping. Beneath the peel, the apples were crisp, the pieces snapping freshly in two if you tried to bend them. The scent filled the air, fragrant and moist as morning dew.

  And as she helped the boys prepare the apples, she remembered that cooking was as much about the fun of it as it was about the result.

  How had she forgotten that?

  Audrey’s Eggless Apple and Honey Cake

  Serves 6 to 8

  4 cups peeled, cored, and chopped (1-inch pieces) apples

  1½ cups flour

  1½ cups oatmeal

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda, or 3 teaspoons baking powder

  ⅓ cup honey

  2 tablespoons oil or cooking fat

  ½ cup toasted nuts (walnuts, hazelnuts, chestnuts), chopped (optional)

  ½ tablespoon icing or confectioners’ sugar (if you don’t have any due to the rationing, use plain flour)

  Preheat oven to 350°F/180°C. Boil half the apple pieces until they form a thick puree or applesauce. Mix this with the other ingredients (except for the remaining apples, nuts, and sugar) until well blended, then add the other half of the apple pieces and the nuts, if using. Pour into a greased cake pan. Bake for 40 minutes, or until a knife comes out clean when pushed inside the thickest part.

  When cool, dust with icing or confectioners’ sugar, or if you don’t have any to spare, use plain flour.

  Gwendoline

  Round three, the finale of the contest, was starkly different from the previous rounds. Unusual for a competitive contest, the contestants all arrived together, chatting and laughing, forming a line as they processed down the aisle and up the steps to the stage, holding their platters before them like fine waiters. Zelda brought up the rear, carrying a large cardboard box, which usefully went some way to conceal her bump.

  The place was buzzing with anticipation. A sea of photographers stood poised to capture each moment, and a stream of technicians whirled around looking harassed. The crowd was so large that people were crammed in at the back and down the aisles, craning their necks to get a good view.

  In the front, Ambrose Hart watched the lead technician counting him in, and then, with an especially illustrious air, he began.

  “Tonight is the grand finale of The Kitchen Front Cooking Contest. We will find out which one of our dedicated and masterful contestants will be helping me on The Kitchen Front. So, without more ado, let’s start with our first contestant.” He turned to Nell. “What do you have for us today, Miss Nell Brown?”

  “It’s a summer pudding.” She beamed, revealing a smooth, purple-red dome with a dish of custard beside it. “Rejuvenating stale, leftover bread so that it isn’t wasted.” Nell had briefly considered entering Mrs. Quince’s Special Occasion Cake, but she couldn’t bear to ignore the dish chosen by Mrs. Quince herself in her hospital bed.

  Ambrose eyed it. “Summer pudding is already a popular wartime dish. How did you make yours special?”

  “It uses no sugar except for a sugar syrup that I made using sugar beets grown in the garden. Basically, you boil chopped beets for two hours, then sieve them through cheesecloth and reduce the sugar water until it is a thick, sweet liquid. You can dry it to form brown sugar, but I just used the syrup.”

  “How very ingenious!” Ambrose said.

  “I also added some of the elderberry wine I made for the starter. The end result is a delicious dessert using no sugar, eggs, or fats, and providing plenty of healthy frui
t. I’m serving it with mock honey custard, made with dried egg powder, dried milk powder, a little honey and vanilla, and a dash of nutmeg.”

  Ambrose stood, hands on hips, surveying the pudding with relish as Nell served him a generous portion. It was dripping with sweet, deep red juices, the berries—red and black currants, blackberries, and raspberries—perfectly cooked, like a thick, freshly made jam with extra fruit. A spoon of custard was wedged to one side, a cream-yellow dollop that finished the dish off to a tee.

  With the smallest of pauses, Ambrose plunged in, his face puckering as he moved the berries delightedly around his mouth. “Sumptuous. The juices are sweet and slightly tart, the berries ripened to utter perfection. Your use of seasonal fruit is excellent. You’ve truly taken a traditional dish and made it into a wartime favorite. This is precisely what The Kitchen Front loves.”

  After another hasty spoonful, he moved on to the next contestant, Gwendoline, who whisked off her silver dome without more ado. Beneath it was an orangey-colored tart.

  “Golly,” Ambrose said. “That looks marvelous.”

  “It’s a mock apricot tart,” Gwendoline announced. “Replacing the apricots with grated carrots, and a little plum jam adding a fruity flavor.”

  “Ah.” His face fell somewhat. “Well, let’s give it a try, shall we?”

  She cut a slice for him, and he tentatively put a spoon into it. “Oh, the pastry is delicious. Did you use butter?”

  “No, I used suet blended with lamb fat.”

  “Lovely,” Ambrose muttered awkwardly. “Two types of animal fat that you can buy from the butcher.”

  “I went all out to cook proper wartime food with no rationed foods at all.”

  “And the carrots,” he said between chewing. “You can hardly taste them over the jam, can you?”

  “The jam is nice and strong, isn’t it?” Gwendoline agreed.

  “But grated carrot…it gives a strange texture, doesn’t it? It seems to melt in the mouth a little like, well, like cooked carrots. At least it’s nice and sweet.”