Without asking for permission, Andrea brought a bucket of clean water over to the table and dunked each of the meat pieces thoroughly to make sure they were clean. She didn’t care if they took offense at her actions. Who knew what dirty hands had touched this meat already? Then she took the bucket outside and dumped the contents in the snow. It must have stormed during the night and was still flurrying now.
She placed the bones on one of the tables until she had a clean pot to cook them in. In fact, it would be even better if she roasted them a bit first. So she placed them in the embers of the fire. It took only a few minutes for them to brown on one side. Stooping down on her haunches, she turned them with a long fork. Within ten minutes she had nicely charred meat, which she shoved to the cold side of the hearth.
Girda and several of the others were watching her intently, but said nothing. They probably expected her to burn her fingers or set herself afire.
Two boys were carrying the heavy pottage kettle outside for the slop bucket. It would probably have to be soaked in boiling water for hours to loosen the crud on the bottom. “Do you have another clean pot?” she asked Girda, who was now supervising the laying of a white sheet over the other table, where four children were anxiously awaiting the fun of putting their hands in flour.
“No, no, no!” Andrea said quickly, and saw Girda frown at her appearing to override her authority. “You children must wash your hands and dry them completely before handling the flour.”
“I wuz gonna say that,” Girda said, giving her a warning look. “There’s another kettle in the cupboard.” She motioned with her head toward the massive floor-to-ceiling closet that took up almost all of one wall. It held all the kitchen and dining utensils for the entire place.
The boys who’d taken the pot outside returned, shaking snow off their hair and stomping the frozen particles off their boots. The snow must be coming down harder now. Would snow impede their time travel back to the future? She sure hoped not.
Again, without asking for permission, Andrea took another bucket off the water bench and poured its contents into the kettle along with the meat. She would add more water later. The pot had to hold at least ten gallons, which made sense for as many servings as would be needed. At sixteen cups per gallon, that should be enough for everyone who wanted a taste. Even with only one bucket of water, she was barely able to lift the heavy pot onto a crane to get the soup started. When she was done, and more water was added, she would be unable to handle it herself. She would worry about that later.
“I’m going back to the storeroom for my other ingredients,” she told Girda. “Can I get you anything?”
“Not right now. Will there be enough of that”—she pointed toward the kettle Andrea had just set on the hearth fire—“ta feed some of the villagers when they come ta the door this afternoon?”
“There should be.”
“Good. Most of ’em will bring their own bowls.”
“Perhaps we could put chunks of that day-old bread at the bottom of each bowl first,” Andrea suggested.
“It’s hard as slate.”
“The hot liquid will soften it.” She hoped.
On that conciliatory note, Andrea made her way back to the storage room, where she grabbed a large basket and began to fill it with turnips, which would be a good substitute for potatoes; the few onions and leeks and carrots that were left; a small cloth bag of barley; and a dozen eggs. There was also plenty of parsley and even a little wild celery.
When she returned to the kitchen, Andrea placed her basket near the hearth. Girda took note of what she’d brought up but didn’t comment. Andrea tossed the barley into the pot, but she wouldn’t add anything else for several hours. She wanted to give the bones a chance to infuse the water with all their goodness. She supposed she could mix the rivels, though she wouldn’t add them until the very end.
She went to the cupboard again and found a large pottery bowl. Back at the table, she cracked twelve eggs into it and began to beat them with a wooden fork, the only utensil she could find for a whisk substitute.
“You know, Girda,” she remarked, “the people here don’t seem to be that bad off, considering the famine. They’re not gaunt or starving, or anything, like I would expect.”
“We only began rationing here at the keep the past sennight or two. The master had enough stored. And I’m shamed ta say, we weren’t sharing with those down below until then.”
Until Cnut was gone, she meant.
“You haven’t seen the village folks yet. Sad it is, very sad!”
Okay, Andrea, why don’t you bring up another cheery subject? Like this icky flour. Oh well! On those survivor shows, they’re always talking about how much protein is in insects. “Is it all right if I use some of this flour that’s been de-bugged?” Andrea asked.