The Angel Wore Fangs(46)

Girda nodded and watched as she placed her bowl just under the edge of the table and whisked some of the flour into it with her fingers. Still standing there, she braced her bowl on the table and whisked the egg mixture some more. It was still liquidy. So she repeated the flour process until she had the dough the right consistency . . . slightly wet. She placed a piece of linen over the bowl and set it aside. After wiping off her table and taking the dirty utensil over to the tray of items to be washed, she went back to Girda and said, “What can I do to help?”

“I’m thinking about roasting a side of boar fer t’night’s meal. So I’ll hafta move the porridge kettle ta the other crane on yer fire. Don’t wanna wait too long ta get the hog started. Boar can be tough as leather if it don’t cook a long time over a fire what’s not too hot. ’Course it would be better if we could bury it in hot coals and let it go fer a couple of days, but that works only in good weather. The embers would go out with all the cold and snow.”

“Are you sure that serving the pork as a meal is wise, considering the shortage?” Oh God, here I go again, offering my unsolicited opinion. What the hell! In for a penny, in for a pound. “What if the men don’t bring back sufficient game to last the winter, shouldn’t those few animals down in the cold cellar be used to infuse flavor into a larger dish, rather than be the main dish?”

“Huh?”

“I’m just saying that we have to find a way to spread the meat and poultry and fish among a large group of people over a long period of time so that everyone is satisfied. Or at least their stomachs are filled.”

“That’s what I’m trying ta do, girl . . . I mean, mistress. I kin slice boar real thin. Gotta give grown men at least a taste of something substantial, lest their body humours get all twisted. They can’t live on soup alone.”

They can if they have to, body humours or not. But she didn’t want to argue with Girda. “Whatever you say. Just make sure to save a little meat on the bones.”

“I use’ly give ’em ta the dogs.”

“Not anymore. Not until they’ve been through the soup pot at least once. Even rabbit bones or fish bones can serve a second purpose. For example, pork bones and sauerkraut would be good. Do you have sauerkraut here . . . I mean, at the present time?”

“No, but I kin make some up. We got cabbages enough. But gods help us, the farting in the hall after eating sauerkraut is bad as rotten eggs.”

Couldn’t be any worse than that Lucipire slime! Andrea thought. Which immediately made her think of her sister, and worry. Oh God, please let Celie be safe.

She thought she heard a voice in her head say, Have faith, my child. Could it be God, answering her prayer? No, it was probably just wishful thinking. In fact, that was what Cnut had told her, pretty much, “Trust me.” And he was no god. Though he looked like one. Not like the Lord, but one of the Norse gods. Yeah, Chris Hemsworth as Thor.

I am going over-the-cliff bonkers here. The sooner this food/famine crisis is taken care of here, the sooner I can return to the sanity of my own time. I hope. And Celie can escape the insanity of whatever she’s involved in. I hope. With that in mind, she suggested to Girda, “How about we make a menu for the week?” It was like pulling teeth to get Girda to think that far ahead, but they did it finally, pitiful as the fare was.

At the end of the day, Andrea had what she considered a brilliant idea. She was making her own sourdough starter. Since there was no yeast or baking powder in this time period, she needed something for leavening. Wood ash might do. Years ago, when she was in cooking school, she’d taken a class on bread making, and one of the things early pioneer women did was start their own dough mix, which they carried with them, even on the wagon trains, just adding to it every time they removed some batter. There were no glass jars here, but Andrea figured an earthenware container should work just as well.

Girda just shook her head when Andrea explained what she was going to do. “Flour what ferments like ale? Sounds like rot ta me.”

“You’ll see. It will make delicious bread. And other things, too.”

Despite the frigid cold outside, it soon became almost unbearably hot in the kitchen and Andrea removed her outer shirt, which led Dyna, who was mending a pair of her son’s pants, to ask what those letters meant on the back of her shirt. At first, Andrea didn’t understand, then she remembered. “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” she explained.

“What’s a cowboy?” Dyna wanted to know.

“A man who rides a horse and tends cattle.”