Venla tipped the bottles carefully, letting the cider slip into the goblets with a soft, happy gurgle. Nice and golden. His sudden yelp made her jump. Nearly made her drop the bottle. Almost sloshed cider over the rim, heart giving a startled kick. She stumbled a little, cheeks warming, but managed to keep hold. “Oh!" She set the bottle down quick and turned toward him.

"Did you burn yourself?” she asked, already crossing the distance between them. She leaned a little toward him, peering at his hand.

A shy smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. “I help out here some days,” she said, voice quiet but warm. “Keeps me from sitting idle, and the chef, he knows a hundred recipes I’ve never even heard of. Breads, soups, jams, stews, roasts … you name it. I learn a little more every time.”

Venla reached over and handed him a goblet. “Here, hopefuly it don’t taste fishy...”
 
Took the cold goblet with the singed hand. Probably wasn't the best idea, but it felt good in the moment. Wasn't too bad a burn, just a red one. Red ones usually went away by themselves in time. It was the more colorful and liquid ones you had to worry about. When stuff started growing bubbles and going rainbowlike, you were proper fucked.

„Reminder not to stick my hand where it don't belong, is all.“ Heat was good like that. Taught you quickly. Some people just needed to learn the same lesson multiple times. But even great teachers couldn't make a student clever.

The burn numbed against the drink.

Sipped a bit for...quality control purposes and all that. Didn't taste like fish. Was he supposed to give a toast or something? Nah, seemed too official like.

„You'll be glad to know no fins in this one.“ She was standing far too close, so he made sure to check how the bread was coming along. Yes yes – the dough was still right there. Good. Backed up a bit. Needed a good place to rest back the shovel, of course.

„Getting to cook all the time seems like a good life.“ Wanted to knife something? Chicken could use some work. In the mood for burning shit, well you won't believe the char on these veggies...Trevor was convinced many violent people were simply kept out of the kitchen for too long. You got to stab, break and burn plenty and no one got hurt. Seemed like a great deal.

„Reckon the guy knows how to unburn bread?“ looked back into the oven. They'd probably not fuck it up too bad. But if he had to scrape the char off it, that kinda took away from the magic of doing things right for once.
 
The redhead tilted her head and gave his hand a good, quiet look. “That’s the trouble with eager hands and old kettles. They nip like cranky hens if you’re not careful.” She stepped back slightly, giving him his space.

Venla wrinkled her nose fondly, holding her goblet close. “Well, if he knows how to unburn bread, he’s keepin’ it secret from me,” Turning her green eyes back to the oven, she watched the bread start to bloom in the heat, the braided crust puffing golden at the seams. The smell of herbs, yeast, and flour curled out from the mouth of the oven. "Little singe just means it’s been through something.” She shot Trevor a look and a smirk.

Trevor might think the kitchen was a battlefield. A place for stabbing, breaking, burning. An arena to work out fury. To Venla, cooking was never about fire and blades. It was about making something kind in a world that too often wasn’t. Something that asked nothing but time, and gave back warmth in return. It was where mornings began slow and golden, and evenings ended with full bellies and crumbs on the table. The only blight she ever found in a kitchen was a bit of mildew on a forgotten cheesecloth.

“I reckon the world might be a softer place if more folks spent time in kitchens,” she said, her voice gentle as worn wood. “You learn patience, and how to work with what’s in your hands." She glanced at him over the rim of her cup, offered him a small smile, then took a sip of her cider, sweet and cool.
 
Nodded sagely, cause he'd heard this story of angry chickens before. Was surprised it didn't end with soup or skewer. Food really shouldn't be harassing you. Sure, sometimes you had it coming. But some things, like goats, really needed calmer tempers. Being all chew, chew, headbutt was only funny the first three or four times. Then you started dreaming up recipes. Trevor had a working theory that most dishes were born out of petty revenge. An angry critter, and someone's dream of tiny vengeance.

Bread didn't stop being bread because something fucked with the crust. But it changed the taste. The stuff of fluff shouldn't taste of soot. Or maybe it should. Fuck it, he wasn't the authority here. But it was a small, still held, naive bit of self – that some things should go through life without getting messed up. Now, could was another matter. Probably wasn't possible. But that's where the whole hope business came in.

„Not everything needs to be singed to be whole.“ A gulp, two, three. Might've emptied the goblet right there, but it would've gotten him drunk too quickly. And it was a nice moment – no need to rush the forgetting. Some things got to be warm without weakness.

Sounded like a nice dream. Cooking school filled with people no one should've trusted with knives. Learning how to make shit instead of taking and breaking. And if anyone tried to knife each other...well, the room was filled with people who knew just how to stop this type of behavior. Wondered how many people wouldn't need killing if they just deboned the fucking duck instead.

„And you learn respect.“ Whoever thought it was patience that killers lacked had clearly never killed a man. Sometimes it took days, weeks even. But he shook any further ideas. Likely weren't thinking the same thoughts anyway.

„But you're right. A lot less trouble around if people just spent more time cooking.“ And it was a funny thought that Jimmy could whomp Tommy's ass, only to get whomped in turn by his apple pie. Not everyone could win every fight. Least kitchen gave the little guy a chance.
 
She set her goblet down and brushed a stray fleck of flour from the counter. Venla leaned a little over the counter, as she watched the bread in the oven, golden edges just starting to bloom. She gave a soft little sigh, eyes half on the loaf and half on him.

Not everything needs to be singed to be whole. Venla gave a small, thoughtful hum. Nodding in agreement. “You’re right,” she murmured. The fire crackled low in the oven’s belly.

Trevor spoke, voice calm, even kind. His words about respect slipped into the air like the steam from the kettle. But something about the way he said it, like he’d learned his lessons not from cookfires but applied them anyway, raised the hairs on her neck. “Aye, nothing like hot iron and bubbling pots to teach you where your place is." she added as she stood, turning back to him. And if someone wants to settle things with a pie instead of a punch, so much the better.

She tipped her head toward the oven. “I’d say it's near perfect."
 
Time too was liquid, it seemed. Felt only moments ago the dough got shoveled in. But if she felt it almost ready, suppose it was. Looked golden enough, brown enough. Between the two, she was likely the greater baker. Especially if she studied under Syr Recipes of the monasteryfolk.

He'd seen plenty knights of fire, knights of knife – but this chef character sounded as much a knight as any of 'em. Just different pursuits. Wondered if that would be Dusk or Dawn. Figured when you had to feed that many people, you cooked the whole day – sanctum to sanctum. Come to think of it – shouldn't there be someone fussing around the place even now? Sure, Venla was someone...but felt too quiet for such a big endeavor.

„Yeah, getting there.“ Gave it a few moments more. Maybe because he was unsure. Or maybe just because he liked to watch it change color.

Shovel in hand, this wasn't a time to molest the bread again. He had the weight mostly figured out from the previous attempts. And if he couldn't manage the nudge, he could likely just scoot the thing over. Out was out. Trevor doubted the bread made much of a fuss about how it got out of the oven.

„Always thought dishwashing the great equal.“ Easy to look forward to something while the food still bubbled and popped. But when it was all nice and eaten, all those containers looked at you still. And you no longer looked forward to stuff. It was just the slow dread of a task left undone. „Nothing wounds pride so much as grease stuck to the bottom of a baking sheet.“ Some times it felt easier to unstab a guy than to ungrease a pan.

Shovel went in.
 
“Oh, you’ve done your fair share, have you?” she said, amused. “Well then, you know what it’s like... Once a king at the feast one minute, and the next elbow-deep in someone else's left-over porridge and wondering what choices in life brought you there.” She smirked.

Venla had been there. By the moons, she had lived there. Sleeves rolled up, hair sticking to her brow from the steam off hot water, scrubbing tankards till her knuckles turned raw. A tavern wench didn’t get much glory, unless the triumph of conquering a stew-kettle thick with the ghosts of three-day-old onions. And tavern staff didn't get medals, but if they had handed out honours for dishwater grit, she would have had a chestful.

She moved to grab a clean cloth for the bread. Venla gave the loaf a satisfied nod, then glanced sidelong at Trevor with a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You know,” she said lightly. “The chef’s always saying he needs new dishwashers...” It seemed as if the squires were in a hurry to leave after their meal. "I can put in a good word for you, if you behave.” she jested.

Truth was, she had met few people willing to scrub a pan voluntarily.

“I was thinkin’,” she said, brushing her hands together, “if you’re not opposed to more fresh air… we could take all this out under the hazels?" She didn't think he would have anything against dining like gentlefolk, feet in the grass and crumbs in their laps. The dining hall, with its long rows of polished tables and high-beamed ceiling, felt far too grand for just the two of them.
 
„Smallest guy round camp gets washer duty more often than not.“ Wasn't always pots and pans he scrubbed, but it was much the same. Metal was metal, grease was grease. Soot and sand did their part. Scrub and scrape, swipe and polish – small movements working things back to their cleaner selves.

„Don't reckon I'll be sticking long enough to take you up on that.“ If he was to scrub shit clean, dishes were the best thing he could hope for. But this was a place of peace, and it was best not to linger. Some things remained clean through maintenance, others just never got dirty in the first place. „But I'll be on my best behavior.“ Wasn't sure that would exactly pass for behave, but it was nice enough.

„Under the hazels sounds great.“ The whole fancy kitchen bit had him on edge. But sky and grass he understood. „I'll grab the...“ What would he grab? Could probably squeeze bottles or goblets between his fingers, leaving the hand mostly free. Oh and the tea... he'd want to requisition that too.

Honestly, probably should've remembered to baste the bread with it as the fire worked wonders – but when things were going well, best not to chance it. Guess that meant he could handle the drinks with his fingers and the salad bowl could be hugged, or something. Kinda worked itself out, other than opening the door. Had he been alone, there were certain foot maneuvers he could try – but luckily, they had extra hands.

It was still too warm for hazels to be fully ripe and ready to fall off. But just like the bushytailed fiends knew – the nuts were good green. Maybe if he was real polite about it, he could squirrel some away too.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom