Story for the Day: Of Cooks and Kuggen

Martje always knows best. Always. Because she said so.

      With the warmer weather and the renewal of Spring came the return of the craft fair. The usual hawkers and hucksters from Farriage were down, the vendors were lined along the lanes to the square, and the flourish of brocades wending the rows brought the sweets of the season to the capital. The first of the sloe and bramble were in, jams and jellies were selling round, and the red beet and rhubarb collocated the market stalls with a dash of vibrant colour. The trees lining the bridge were in flower, their leafless boughs brandishing mantles of coral and white, and the high bloom of the tulip and crocus nestled into their beds along the river spoke of summer, telling the rain to lay by a little and allow the sun its due. Everyone was out enjoying the day, even those who favoured the quieter months of winter, and as the vendors began their march, with carts scudding across the stones and jaunties jittering along the high street, the bustle and animation of a gala-day, the promise of gaieties, charmed everyone from their homes , spreading the seasonal cheer over the capital in a fulminous loom.

                The royal party, being out on account of their appearance at the king’s yearly charity concerns, was moving in every direction: Boudicca went to the markets to see all the new produce come in from the farms,  and Rautu followed, to see if there was anything good giving away, the children ran off to the bakery, to fill themselves with enough biscuits to last them until dinner, and Shayne went to the family shoppe while Martje went to the stalls, to see whether there were anything new and interesting on the displays, preferably something that could be improved by either being baked or fried. She was perlustrating  a particular row, a few boxes with goods come down from Livanon and Sesterna, when an odd invention caught her eye: it was pie-shaped, had a suspiciously dry outer crust, but it was decapitated, boasting an odd and somewhat gelatinous mixture within. She neared it, inspected it with a pout and a chary eye, and humphed.

                “What’s this here?” said Martje, addressing the seller.

                A Sesternese man stood from behind the stall and came to speak to her. “Ah, someone with a keen eye for qvality and keener sense of smell,” said he, tapping the side of his nose suggestively. “Doesn’t eet look dileecious?” He gave the strange pastry a flourish. “A delicacy from my country, from my village. An egg shoufflah, we call it. A kind of egg pie.”

                “No, son,” said Martje, shaking her head. “That ain’t a pie. That’s a mess. There’s too many eggs in that. The surface is crackin’ and exposin’ the innards, and they don’t look too nice. It don’t even smell right. Can’t smell the butter aff the crust or nothin’.”

                The seller simpered, though his eyes told a different story. “Thees one was baked in Gallei, where they call it a kuggen.”

                “Aye, well,” Martje sniffed, “shoulda stayed in Gallei, that’s all I’m sayin’. Whatever that is, it ain’t fit for travelin’.”      

                “Eet is not made for long preservation, no, ha ha,” the seller admitted, “but eet is usually made in the morneeng to be eaten by that evenineeng.”

                “That’s cause it’s hardly got a crust on it,” said Martje stoutly. “Put a top crust on it, and it’ll keep better.”

                “But eet is not meant to have a top crust, meesus. Eet is not a pie in the traditional Frewyn sense. Eet is a tart-a-let, what you might maybee call an egg tart.”

                “Aye, tart my eye,” Martje chuffed. “Tarts are short, fruit-filled, with a thick trust. That’s no tart, son. And it’s gone all sodden inside. What else you got in here ‘sides eggs?”

                “Thees one is made with mushrooms, vegetables, cream—“

                “Aye, no wonder it won’t hold together. Gotta put some flour to keep it from sinkin’. Better with cheese instead o’ cream, to hold the all-together altogether.”

                The seller straightened and snurled, protesting against any alteration from the original recipe, until Sheamas walked by on his way to his shoppe and came to say hello to his sister.

                “Whadya find there, Martje?” said Sheamas, peering over her shoulder. “Oh, I know these. Some egg pie or somesuch. Some o’ the Sesternese bakers come by for brined beef to fill ‘em with.”

                “Would be better with cured ham,” Martje reckoned. “Bacon would do well on the top to cheer it up a bit. Put some potatoes with some garlic, but o’ purslane, and it might be worth eatin’.”

                “But then, meessus,” said the seller, “it would not be a kuggen.”

                “Sure’d be edible then.”

                “Be good to the visitors now, Martje,” said Sheamas, playfully pressing the end of her nose. “Gotta make sure they like Frewyn enough to come back.”

                The seller paled. “Mar-chee?” he murmured. “Can eet bee—are you the king’s cooke?”

                “Aye, so,” said Martje, planting her hands on her hips, “and you don’t know how to make a pie, son.”

                “Well,” said the seller, mortified, “perhaps, ha ha, if the royal cooke tried it?”

                He cut a small slice, flopped it over onto a clean cloth, and held it out to her. Sheamas watched the egg crumble over the napkin in an irriguous mass, and he quietly backed away.

                “Yer askin’ for it, kin,” he chuckled, moving toward his shoppe. He tipped his hat to the seller. “You ask Martje to try somethin’, she’s gonna tell you just what she thinks.”

                “I do hope so,” was the seller’s reply.

                Sheamas shook his head, and as he turned away from the stall, he sincerely hoped the Sesternese man would not take his sister’s condemnation too harshly. Martje was never easy to get along with as a sister, and thought Sheamas loved her more than he did some of his other siblings, he knew as Shayne did that a royal cook offended by something termed a delicacy would feel the woodfire of her bread oven as quickly as her temper allowed.

                Martje scrutinized the dilapidated slice. “This ain’t been cooked right. The middle’s still runnin’, and the cream’s seepin’ outta the crust. Looks like a box o’ smashed eggs got scraped off the road and thrown in the oven with yesterday’s bread.” She spied a pathetic piece of spinach, dribbling out from the chimbling eggs. “Looks like somebody took the vegetable peelin’s and left ‘em in the too long.” She stepped away and folded her arms. “You ain’t foolin’ me, son. I ain’t eatin that. You think that’s a delicacy, wait till you see what we Frewyns do for dinner. Dharragh, Monster,” Martje called to the Den Asaan, who was marching down the market row, “c’mere and try this, and tell me what you think of it.”

                Rautu approached, his outline blotting out the sun, and a shadow pooled over the stall. The seller craned his neck and shaded his eyes, and his knees began knocking.

                “What is this?” a voice rumbled.

                “Somethin’ from Sesterna what Gallei took and made terrible,” Martje explained. “Look there. That egg pie he cut. Ever seen baked egg mulch like that when a slice is taken outta it?”

                “No.”

                “Aye, see?”

                A hand reached down to take up the cut slice. A disgruntled aspect hung in the high shadows. “This is one of your pies, merchant?”

                “Well--” said the seller, with some difficulty. He would not look up; the inescapable gowl of resolution was lurking. “Eet is a tart-a-let, actually,” with a nervous laugh.

                The giant took a small sliver from the slice, ate some of the vegetables bemired in a sebaceous soup, and then decided: “…No.”

                The rest of the slice was put down, the scowl of disapprobation was given, and the giant thundered toward the bakery, where the best mooncake A Gods Day afforded would remove the stain of savoury incompetence from his tongue. The sun returned to the stall, the seller blinked in the light, and Martje’s countenance reappeared, giving him a complacent look.

                “See, son? Wha’d I tell you. A right mess.”

                She nodded and went away, with the wish of his doing well for the fair the hope of his improving such a horrid dish;; he would need to, if he wish to sell such a branded delicacy in a kingdom known for its potted dishes, roasted meats, and hardy meals. The seller might well be ashamed that he had ever tried to convince the royal cook of Sesterna’s culinary superiority, but as he was peddling the Galleisian variety, he could easily pass off the blunders as a Galleisian offense.