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“Stovies,” she declared proudly, lifting the spoon so I could see the thick, golden mixture clinging to it. “A proper Scottish meal, none of that sad microwave rubbish you call food.”
I stood and leaned over her shoulder, peering into the pot. It looked like a mess of stewed potatoes, onions, and some kind of meat, all coated in a glossy, rich broth.
“You sure you didn’t just throw everything in your fridge into a pot and call it a dish?” I teased.
She shot me a look that could’ve peeled paint. “Watch yourself, boy, or I’ll cook you next time, toss you right into the damned pot.”
I held up my hands in surrender, smothering a grin. “All right, all right. I take it back.”
She huffed and turned back to the stove, her spoon clanking against the pot. “It’s tradition.Stoviesare what my grandmother used to make when there wasn’t much to go around. It’s all about stretching what you have—using the drippings from last night’s roast, adding potatoes, onions, whatever you can find.” She gave the mixture one last turn before grabbing two flat bowls from the cupboard. “It’s what we ate back in Scotland when times were lean.”
I blinked. “I didn’t know you grew up in Scotland.”
She paused for a fraction of a second, her face coloring brightly, then let out a wry chuckle. “That’s because I didn’t.”
I frowned. “Wait—what?”
She ladled dinner into the bowls, then carried them to the table, setting one in front of me before taking her seat. “Never even stepped foot there.”
I stared at her. “But . . . you talk about Scotland all the time. Your whole house is decorated in a highland theme. You have the accent—”
“Och, that’s just good genetics.” She waved a hand, then winked. “And maybe a bit of theatrics. I’m old. Let me have my fun.”
I shook my head and stared in wonder.
She ignored me, scooping a bite ofstoviesonto her spoon, then chewing slowly before continuing. “My great-grandparents were from Scotland. My grandmother was first-generation American, but she raised us on stories of the Highlands, of the lochs, of old family castles that probably don’t even exist.”
I was still trying to wrap my head around it. “So . . . all those times you talked about missing Scotland—”
She let out a wistful sigh. “I miss theideaof Scotland, I suppose. The food, the music, the way my grandmother talked about it, it felt real to me, even though I was never there.” She stabbed at her potatoes. “I used to dream about it when I was a little girl, thought I’d move there one day, marry a handsome Scotsman, live in some stone cottage by the sea.”
I smiled. “What happened?”
“Life happened. I married an Irishman instead.” She scoffed. And let me tell you, they are not the same! He was handsome enough, with broad shoulders, a bright smile, and the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.”
“Mrs. H!”
“Pshaw, you wish you could take a dick like his, boy. Don’t mock me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, lowering my chastised head.
“He was also an arse most days. Not that all Irishmen are, just that he was. Dumbass. Didn’t know what a lovely piece of puss he’d landed.”
I laughed, shaking my head.
“So, no, I never actually lived in Scotland.” She gave me a pointed look. “But I’ll tell you what, boy—I can cook like I did.”
I took a bite, letting the flavors sink in. The potatoes were creamy, almost melting in my mouth, the onions perfectly caramelized. The beef had soaked up all the drippings, tender and packed with flavor. It tasted rich, even though it was probably made from scraps.
“Oh, God.” I let out a low groan. “I’ll admit it—this is really good.”
She beamed. “Damn right it is.”
I took another bite. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to us this whole time.”
“Lying? Me? Lying?” She gasped, hand over her heart. “Boy, IamScottish. Just because I wasn’t born there doesn’t mean it’s not in my blood.”
I snorted. “Uh-huh. Next thing you’re gonna tell me is that you’ve never actually worn a kilt.”