Page 6 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
“ W hat on earth?” She reached for her phone to turn off the ear-splitting alarm, wondering if she had changed her alarm to a rooster for some particular reason, then her sleep-addled brain realized it was a real rooster crowing at what felt like the middle of the night, but was probably dawn in this godforsaken time period, and oh, right, the giant had smashed her lovely phone into a million pieces, so no phone.
She’d spent the night in what Tristan had generously called “the guest chamber” and what she would have described as “a stone box with delusions of grandeur.” The bed was surprisingly comfortable, though, once she’d gotten past the fact that the mattress was stuffed with what smelled like herbs and possibly the hopes and dreams of medieval seamstresses.
A servant girl had left her a basin of water and what appeared to be medieval clothing—a long dress in rough brown wool that looked like it had been designed by someone who thought “comfortable” was a foreign concept.
Rachel held it up and sighed. The sleeves were longer than her entire body, and she was pretty sure she’d need a PhD in medieval fashion to figure out how all the laces and ties worked.
“Nope,” she announced to the empty room. “Not happening. I’d rather face accusations of witchcraft than spend twenty minutes getting dressed like I’m gift-wrapping myself.”
She pulled on her jeans and t-shirt instead, finger-combing her hair and trying not to think about the fact that she had no idea when she’d next see a proper shower, a hair dryer, or God help her, coffee. Her kingdom for a decent espresso machine.
The great hall was already bustling with activity when she made her way downstairs, following the cooking smells, perhaps it was something that might charitably be called breakfast, but more likely would taste like disappointment with a side of regret.
Servants scurried about with purpose, carrying trenchers and tankards while the morning light filtered through narrow windows, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny sprites having a rave.
“Well, well,” Hugo boomed from his seat at the high table, raising a tankard in salute. “Our mysterious guest emerges! And still in those peculiar garments, I see.”
“They’re called clothes,” Rachel said, settling onto the bench beside him. “And yes, I’m still wearing them. The alternative looked like a medieval straightjacket designed by someone who really, really didn’t want women to move. Ever.”
Hugo’s laughter shook the table like a minor earthquake. “I like her spirit, Tristan. Sharp as a good blade and twice as cutting.”
Tristan, who was breaking his fast with what looked like bread that had seen better centuries and some sort of pale cheese that probably predated the Roman Empire, merely grunted.
He’d clearly been up for hours—his hair was damp from washing, and he’d traded yesterday’s leather for a clean linen shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.
In fact, it seemed specifically designed to showcase exactly how those shoulders moved when he reached for his cup, how the fabric pulled taut across his chest when he?—
Nope. Professional food critic. Woman of substance. Did not ogle medieval knights over breakfast like they were the daily special.
Much.
“So,” she said, tearing her gaze away from the way his throat worked when he swallowed his ale—ale for breakfast, these people had no concept of proper caffeine protocols.
“About that cooking thing we discussed. I’m thinking I should probably start earning my keep around here before everyone decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth. ”
Mistress Caldwell, who’d been grinding something that looked suspiciously like tree bark in a mortar with the enthusiasm of someone taking out personal grievances, looked up sharply. “’Tis obviously a womanly preoccupation, but the kitchens are no place for... her sort.”
“My sort being women who know the difference between cumin and cinnamon? Or my sort being people who believe food should actually taste like something?”
“Your sort being trouble wrapped in the devil’s cloth,” the apothecary replied tartly, her pale eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting a particularly plump mouse. “Mark well—she’ll bring naught but chaos to the cookery.”
“Chaos?” Rachel stood, planting her hands on her hips.
“Lady, I’ve been cooking since I was twelve.
I run a food blog with three thousand followers who hang on my every word about whether the breadsticks at Olive Garden are worth the carbs.
I can make a soufflé so perfect it would make angels weep, and my risotto has been featured in—” She stopped, realizing that soufflés and risotto probably hadn’t been invented yet, which was just another item on her growing list of things to mourn about this time period.
“I mean, I’m an excellent cook. Like, really excellent.
Five-star, Michelin-worthy, James Beard Award level excellent. ”
The blank stares told her she’d lost them somewhere around “breadsticks.”
“Prove it,” Tristan said quietly, and something in his voice made her turn.
He was watching her with those winter-blue eyes that seemed to see straight through her bravado to the part of her that was desperately trying not to panic about being stranded in a time where the height of culinary sophistication was probably not burning the meat.
There was a challenge in his gaze, but also something that looked like curiosity. Professional curiosity.
“Fine.” She lifted her chin like a gladiator accepting a death match. “I will. Just... point me to your kitchens and prepare to have your medieval minds blown.”
Twenty minutes later, Rachel stood in the castle kitchens and wondered if it was too late to fake food poisoning and hide in her room until someone invented proper cooking equipment.
The kitchen was like stepping into a culinary nightmare designed by someone who’d heard about cooking secondhand and gotten most of the details wrong.
It was a cavernous space that smelled of wood smoke, old grease, and herbs she couldn’t identify—some medicinal, some that might have been edible, and some that smelled suspiciously like they belonged in Mistress Caldwell’s more questionable potions.
A massive hearth dominated one wall, large enough to roast an entire dragon—which, judging by the size of the spit, was probably exactly what it was designed for.
Copper pots hung from hooks along the walls, blackened with age and use like battle-scarred veterans.
Rough wooden tables were scarred from years of chopping and preparation, looking like they’d survived several small wars and possibly a plague or two.
And there wasn’t a single thing she recognized as actual cooking equipment.
No gas burners. No electric anything. No timers, no thermometers, no measuring cups, no nothing. Just fire and hope and what appeared to be a prayer circle of very nervous-looking servants.
“Right,” she said to herself, trying to project the confidence of someone who hadn’t just realized she was about to attempt cooking with the medieval equivalent of sticks and stones.
“This is fine. Cooking is just controlled chemistry, right? Fire plus ingredients equals food. Basic science that hasn’t changed since the dawn of time. ”
The cook, a round woman named Marta who looked like she could bench press a cow and had probably done so on multiple occasions, watched her with the expression of someone observing a particularly entertaining form of insanity. “What would ye have me prepare, mistress?”
“Something simple to start. Just... what do you normally make for the noon meal?”
“Pottage, mostly. Some bread, if the grain holds. Ale.”
Rachel blinked, her brain trying to process what she’d just heard. “That’s it? No vegetables? No meat? No... flavor?”
Marta’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline like they were trying to escape her face entirely. “Flavor?”
“You know, herbs, spices, things that make food taste like something other than sadness and medieval despair?”
The cook looked genuinely confused, as if Rachel had just asked her to explain quantum physics using only interpretive dance. “We have salt. And sometimes onions.”
Oh, sweet Taylor on a cracker. Rachel was dealing with medieval cuisine at its most basic level—which was to say, barely cuisine at all. It was like trying to run a five-star restaurant with only saltines and desperation. No wonder everyone looked half-starved and wholly miserable.
“Okay, new plan,” she said, tucking in her shirt with the determination of someone about to perform culinary surgery.
“Show me what you have to work with and please tell me it’s more inspiring than salt and the occasional onion.”
The tour of the larder was like opening a time capsule filled with disappointment.
Dried beans that looked older than some of the castle’s stonework.
Barley that might have been fresh sometime during the previous reign.
Some questionable-looking grain that might have been wheat if you squinted and had very low standards.
Salt pork that had seen better decades and was probably being held together by sheer willpower and possibly small amounts of prayer.
It was like being asked to create a gourmet meal using only the contents of a post-apocalyptic survival bunker.
But in the corner, tucked away like treasure, she found something that made her heart skip. A small collection of clay pots with tight-fitting lids.
“What’s in these?” She asked, lifting one carefully like she was handling the Holy Grail.
“The master’s spices,” Marta said, and her voice carried the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious relics or particularly good wine. “He brought them from his travels. We’re not to touch them.”