Page 7 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)
Rachel opened the first pot and nearly swooned like a Victorian lady confronted with an ankle.
Cinnamon bark, real cinnamon, not the cassia they passed off as cinnamon in modern grocery stores.
This was the good stuff, the kind that cost more per ounce than some people’s monthly salary.
The second pot held what looked like whole peppercorns, black and fragrant, while the third contained something golden and aromatic that made her mouth water just from the scent.
“Okay,” she breathed, feeling like an archaeologist who’d just discovered the lost recipe for ambrosia. “Now we’re talking. Now we’re cooking with gas. Metaphorically speaking.”
She straightened her spine and got to work, trying to ignore the growing crowd of servants who’d gathered to watch the strange foreign woman attempt to work what they clearly considered dark magic. No pressure at all. Just casual witchcraft accusations hanging in the balance.
The first challenge was the fire, which turned out to be less like cooking and more like negotiating with a particularly temperamental dragon.
Rachel was used to gas burners with precise temperature control, or at least electric ranges with numbered settings that didn’t require a degree in medieval engineering to operate.
This was just... fire. Big, hot, unpredictable fire that seemed to have moods and opinions about what she was trying to accomplish, like a celebrity chef having a very public breakdown.
She started with the pottage because that seemed safest. Barley, water, salt. Basic. Simple. Foolproof.
Except the pot was enormous, easily big enough to feed twenty people, and she had no idea how much barley to use.
A cup? A pound? What was a medieval serving size?
In her world, she’d Google it or check a recipe app.
Here, she was flying blind, like a food blogger trying to review a restaurant in complete darkness.
She eyeballed it, dumped in what looked like a reasonable amount, and added water, feeling like she was performing some sort of primitive ritual to the gods of carbohydrates.
Then came the moment of truth—hanging the pot over the fire.
“Sweet mother of—” The pot was heavier than it looked, and the chain system for adjusting height over the flames was like trying to operate some sort of medieval crane designed by someone who’d never heard of user-friendly design.
She managed to get it positioned, more or less, sweat beading on her forehead from the heat of the flames.
“So far, so good,” she announced to her audience of fascinated servants with false confidence that would have made a politician proud.
The pottage began to bubble, filling the kitchen with the scent of cooking grain and wood smoke that was actually kind of pleasant, in a rustic, “Little House on the Prairie meets Game of Thrones” sort of way.
Not terrible, actually. Kind of homey if you ignored the fact that it looked like wallpaper paste and had about as much flavor.
“Now for some real magic,” she muttered, reaching for the cinnamon with the reverence of someone handling the crown jewels.
“Mistress,” Marta said nervously, wringing her hands like she was watching someone juggle flaming torches near a powder keg. “Perhaps ye shouldn’t?—”
“Trust me,” Rachel said, sprinkling the precious spice into the pot like fairy dust. “I know what I’m doing. This is going to be like the difference between eating cardboard and actually tasting food that makes you remember why humans invented cooking in the first place.”
She added a careful pinch of pepper, then a bit more cinnamon because it smelled so incredibly good, then some of the golden spice from the third pot because life was short and she was already probably going to be burned as a witch anyway, so why not go out in a blaze of culinary glory?
The aroma that rose from the pot was... incredible.
Warm and complex and completely unlike anything these people had probably ever smelled before.
It was like the difference between a gas station hot dog and a meal at a five-star restaurant, between elevator music and a symphony orchestra, between?—
“Sorcery,” someone whispered from the crowd of servants, who had pressed closer despite their obvious fear.
“She speaks incantations over the food,” another voice added, awed and terrified in equal measure.
“I’m not speaking incantations!” Rachel protested, waving the wooden ladle for emphasis and accidentally flinging pottage across the stone floor. “I’m just seasoning! This is completely normal! People do this all the time where I come from!”
But even as she said it, she had to admit the kitchen did smell.
.. otherworldly. The combination of unfamiliar herbs and exotic spices created an aroma that was rich and complex and completely foreign to medieval English palates.
It smelled like bazaars in distant lands, like adventures and silk roads and things that definitely didn’t belong in a crumbling Yorkshire castle.
It smelled expensive and dangerous and absolutely magical.
More muttering rippled through the crowd. Someone made the sign of the cross. Someone else whispered what sounded suspiciously like a prayer for protection from evil spirits.
The barley was done—she hoped. It was hard to tell without being able to taste it safely, and she wasn’t about to burn her tongue on molten grain like some sort of medieval amateur. She used a wooden ladle to stir it, trying to gauge the consistency, which was approximately that of very fancy mud.
“Needs something green,” she decided, spotting a basket of what looked like wild herbs near the hearth. Fresh herbs, the holy grail of flavor enhancement. She grabbed a handful, chopped them roughly with a knife that was duller than her wit after three cups of coffee, and stirred them in.
The reaction was immediate and dramatic. The herbs released their scent into the warm air like nature’s own perfume, and several servants actually stepped backward as if she’d summoned actual demons instead of just making their bland gruel smell like something worth eating.
“Witchcraft,” someone whispered, the word carrying through the kitchen like wildfire.
“She speaks to the plants,” another voice added with growing hysteria. “They bend to her will.”
“The very air changes around her cooking!”
“I’m not speaking to anything!” She protested, her voice rising with frustration and a growing edge of panic. “I’m just cooking! This is how you make food that doesn’t taste like boiled disappointment with a side of medieval depression!”
But even as she said it, she could understand their fear.
The transformation was dramatic—what had started as basic peasant gruel now smelled like something that belonged on a royal table.
The aroma was rich and complex, layered with warmth and spice and the kind of depth that spoke of far-off places and experiences these people could only dream of.
“Taste it,” she commanded Marta, ladling some of the pottage into a wooden bowl with the authority of someone who’d spent years telling people whether their food was worth their hard-earned money. “Tell me it’s not better than your usual fare.”
The cook approached the bowl as if it might bite her or possibly explode. She took a tentative sip, chewed thoughtfully, and her eyes went wide as saucers.
“’Tis... ’tis passing strange,” she said slowly, wonder creeping into her voice. “But... not unpleasant. ’Tis like... like...”
“Like food that actually has flavor?” Rachel suggested hopefully.
“Like sunshine,” Marta breathed. “And faraway places. And... and dreams of better days.”
“Exactly,” Rachel said, grinning with the satisfaction of a chef whose signature dish had just earned a rave review. “That’s exactly what good food should taste like.”
“Rachel.”
The voice cut through the kitchen chatter like a blade through silk, and every servant in the room went silent as if someone had cast an actual spell.
Tristan stood in the doorway, his imposing frame filling the space, and Rachel’s heart did something complicated that had nothing to do with the heat from the fire and everything to do with the way he looked at her—intense, searching, like he was trying to solve a particularly complex puzzle.
“My lord,” she said, suddenly aware that she was covered in flour and possibly some other things she didn’t want to identify, her hair escaping from her ponytail in ways that probably made her look like she’d been struck by lightning. “I was just?—"
“What did you put in the pottage?”
His voice was carefully neutral, but she caught something underneath it. Not anger, exactly. More like... professional interest? The kind of tone she used when she encountered a dish that surprised her, that made her lean forward and demand to know the secret.
“Cinnamon, pepper, and I think that golden stuff might be turmeric?” She gestured toward the open spice pots with hands that were only slightly trembling.
“Plus some herbs from that basket over there. Nothing dangerous, I swear. Just... flavor. The kind that makes people remember why eating can be one of life’s great pleasures instead of just fuel to keep from dying. ”
Tristan moved into the kitchen with that predatory grace that made her pulse quicken and her mouth go dry, and the servants scattered before him like leaves before a storm. He stopped beside the pot, his imposing presence making the cavernous space feel suddenly intimate, and inhaled deeply.
She watched his expression change from suspicion to something that looked almost like wonder, the careful mask he wore slipping just enough to reveal something vulnerable underneath.