Tableful of Happiness
Humming while cooking was something of a habit for my mother in Konigstuhl. The memories of the mother I’d had before her were too hazy to piece together; at most, I could just barely recall that she’d used the embarrassing apron I’d made her as an elementary school project—mention of that dragon was enough for those in some circles to understand—for years because she “didn’t want it to go to waste.”
At any rate, the humming had rubbed off on me. I sang the tune to a heroic saga I’d heard at the Konigstuhl square; though the tale itself was a mess of tropes, the minstrel who’d sung it had been good with his six-stringed lyre, and I’d enjoyed the performance greatly.
The melody of a hero whisking away a young lady from the shackles of high society spilled from my vocal cords as I cut up vegetables with a workplace dagger. I may not have had a proper cooking knife lying around, but anything with a blade would do the trick.
Today’s ingredients included the onions that were so pervasive in our continent’s western reach, a yam-like root imported from beyond the Southern Sea—they were basically the Southern Continent’s version of sticky yams—and a bit of oversalted bacon that I’d found in the bargain bin.
First, I sliced the onions finely. For the root vegetables, I coated my hands in a mystic barrier so the sliminess wouldn’t make my skin itch as I peeled the outer skin. Rubbing in a bit of salt, I boiled off the remaining gunk; I wouldn’t have been so meticulous had I been cooking for myself, but I wasn’t about to serve slippery yams to my guests.
Once the vegetables were done, I chucked the bacon into hot water to pull off the excessive salt that had made it so cheap to begin with. Carving off the hardened outer layer of saline meat, I threw those bits back into the brine to stew over into a soup. After all, tossing out meat without extracting all its flavors would just be a tragic waste.
I cut up the rest of the bacon and stir-fried it with the veggies, adding in a few herbs to balance out the flavor, and voilà: I had a plate of German fries on my hand. Sure, I technically didn’t have potatoes or peppercorns, but a careful tuning of herbs was enough to get close.
Going back to the soup, I diluted it with a bit more hot water and a few herbs, and stirred in some onions and turnips for good measure. The flavor was still a bit strong, but I figured it’d pair well with black bread.
“Mm... Yeah, that should do it.”
Upon taste-testing my product, I could feel my growing body whine that it wanted a little more fat on the tongue; in other words, this was probably just right, nutritionally speaking. I might have let the meat stew had I been on the road, but that would prove to be too oily and salty for someone living in the city. This was probably a good stopping point.
“Okay,” I said, plating my dining-room table with Unseen Hands, “sorry to keep you all waiting.”
“Wow!” three voices cried at once.
For a mere test run of my Campfire Cooking, Culinary Knowledge, and Portioned Seasoning combo thrown together with whatever cheap ingredients I could find around town, I felt like their unhidden excitement was more than I deserved.
“The onions and bacon smell amazing. Boy, have I been craving a good, hearty meal like this.”
“I’m excited to see that the soup is full of turnips. We’ve been serving quite a number of root vegetables at the church recently, and I’ve grown rather fond of them.”
“This looks so yummy! It reminds me of Mother’s cooking!”
Today, I was hosting a little luncheon party. Seeing how Miss Celia hadn’t been able to join us last time, I’d set aside a day of rest in my gods-awful work schedule to soothe my soul with some good company.
Mika’s frugal lifestyle always had his stomach wanting for more, but especially when he was a boy; the giant mound of food put a noticeable twinkle in his eye. Miss Celia seemed so excited for the plain meal that I could almost forget she was noble. And of course, my adorable baby sister was all smiles as the dishes brought her back to our humble countryside home.
Although this sort of thing had originally begun as a way of helping my old chum keep up with his brutal day-to-day, funnily enough, it had transformed more into a time of respite for me. Mika’s daily struggle was still as harsh as ever, mind you, but I was now right there with him when it came to everyday stress.
“All right,” I said, “let’s cut up the bread. How much do you guys want?”
“Whew, you really make sure to pick out the big loaves for us, huh, old pal? In that case, let me oblige: I’ll take a quarter, if you don’t mind.”
“I only need a small slice. I still have my evening duties to see to, and I wouldn’t want to be moving around on a full stomach.”
“Umm, I shall take a fifth, Dear Brother. Black bread is so awfully bloating when I eat it after a long break.”
I was happy to fulfill each of their requests, and once the bread was served, it was time to dig in.
What a joyous moment. Smiling and laughing at the same table, we went back and forth over topics that we all enjoyed. The little chitchat, the suggestions to play ehrengarde after lunch—all of it was precious beyond words.
These were the moments I lived for. No matter how arduous my work was, I could soldier on to enjoy these days again. And when the reaper drew near, this would be what flashed into my mind to wring the last ounce of will out of my heart.
I took a bite of bread and carefully chewed on the happiness before me. Slowly, with great deliberation, I swallowed it down and swore to myself: whatever the future had in store, I would see it through.
[Tips] While imports are restricted only to products that keep well for long periods of time, the Empire is home to much foreign produce.
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