Eyebrows raised as high as they’d go, he sniffed gingerly, blew on the spoonful of hot stew, then licked up a small taste, closing his eyes like a French dégustateur judging the virtues of a new Rh?ne.
“Hmm,” he said. He lapped a little more, though, which was encouraging, and finally took a whole bite, which he chewed slowly, eyes still closed in concentration.
Finally he swallowed, and opening his eyes said, “It needs pepper. And maybe vinegar?”
“For taste, or disinfection?” I asked. I glanced at the pie safe, wondering whether I could scrabble together sufficient remnants from its contents for a substitute dinner.
“Taste,” he said, leaning past me to dip the spoon again. “It’s wholesome enough, though. I think it’s wapiti—and meat from a verra old, tough buck. Is it not Mrs. MacDonald who thinks you’re a witch?”
“Well, if she does, she kept it to herself when she brought me her youngest son yesterday, with a broken leg. The older son brought the meat this morning. It was quite a large chunk of meat, regardless of origin. I put the rest in the smokehouse, but it smelled a little odd.”
“What smells odd?” The back door opened and Brianna came in, carrying a small pumpkin, Roger behind her with a basket of collard greens from the garden.
I raised a brow at the pumpkin—too small for pie making, and very much too green, and she shrugged.
“A rat or something was gnawing at it when we went into the garden.” She turned it to display fresh tooth marks. “I knew it would go bad right away if we left it—if the rat didn’t come right back and finish it off—so we brought it in.”
“Well, I’ve heard of fried green pumpkin,” I said, dubiously accepting the gift. “This is already rather an experimental meal, after all.”
Brianna looked at the hearth and took a deep, cautious sniff.
“It smells … edible,” she said.
“Aye, that’s what I said,” Jamie said, waving aside the possibility of wholesale ptomaine poisoning with one hand. “Sit down, lass. Lord John’s sent me a wee letter and he’s mentioning you.”
“Lord John?” One red brow arched, and her face lighted up. “What does he want?”
Jamie stared at her.
“Why would ye think he wants something from ye?” he asked, wary but curious.
Brianna swept her skirt to one side and sat down, pumpkin still in one hand, and extended a hand to Jamie, palm up.
“Lend me your dirk for a minute, Da. As for Lord John, he doesn’t do social chat. I don’t know whether he wants something from me, but I’ve read enough of his letters to know that he doesn’t bother writing unless he’s got a purpose.”
I snorted slightly and exchanged a look with Jamie. That was completely true. Granted, his purpose was occasionally just to warn Jamie that he was risking his head, his neck, or his balls in whatever rash venture John thought he might be involved in, but it definitely was a purpose.
Bree took the proffered dirk and began to slice the small pumpkin, spilling glistening clumps of tangled green seeds onto the table.
“So?” she said, eyes on her work.
“So,” Jamie said, and took a deep breath.
THE FRIED GREEN pumpkin was indeed edible, though I wouldn’t say much more for it than that.
“Needs ketchup” was Jemmy’s comment.
“Aye,” his grandfather agreed, chewing gingerly. “Walnut ketchup, maybe? Or mushroom.”
“Walnut ketchup?” Jemmy and Amanda burst into giggles, but Jamie merely eyed them tolerantly.
“Aye, ye wee ignoramuses,” he said. “Ketchup’s any relish ye put on your meat or vegetables—no just that tomato mash your mam makes for ye.”
“What does walnut ketchup taste like?” Jem demanded.
“Walnuts,” Jamie said, unhelpfully. “Wi’ vinegar and anchovies and a few other things. Hush now; I want to be speaking wi’ your mother.”
While the children and I cleared the table, Jamie laid out Lord John’s proposal, in detail, for Brianna. Careful, I noted, to keep his own feelings out of the matter.
“Ye can take a bit of time to think, a nighean,” he said, finishing up. “But it’s growing late in the year for a long journey. If ye go … ye may well not be able to come back until the spring.”
Brianna and Roger exchanged a long look, and I felt a twinge of the heart. I hadn’t thought of that, but he was right. Snow-choked passes cut off the high mountains from the low country as effectively as a thousand-foot stone wall.