The Genius's Culinary Prescription
People need to grease the gears of life every now and then. Besides, a true genius never neglects their studies, no matter the time or place. 'After all, there’s no reason I can’t study while looking after Freed.'
A day had passed since Freed was born. I unfolded a book in the room where the baby and the mother were resting. I used to study while tending to patients back in my residency days, so there was no reason I couldn't do the same in this world. I was just tracing the numbers with my finger, verifying a calculation, when—
“Julian.”
My godmother, who had been resting on the bed, suddenly called out to me. I tore my eyes from the book and looked toward her. She was holding Freed in her arms, looking at me with a still-pale face.
“What are you studying so hard for?”
“I am reviewing how to identify loopholes in double-entry bookkeeping using the merchant guild’s revenue ledgers, which the Head of the House kindly permitted me to access.” I replied, turning a page.
“Then what do you intend to study this afternoon?”
“Hmm… I suppose I shall review alchemy.”
As I turned my head, I met her gaze. A deep furrow had formed between her brows. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, as if something didn't sit right with her.
'Is she unhappy that I’m not focusing on Freed?'
It was certainly a valid complaint for a guardian to have. Here I was, calmly studying in a room with a baby who had just barely passed a life-or-death crisis yesterday. Reflecting on my lack of consideration, I closed the book. That was when she broke the silence.
“Why do you call me Godmother instead of Mother?”
“…”
My hand, which had been tucking the book into my bag, froze. Ah, so that was the issue.
Godmother Linier had fixated on something strange.
“Julian.”
“Yes, Godmother.”
“…”
She was trying, by any means necessary, to make the word "Mother" come out of my mouth. I could guess why she was acting like this. It had been like this since the day after I saved the Nihilit family’s late-born child, Freed—it wasn't hard to figure out the reason.
'She’s trying to "buy the dip" on the protagonist, too.'
A ten-year-old kid doing things that even veteran healers couldn't manage—of course she’d be greedy. She was trying to stake her claim while I was still young. It was also a way to repay the debt of saving her late-born son, I suppose.
'It feels good to be acknowledged as a genius, but… I don't really want to change my surname.'
There was one problem, though. The title of the work I had transmigrated into was The Memoirs of Schnabel. If I started calling her Mother, the title of the work would change. Well, that was a joke. The real reason was that it was just burdensome. We had lived with walls between us for ten years. Ten years. It was a bit… too cringeworthy to tear those walls down overnight just because of one incident.
“Do you dislike me that much?”
Her voice lacked strength. I waved my hands in denial.
“That is not the case, Godmother.”
“Then, after all these years we’ve lived together, why do you still call me that?”
Certainly, enough time had passed to count on more than ten fingers. Thinking about it, I was the protagonist; I couldn't just push her away like a small-minded person forever. So, I compromised.
“Mo… ther?”
Her expression shifted subtly. It was a complex face, a mix of lingering regret and relief.
“…Yes. That will suffice.”
She spoke as if sighing, then closed her eyes. It might have been my imagination, but her arms holding Freed seemed to tighten. As if she were relieved by something.
*
'That aside, Mother needs to recuperate as well.'
I had put out the immediate fire, but there was still work to be done. Specifically, postpartum care.
'Of course, this era has postpartum care, but…'
The problem was that the methods would make a modern person scream. This fantastic dark fantasy fusion-punk world recommends beer or wine to mothers who have just given birth. It sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. In this world’s common sense, alcohol is treated as safer and more nutritious than water.
Thus, there exists a postpartum recovery food called "Coddle," which is oatmeal porridge mixed with ale or wine, seasoned with eggs and spices. They claim that mixing nutritious alcohol with nutritious eggs and delicious spices helps with milk production.
'The shock I felt when I first saw that…'
When I first saw postpartum care being done with Coddle in the red-light district, my heart sank. They feed the mother alcohol, keep the room sealed tight without ventilation, and touch her without washing their hands. Then, if the mother dies from puerperal fever or complications, they call it "fate."
…I try not to think of the people in this world as barbaric, but whenever I see things like this, such thoughts inevitably creep up.
'That’s why I always have to step in myself.'
Naturally, our Mother Linier would not be recuperating with such things. To prevent that, I had to prepare the recovery food myself.
'The menu…'
I’ll go with seaweed and abalone. It’s not because I have a "Korea is the best! The East is the best!" mindset. It’s just that I’m Korean, and I don't know any other food good for postpartum recovery besides seaweed and abalone.
However, there was a minor issue.
'I can't just hand her seaweed soup and grilled abalone and expect her to eat it well.'
Even in this dying world, seaweed is easy to find. It’s just that, given the culture, it isn't treated as a proper food ingredient. As if to prove why Westerners call it "seaweed," here, too, it was treated as a sea plant that only the poor in coastal fortresses ate when they had nothing else.
It wasn't hard to force seaweed soup on the mothers in the red-light district. I just told them it was a "green potion" and made them eat it. But that was a method I couldn't use in the Baron’s estate. If I put it on the table, I’d probably be scolded for serving something akin to a Cthulhu feast.
'Then how should I package it?'
I pondered for a moment and found the answer: Risotto. A cream base with plenty of cheese, and the seaweed finely minced and mixed in. If I slice the abalone thinly and place it on top, it would become a decent high-end dish.
'Seaweed-Abalone Cream Risotto. It sounds quite fancy just by the name.'
Even commoner ingredients can be tailored to noble tastes if you change the cooking method. It’s not for nothing that French cuisine makes a fuss over all sorts of scraps. Thinking about it, cream and cheese are sources of calcium and protein necessary for a mother, so it’s not bad nutritionally, either. As a bonus, I can cover the green color that might cause aversion with the white cream.
'Decided.'
While Godmother was napping, I left the head maid in charge and headed to the kitchen.
*
On the way to the kitchen, I ran into someone at a corner. A girl with impressive silver hair and blue eyes. Freya, a little lady one year younger than me. The daughter of the Nihilit family, the biological daughter of my Godfather and Mother. So, what should I call this… 'Adopted siblings? Foster siblings?'
I didn't know the exact term, but we were something like siblings.
“…Brother.”
Freya looked up at me and opened her mouth. Unlike usual, the corners of her eyes were red and swollen.
'She cried.'
How scared she must have been while Mother was giving birth. In this era, it’s common for a mother to go give birth to a sibling and never return, so it was natural for her to be worried. On top of that, she must have heard that the newborn brother was in danger all night… I reflexively wanted to reassure her, but then I remembered one fact.
'Ah, we aren't very close.'
We had lived under the same roof for ten years, but I had few memories of having a proper conversation during that time. I was always buried in studies and quinine research, and Freya had her own life. We’d just nod if we happened to pass each other in the hallway. Or exchange formal greetings at family gatherings. That was the extent of our distance.
'But come to think of it… a protagonist of a misunderstanding-trope story shouldn't be cold to his younger sister.'
Does it make sense for a character called a "Saint" to be cold to his family? Even if we were distant until now, I had to build an image of a kind brother from here on out. So, I decided to get close to her starting today.
'Like a gentleman. Gently.'
I consciously softened my tone and relaxed my expression. I channeled that face I used to use when dealing with patient guardians at the 21st-century hospital. For the record, the fact that I was a trauma surgeon who spent more than half the day wearing a mask is irrelevant.
“Freya.”
“…Yes.”
“Are you going to see Freed?”
Freya nodded. I thought for a moment and said,
“Both Mother and Freed are fine. So, don't worry too much.”
“…Really?”
“Yes. I saw them myself, so of course.”
I answered confidently. The groundless confidence of a misunderstanding-trope protagonist exists to be used at times like this. Freya’s expression softened a little. However, her eyes were still filled with anxiety.
“Brother, I… I want to be of help, too.”
“Help?”
“Yes. Is there nothing I can do?”
It must be frustrating to have a sick family member and be unable to do anything. I thought for a moment and suggested,
“Then, will you help me?”
“Really?”
“I’m going to the kitchen now to make some food for Mother…”
I rolled that unfamiliar word on my tongue for a moment before continuing, “I’m going to make some food for Mother. It would be a great help if you could assist me.”
Freya’s eyes widened.
“Brother, you’re going to cook?”
It wasn't because she was happy to have a task. She seemed surprised that I was the one cooking.
'Indeed, it’s not a common sight for a noble child to pick up a kitchen knife.'
In an era with small windows, poor ventilation systems, and a lack of the concept of cleanliness, the kitchen is far from a modern cooking studio. It’s closer to a 3D workplace where you have to constantly deal with rats and flies. Naturally, kitchen work becomes a lowly task. Especially for nobles, for whom dignity is as important as life, the kitchen is a forbidden space.
In that sense, it might be a character error for the protagonist, who is a perfect noble, to frequent the kitchen. But thinking about it, my character needed a hobby like cooking.
'Because a genius-type protagonist needs to be versatile.'
I wanted to be the Da Vinci of this world. A painter, sculptor, architect, anatomist, and inventor. That kind of genius. That was the ideal intellectual archetype since the Renaissance, and this world wasn't much different. The problem was that I had no talent for the arts. So, I compromised with cooking. I found out after trying that I had an unexpected talent for it. Dealing with entrails on an operating table wasn't much different from dealing with ingredients on a cutting board.
'I know people will call it lowly, but I can just cover that up with dignity later.'
I know that my frequenting the kitchen will look like a lowly act. But ultimately, dignity is not a matter of what you do, but who does it and how. If a commoner digs the earth, it’s labor, but if a noble digs it, it’s gardening. In the face of overwhelming achievements and class, prejudice has no choice but to remain silent. Therefore, I could say this with confidence:
“Nothing to be surprised about. It’s just a hobby.”
“…A hobby?”
Freya tilted her head. She still didn't seem convinced. Well, would a ten-year-old understand the concept of overwhelming prejudice with dignity? It felt like this would never end, so I just changed the subject.
“Anyway. Freed is sleeping right now, and Mother is resting. There’s nothing you can do if you go now. That’s why I’m asking you to help me by my side.”
“Then what should I do…”
“Give me your tasting review while I cook.”
“…Pardon?”
Freya blinked.
“It’s for Mother, so I have to check the taste, don't I? So, you taste it first and let me know if it’s okay.”
She was the designated taster. I couldn't make a noble lady do kitchen work, so this was appropriate. Besides, it was a role that was actually needed. My palate was so unrefined that there was no guarantee I could satisfy the tastes of the nobles in this world.
“Am I… allowed to eat it first?”
“Of course. Who else would check it?”
Freya’s expression brightened subtly. It seemed she felt like she had been given a special mission.
“I understand.”
Freya nodded. Her eyes were still red, but her expression looked better than before.
“Then let’s go.”
I took Freya and headed to the kitchen.