Greasing the Wheels of Life
Raw flesh, bones, entrails, and blood. Greasy residue in the washbasin, leftover food, and dishcloths bloated from hot water. In a class society where keeping one's hands clean was the very definition of dignity, the kitchen was hardly a place fit for a noble. Especially not in a world like this, where one had to constantly tussle with rats and insects. Yet, I had set foot in a place that was practically taboo for a noble.
The ingredients... are here. I lined up the ingredients I had brought with the ones already available in the kitchen. Seaweed, abalone, cream... and so on. Everything is ready.
First, I submerged the shriveled, black seaweed in water. As the dead seaweed absorbed the moisture, it bloomed, reclaiming its natural deep green hue. While the seaweed rehydrated, I reached for the abalone. Let's leave out the entrails. I slid a spoon between the muscle and the shell. I separated the adductor muscle and set the removed entrails aside. The innards would be far too bitter for a mother whose senses were currently heightened. Besides, the color and flavor wouldn't pair well with a risotto anyway.
Next, I drizzled cooking oil into a pan and heated it. Just as the aroma of garlic began to rise, I tossed in the squeezed seaweed and soaked rice. I poured in the broth and stirred slowly until the heavy cream and cheese melted into the mixture. I kept stirring without rest until the rice released its starch, thickening the broth. Finally, I plated the dish and neatly topped it with golden-brown abalone slices seared in butter. With that, the risotto was complete.
"Care for a taste, my lady?" I portioned a small amount of risotto into a small bowl and offered it to Freya. She gingerly picked up her spoon but hesitated before the dish. Though it was coated in white cheese and cream, the scattered patches of deep green were clearly unfamiliar to her. The fact that it was made from sea weeds, combined with a color that somewhat resembled a potion, gave her more than a few reasons to hesitate.
But soon, Freya squeezed her eyes shut and took a spoonful into her mouth. "...!" "How is it?" "...It's delicious." "I'm glad." I nodded and began plating the portion for Mother. Since presentation is half the meal, I channeled my inner fine-dining chef and paid extra attention to the plating. As I was pouring my heart into the garnishing, Freya spoke up.
"Brother." "Yes?" "...Could you make this for me again sometime?" It was an unexpected request. "Did it suit your palate?" "Yes! It's so different from what we usually eat," Freya said, looking down at her clean bowl. "I've never had anything this gentle. Usually, everything is drenched in pepper and oil."
Ah, that made sense. Noble cuisine inside the Wall was generally drenched in spices—black pepper, cloves, nutmeg, and the like. They generously showered their food with spices that were difficult to cultivate inside the Wall as a way to flaunt their wealth and power. Consequently, no matter what you ate of noble fare, your tongue would tingle, and your stomach would end up soaked in grease. Indigestion came as a complimentary side dish. To a child raised on such a diet, how would the gentle, savory richness of cream and cheese taste? It must have been a strange, almost shocking experience.
"Alright. I'll make it for you from time to time." "...Really?" "But there's a problem." "Pardon?" Wiping my kitchen knife with a cloth, I pointed toward the kitchen entrance. My eyes met those of the head butler, who stood frozen at the doorway. "I'm not sure if I'll ever be allowed back in this kitchen."
I often think about this, but there are far too many taboos in this world. Men must not encroach upon the domain of midwives. Children must not encroach upon the domain of adults. Doctors must not encroach upon the domain of healers. You can't do this, you can't do that. At this rate, it felt like it would be faster to draw up a list of things we were allowed to do. And today, I had broken yet another taboo. The taboo of a young master daring to get his hands wet in the kitchen.
"Young Master. Where on earth did you learn such a..." "I picked it up while working in the Tanners' District. There were no cooks there," I replied, cooling down the still-steaming risotto as I answered the butler's question. For the record, the "Tanners' District" was a polite euphemism for the Red-Light District. I couldn't exactly tell him I worked in a brothel district with Freya standing right next to me.
"But still, to do such lowly work..." the butler muttered, staring at the dish I had prepared. Why is cooking lowly? The retort almost slipped out, but I held my tongue. Even if I explain it, he won't get it. For cooks to be treated as artisans, this world would need something akin to the French Revolution. Only after that did chefs manage to hold their heads high before nobility. But in a world where the Emperor could engage in a character-deletion match with a dragon, I doubted such a revolution would ever happen. So, I decided to pivot. If I couldn't convince him that cooking wasn't lowly, I would convince him that my intentions behind it were noble.
"Butler. This is medicinal food for Mother. Preparing medicine is hardly lowly work, is it?" "Well, that is true, but..." "If it helps Mother recover her strength, I would gladly scrub the floors. Is that not the duty of a filial son?" "...!" The butler's eyes shook violently. He bit his lip, unable to find his voice, as a wave of emotion surged from deep within him. He was probably profoundly moved.
In truth, it was partly to build up my multi-talented persona, and partly because the food in this world is so dreadful that I started cooking just to feed myself. But there was no need to be brutally honest about that. Everyone has a few exaggerated traits, don't they? The butler accepted the tray with trembling hands. The moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes was definitely not my imagination.
"Let us bring it up before it cools. Cream dishes lose their flavor once they go cold." "Yes, yes! I shall deliver it at once!" The butler turned in a flurry and rushed out of the kitchen. There was an air of solemn determination in his retreating figure. His reaction was so dramatic that it almost made me feel like I had prepared the Last Supper. Beside me, Freya looked up, her eyes sparkling. "Brother... you really are amazing." I shrugged. Sometimes, when I received praise for something so trivial, I felt the power of the misunderstanding trope was a bit too absurd. Still... It's better than sarcasm.
In the 21st century where I used to live, praise was scarcer than gold. Even if you saved a dying patient, it was dismissed as the basic duty of a technician who was merely earning his keep. And if a doctor showed even a sliver of interest in anything other than research papers or patients? "Go get some sleep instead," or "You've got it too easy," were the kinds of snide remarks thrown your way. Some people aren't like that, you say? Well, the malicious comments on the documentary I appeared in certainly were. They cursed at me, saying I was getting ahead of myself when I wasn't even a professor yet. They had no shortage of nasty things to say to the precious "young prince of trauma surgery." Compared to that cold, dry world, this mindless praise was a hundred, no, a thousand times better.
"Come on, let's head up. You want to eat by Mother's side, right, Freya?" "Yes!" "Then let's bring your portion along. Mine too." For the record, I had specially picked out the carrots from Freya's bowl.
I headed to the room carrying the tray. Ah, old habits die hard. When I arrived at the door, my godfather was there. He had his face pressed close to the crack of the slightly open door, watching Freed and Mother with eyes dripping with affection. His hands, clasped behind his back, were fidgeting restlessly, making it obvious he wanted to burst inside right this second and smother baby Freed with kisses.
Unfortunately, even if he was my godfather, I couldn't allow him to touch Freed whenever he pleased. The baby was a preemie with practically zero immunity. Any external pathogen he brought in could prove fatal. For at least the next hundred days, contact with the baby had to be strictly limited to the mother and the doctor. It might seem excessive, but in this era, such measures were necessary to keep a premature baby alive. Should I hang a taboo rope at the entrance until then? With that thought, I approached my godfather from behind.
"Have you come to see Freed?" "Julian...!" My godfather spun around, startled. The rims of his eyes were flushed red. He looked at me with deep emotion. "I heard what happened last night." "Ah, that. There is no issue, and there won't be any in the future." After all, I was here. And who was I? The protagonist destined to be hailed as a saint.
It was then. *Whoosh!* My godfather pulled me into a hug tight enough to crush my ribs. Just a second before impact, I managed to toss the tray to the head butler. Nice catch. "Julian! Thank you. Thank you so much..." His ragged breaths sounded right in my ear. He squeezed my shoulders to compose himself, then turned his gaze to the butler standing behind me. "Send away the carpenter we called this morning. There will be no need to fashion a coffin."
It seemed he had truly believed Freed wouldn't survive the night. In this bleak world, that was only common sense, but it still stung a little. To think he didn't trust me, when the "Angel of the Red-Light District" was on the case. ...Seriously, can I do something about that title?
"And the wood prepared for the coffin... Yes. It would be better used as firewood to keep this room warm, so Freed and Rinie do not catch a chill." The butler sniffled and nodded. *Sigh. What is with everyone? Their reactions are so overwhelming.* But since this wasn't my first time experiencing this, I accepted it calmly. I had seen plenty of people react this way in the Red-Light District. Unlike the 21st century where survival was taken for granted, in this grim punk-genre world where death was the default, perhaps such reactions were only natural.
"Julian. What is this?" A few minutes later, having finally recovered from his emotional wave, my godfather noticed the food. "Is this... coddle? No, it is not. It is risotto. Did you order the chef to make this?" "I made it myself." "You did?" My godfather's brows furrowed. Why did everyone react the exact same way? It wasn't as if I had used human flesh as an ingredient.
His gaze lingered on the risotto for a long moment. Deep green seaweed enveloped in cream. Glistening abalone seared in butter. It was undoubtedly an unfamiliar combination. He might be wondering why on earth someone would put sea weeds into a dish. After a brief silence, my godfather spoke. "...There are three bowls," he murmured. I nodded.
"Since Freed's condition has stabilized, I thought it would be nice for the family to share a meal together." "So that includes Freya's portion as well?" "Yes. I thought it would be wonderful for Mother, you, and Freya to dine together." I handed the bowls to the butler and approached Mother. "Please leave Freed to me and have your meal, Mother."
Mother paused as she was about to sit up in bed. "What about you, Julian?" "I am fine. I must watch over Freed." "..." Mother's eyes wavered subtly. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she simply nodded. "Very well. I leave him in your care, Julian."
The head butler and the head maid dragged a small table next to the bed. It was a dining table prepared for the recovering mother who couldn't make it down to the dining hall. My godfather sat beside Mother, and Freya took her place next to him. I took a step back and stood by the cradle. Freed was still fast asleep. I could see his tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically. Sleep well, little one. Leaning against the railing of the cradle, I watched the Nihilite family eat.
Taking a spoonful, Mother's expression shifted. "...It is delicious." Freya's eyes shone as she chimed in. "I had some earlier, and it was wonderful. There's no pepper, so it doesn't sting my tongue at all." "Indeed. I have never tasted anything so gentle. This is truly lovely." My godfather picked up his spoon as well, targeting a portion with a generous serving of abalone. One bite. His face stiffened momentarily before relaxing. "A peculiar flavor. Where did you learn this? This is..." He trailed off. Contextually, he had probably been about to say, "a flavor a noble would have no way of knowing," but swallowed his words. He was likely worried it might sound like an insult, implying I lacked the refinement of a noble. But I didn't particularly care.
"In the Tanners' District. There were no cooks there, so I had to learn it myself." "..." My godfather stopped his spoon and stared at me. Then, he spoke. "Head Maid." "Yes, my Lord." "Bring another bowl." "?" He gestured toward the table. "There is an empty seat." "Ah, I am fine. I must watch Freed—" I tried to decline his offer. But my godfather cut me off before I could finish. "Freed is asleep. Will he sleep any better if you starve yourself? Or are you performing some sort of fasting prayer?" "No, it is nothing like that..." "Then that settles it. Bring it, Head Maid." "Understood, my Lord." The head maid turned to leave. I stared blankly at her retreating back.