What Is This Made Of? (1)
Mary returned to the tower kitchen with Karem and watched what he was doing with open suspicion.
Steaming grain.
And of all things, oats?
Even for Mary, who had spent decades in service to successive employers and absorbed every recipe under the sun, the idea of steaming grain instead of meat felt thoroughly alien.
The closest thing she knew was steamed malted barley for brewing beer.
In the warmer countries of Europa, especially the southern ones where steamed dishes were common, people might eat something like this. Places like Berseingeto or Servianus—lands that took food more seriously than anyone—would probably take to it at once.
But as far as Mary knew, she had never seen it once in the Seophon Kingdom.
Whole grains boiled into soup, stew, or porridge, maybe. But this?
Karem, for his part, paid her misgivings no mind. He put the washed oats into a bowl and poured in warm water until it lapped at the rim.
"I told you I was going to steam the oats."
Mary effortlessly lifted the Abundance Oak Barrel that Karem had been heaving and grunting over and set it on the table.
"And now the oak barrel all of a sudden? Planning to brew something?"
"So impatient. I'm just going to drop the whole oat bowl in for a moment and take it right back out."
"Ha? What kind of nonsense is that? If you're putting the oats in, fine—but the bowl and all?"
"I don't need anything else. Just a moment. Just long enough to soak them. A moment is enough."
Soaking grain before cooking was only natural, whether rice or anything else. Oats, denser and harder than even wheat berries, needed it even more.
But Karem had a magic tool for that.
The Abundance Oak Barrel.
A relic that accelerated the time of whatever food was inside it a hundredfold—something modern distillers, chefs, and cheese-makers alike would kill for.
And since this was only a soak, a heartbeat inside the barrel would do.
"It's just soaking in water. Does that really make such a difference in taste?"
"Why not? Meat tastes completely different depending on whether you roast it, fry it, or boil it."
"I simply cannot imagine that mere soaking and steaming could turn livestock feed into anything edible. Are you certain this is right?"
"Ah, enough already with the questions."
"It's a perfectly reasonable concern."
Mary looked down at the bowl that had come out of the barrel after only a moment—water level lower, oats slightly plump.
"Junior Karem. You are about to feed livestock fodder to Young Master Godwin. Red Witch's Fingers or sea weeds—"
"Not weeds—kelp! Kelp!"
"—kelp. And that Grizzly Beaver vanilla you kept bragging about belong to an entirely different league. Speaking of which, what exactly is that Grizzly Beaver vanilla you wouldn't shut up about?"
"Well, that is..."
With the mood she's in, better not reveal what it actually is. Besides, every last bit they had brought back from Blackwood Village had long since been confiscated by Catherine. She had insisted that using it raw would be too barbaric; at the very least it needed refining and filtering.
So all Mary knew of vanilla was that it was a byproduct of the Grizzly Beaver, and that it was some heavenly dessert spice. That was it.
And that was precisely why she had been so sour all day.
They had eaten something delicious without her. And they hadn't even set aside a portion for her?
Mary, who lived for bread and dairy, was thoroughly sulking.
Karem set a copper pot filled with water and oats on the hearth, chewing his lip for a moment before continuing.
"...Lady Atanitas is refining it right now. Just wait a little and you'll be able to eat as much as you want."
"Is that so. Then I suppose that's fine. If you can say it with such confidence, I can look forward to that vanilla, yes?"
"Oh, look forward to it all you like."
She might find it off-putting at first, but once she tastes it she'll flip just like she did with the pudding, Karem privately guaranteed.
Meanwhile the copper pot, with its excellent heat conductivity, came to a rolling boil in no time.
Karem adjusted the fire by sound, smell, and the amount of water left.
Bubble-bubble-bubble-bubble.
Pop. Crack. Pop-pop—
As the water dwindled and the heat eased, the oats began to cook, and small popping sounds rose from the pot. A few tough-skinned grains, unable to withstand the pressure building inside them, burst like popcorn.
Then he put the lid on and let it steam.
A rich, nutty grain aroma filled the kitchen.
It was nothing like the smell of the oatmeal Mary knew—oats smashed and boiled—or the scent of oat bread baked from oat flour. This was different, or at least pointed in a wholly different direction.
It was closer to a thick multigrain porridge, only the warm, toasty fragrance amplified tenfold.
Still clinging to one last thread of doubt, Mary finally had to concede.
"Fine. The smell is certainly fragrant. Is that it, then?"
"No. Just a little more steaming—"
"From where I'm standing it looks like you're just putting a lid on and letting it cool."
"You rest a steak after you sear it, don't you?"
"Ah. Resting."
The process of locking the juices activated by heat back into the meat.
Mary rubbed her chin and nodded.
"When you said you were steaming grain I braced myself for some other bizarre stunt. Turns out it takes longer and more care than I expected."
"In some ways it's as much work as baking bread."
"Ha. Comparing it to baking? What about the dough and the proofing?"
"Well, if you count all that, of course pastry and baking are more complicated and labor-intensive. You're being unfair."
Exact ratios of ingredients. Time and degree of kneading. And even if those two were perfect, success or failure still hinged on fermentation and baking—matters left to the heavens.
"Still, even with the bother of soaking and regulating the fire, it's clearly simpler than making bread. How did you even learn something like this?"
"Well—"
"Ah-ah, don't say it. I already know what's coming."
No doubt he'll claim it's because he's a genius.
Mary waved him off with open distaste and began setting plates and utensils on the kitchen table.
"Hm? Three plates? Three sets of cutlery? When did you get in touch with Lady Atanitas?"
"The contractor has left for the main keep on His Grace the Duke of Felwinter's orders."
"His Grace? Oh."
Karem had a fair idea why Catherine had been summoned.
But then who was left to invite? Olivier? Narke? Or Robin, the third son who had practically taken up residence in the tower lately?
Mary's head snapped up. She scanned the kitchen and the space beyond it with the swift, piercing focus of a hawk—or an owl—that has just sensed prey.
Then she vanished from the kitchen without a word.
A short while later she marched back in looking thoroughly pleased with herself.
"Young Lady. Caught you this time."
"How did you even know!?"
In both hands she held Alicia, who was so startled she bit her own tongue mid-protest and clutched her lip like an otter seized by its mother.
Alicia was genuinely shocked.
She had every right to be.
For the past five years, no knight or mage had ever managed to catch her. Only Baroness Poppins could sense and track her down. And now, out of nowhere, another predator had appeared who could snatch her up!
This was serious.
The dread that she might no longer be able to escape dull lessons or sneak in for snacks!
Every knight and every maid and servant except Baroness Poppins had failed to catch her—yet here she was. Next time she would have to hide far more thoroughly—
While Mary deposited her into the special chair she had dragged over, Alicia muttered to herself and stoked her resolve.
Hah. I won't miss her again.
Mary, for her part, only smiled as if to say not a chance.
To Mary the house elf of the Mage's Tower, Alicia's habit of slipping into the tower unseen was something she could never, ever tolerate.
Not Alicia herself—the act of infiltration.
A house elf was one flesh with her contractor's home. She served the contractor and the household, tended the nest, and drove out intruders.
Of course the situation was already hopelessly tangled: Catherine only held the right to occupy and govern the tower, its true owner was Alfred, and Alicia was Alfred's daughter—and Catherine had (with a sigh of surrender) given Alicia standing permission to come and go as she pleased.
So Alicia herself was not an intruder in Mary's eyes.
But the act of infiltrating the Mage's Tower? That she would never accept.
Never!
And at last, after long and determined effort, Mary had finally reaped the fruit of her labors.
One side vowed to sneak in faster and more secretly than ever.
The other vowed to catch her even more thoroughly.
Thump. Steam rose in soft white clouds—
"There. It's ready."
Karem set the pot in the middle of the table and lifted the lid.
A fragrant, nutty aroma billowed up like soft summer clouds.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—
Rice, made for the first time in roughly ten years since his reincarnation.
It was a pure-oat diet version with no actual rice in it, yet the fluffy, separate grains and the starchy little sounds under the spoon told Karem he had succeeded.
Of course, without rice or any other softer grain, the pure oats still carried a certain stiffness you could hear and feel—but that couldn't be helped.
There simply weren't many grains in this world that cooked into proper rice the way he remembered. And he couldn't exactly throw in buckwheat, rye, and whole wheat just for the sake of it.
Even in his previous life, the only non-rice grain he had ever cooked as rice had been oats.
"Ooooh. What a fragrant smell."
"It's called rice. The aroma's pretty good, right?"
"Rice."
"A staple dish like bread—grains soaked in water and steamed while you carefully control the heat."
"But it looks like it's going to roll all over the place. Karem, what is this made of?"
"Uh..."
Karem, who had been quietly giddy at the prospect of eating rice again (even if it wasn't real rice), finally recovered his cool.
This was supposed to be a taste test before showing it to the eldest young master... but is it all right to let the youngest young lady try it too?
Back in the storehouse, that was why Mary had clamped a hand over his mouth. They had wanted as few people as possible to know.
But alas—Alicia, Winterhome's greatest social butterfly, had already infiltrated long ago.
Which was probably why Mary had simply brought her in without further protest.
After all, the last time they had pickled Red Witch's Fingers into kkakdugi, the rumor had spread like wildfire and they had been forced into a tasting-and-demonstration event they never asked for.
Are you seriously going to feed the young lady that steamed oat stuff?
You already set three places. If we send her away like this she'll broadcast it through the entire castle and town.
Mary could not deny his silent argument.
Having quietly converted the last holdout, Karem first spooned a serving of oat rice onto the plate of Alicia, who was already bouncing in her seat with anticipation.
"Taste it first. Then decide whether you want more."
"Okay! But they really do roll around."
A dish of a shape she had never seen in her life.
Alicia scooped up a small portion of the free-spirited, rolling oats and turned them this way and that on her spoon, curiosity shining in her eyes.
And then—
Nom.