The True Way to Cook Eggplant: Frying (2)

Knock knock knock—

"Contractor. Excuse the interruption."

Following Mary into the study, Karem found Catherine seated at the reception table.

And seated across from her was an unexpected guest.

"Lord Olivier?"

"Oh, so you've arrived. But… frying? I was told you were having a snack. Doesn't that seem a bit heavy?"

"What does it matter what I eat? It's only a burden to an old man who'll be dropping dead of age soon enough."

"Heh heh. What an insolent little bean of a disciple."

A brief silence settled between the two archmages.

Then, in an instant—

Whooosh— Crack-crack-crack!!!

A miniature storm of flames and frozen lightning crossed above the table.

"It seems we'll be needing another set of dishes."

Observing the scene, Mary spoke a single dry line and held out the tray. Karem took it in her place; Mary left with a quiet "I'll be right back," closed the door behind her, and was gone.

"All right, you two archmages. Save the fighting for later. The food will lose its flavor if it cools."

At those words the small-scale magical duel raining silent castings across the study table came to an abrupt end. Karem, restorer of peace, set down the tray that proved it.

"Hmm? The meat fritters I understand. But what exactly did you fry here?"

"Eggplant. Eggplant fritters."

"…You fried eggplant?"

"I ordered it."

Olivier's wrinkled eyes went wide; he craned his neck for a closer look at the tray. One plate held long, salt-dusted ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meat fritters alongside the eggplant fritters; the other was piled high with pieces stir-fried in a red sauce that gave off a sweet-and-sour aroma.

"Hmmm. Frying eggplant… That's a first for me."

"A little better than the first two people who saw it, at least."

"Which two?"

"Lord Ianbert and Mary. Both of them made faces like they were about to die of disgust—then once they actually tasted it, they ate plenty. The former just seems to hate vegetables in general."

Kid. Ah, yes. Olivier studied Karem, who was attending his mistress, for a moment before returning his gaze to the tray.

A vegetable shunned by nobles—especially the meat-worshipping nobles of Seophon—cooked in the most extravagant manner possible: deep-frying.

If only out of curiosity, Olivier popped a salt-sprinkled eggplant fritter into his mouth in one bite.

Crunch-crackle-crunch—!

A texture like a cloud torn free and fried, layered dozens of times like puff pastry. The condensed nuttiness melted like freshly made hot custard over a soft interior.

…They got this flavor out of eggplant?

"Soft and savory, yet the fresh fragrance means you barely notice the greasiness typical of fried food."

"It's the best way to eat eggplant."

"You're right, Karem. No—just changing the cooking method can do this much…"

Unable to hold back any longer, Olivier broke off mid-sentence and took a piece of the sauce-tossed eggplant fritter from the neighboring plate.

Crunch—!

Not quite as crisp as the one before. Exactly as expected. The sauce had lent the batter a faint new elasticity, a brand-new texture. It was rather like snapping dry tree bark that still held the moisture of dawn. Beneath it, the rich, custard-like nuttiness of the eggplant met and soothed the lingering tart-sweetness of the sauce.

"The sauce has ketchup in it. Aside from the tomato, the ingredients are fairly common, yet the result is remarkably novel."

"I thought vegetables alone might be dull, so please have some of the meat as well."

Catherine promptly accepted a piece of the sweet-and-sour pork.

"By contrast, this meat fritter is a bit ordinary."

"Well, I used pork tenderloin, and the batter's a little different, but it's similar to fried chicken."

"Still tasty enough, though personally I prefer these eggplant fritters."

"We've been agreeing more often lately."

Crunch, crack! Olivier speared another sauce-tossed eggplant fritter.

"Come to think ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of it, the coming-of-age ceremony is almost upon us. Will you take part?"

"Yes. Lord Iona already asked. I told him I would."

"Then you'll need preparations."

"I suppose so."

From of old, participants in Iceland's coming-of-age ceremony were required to wear garments gifted by their guardian and to prepare two tokens of gratitude for that guardian. One was offered as a sacrifice; the other was given directly. Such was the tradition.

"Is there a prescribed outfit?"

"It differs by nation and region, but usually there is a traditional style."

Catherine's words were welcome. If the attire was fixed, there would be no need to fret over it.

"Iceland, however, appears to have no set dress."

"So much for that."

"They say it began with parents equipping a child who was striking out on their own. Lately it has simply become clothing."

Compared with the barren, thrill-filled past of Iceland that Karem had heard about before, life had grown far more livable.

"So, Karem. Who will prepare the clothes you wear to the ceremony?"

"…That's a good question."

Karem, about to spear another eggplant fritter with a fresh fork, paused in thought.

A guardian was generally defined as a person with parental authority, a legal guardian, a parent who protected and supervised a child, or someone in a comparable position.

For a fleeting moment the faces of his parents from this life—people who would not so much as blink if he died right in front of them—floated up. He swept them lightly from his mind.

With them gone, what remained was the ward.

As far as he was concerned, there was only one person who could possibly qualify as guardian or the like.

Almost without meaning to, Karem turned his head toward the person who had just occurred to him.

He met a pair of startled eyes.

Catherine glanced briefly at Olivier, covered her mouth, and cleared her throat.

"Ahem. Ahem. Considering your circumstances, I appear to be the only one who can claim the role of guardian. In that case there's no helping it. So—"

"Well now, Kitty. If you're unwilling, I suppose we'll have to find someone else."

"What."

Ignoring Catherine's shrill cry, Olivier—wearing the expression of a man who had just seen something highly entertaining—cheerfully tossed another eggplant fritter into his mouth.

Crunch— crack—

"Come to think of it carefully, quite a few people would prepare clothes for you if you simply asked. Given your services so far, your lord would gladly do it. The chief steward, or Gordon—who's practically your son-in-law—would also be more than willing—"

"Hold on. Gordon is my son-in-law? What is that supposed to mean?"

"Hm? Isn't he???"

Olivier raised the sweet-and-sour pork on his fork; it formed a perfect T.

"I heard it from Corvus. That dryad girl was born from the seed you handed over, was she not?"

Not wrong.

No—wait. The wording was a little off.

That Flora had been born from the seed the Nameless Traveler had given him was an undeniable fact.

"Wait—so that odd nuance I kept sensing whenever Flora went porong-porong was—"

"That dryad regards you and Corvus as her parents!"

Having finished the pork, Olivier pointed his fork at Karem with absolute conviction, as though announcing the correct answer.

"No, hang on—first of all she's a fairy, I'm human, and Corvus is a monster."

"Do you really believe a dryad barely half a year old can grasp such a complicated arrangement?"

"…Uh… then wait, how does the family tree even work?"

Karem reflexively raked his fingers through his hair. His frontal lobe throbbed at the sudden reality.

So he was the father, Corvus was the mother, and Gordon—who was easily twenty years older than Karem in this life—had married his daughter Flora and become his son-in-law… and now he was supposed to take that son-in-law as his guardian?

"You half-dead old fossil—who gave you permission to decide the whole story on your own!"

"My, my, my unfilial disciple Kitty. Did you not just say you had a schedule and therefore no choice?"

"Who said I was busy!"

"Then you'll claim the role of guardian yourself?"

"Yes! …Hm?"

"How pleasant it is to see you so forthright."

He's baiting me right now, isn't he? The beard hid most of his expression, yet the two eyes above it had curved into crescent moons.

Under an indescribable wave of profound humiliation, Catherine could no longer restrain her magic. Mana surged to the fingertips of a woman who was barely clinging to her composure.

"Here—eat something and calm down."

"Y—you—! Cough!"

Without ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the slightest warning, a tart-sweet fragrance filled her mouth; the gathered mana scattered like a late-spring breeze.

"That's no way to treat food."

"And you don't think your present behavior is any way to treat your mistress?!"

"My apologies. But it loses its flavor when it cools. And the ones tossed in sauce will only get soggy."

"This man who throws all sense out the window the moment food is involved—"

Yet Karem was not wrong. The pork fritters and eggplant fritters before them were, at this very moment, at their peak ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of crisp, crackling perfection. Punishing Olivier, on the other hand, could be done at any time.

Soggy, cold eggplant and pork fritters versus attacking Olivier right this second.

Catherine compared the two possibilities with cold, clear reason and reached her conclusion. She did not smooth her scowl, but she did lower her arm.

"Eggplant fritter. No sauce."

"Yes. An excellent choice."

"Well then, I had best be going."

Olivier stroked his beard, piled a generous helping of the dishes onto a side plate, and rose with fork still in hand.

"It's nearly time for me to review young master Robin's assignment. Enjoy yourselves, young lovers."

He yanked the door open, patted the shoulder of Mary who was just about to enter, winked at Catherine, and strode out of the study.

Mary bowed briefly toward his retreating back and stepped inside.

"I'm back. Why does the atmosphere feel so strange?"

"Here we have a heart broader than the sky and deeper than the sea—"

"Don't get cheeky."

"Yes, ma'am. Here."

At Catherine's warning Karem obediently shut his mouth, though Mary—who had heard everything from outside the door—had already grasped the situation.

"In that case, I'll have to make use of this place setting myself."

Feigning ignorance, Mary sat naturally in the seat Karem vacated and took over attendance on Catherine.

"Seeing as things have come to this, kid—we'll have to get your clothes for the coming-of-age ceremony fitted."

Mary desperately swallowed the words If you leave it to me, I'll have it done in an instant. Of course she was confident she could produce a garment that met every requirement within half a day of receiving the order; she had personally made the clothes Karem wore after his body had grown under the curse, after all.

Yet she clenched her teeth against the urge to blurt out her true thoughts. Even if she paid no mind to the eyes and opinions of others, actual damage (a reduction in working hours) would occur. On the honor of a house elf, she could not let this pass.

"Then we'll stop by the tailor's."

"The tailor's… wait. This is giving me a strange sense of déjà vu."

"You don't have anything particular tomorrow, do you?"

"Just for one set of clothes…?"

"Isn't that only natural?"

It was not mere déjà vu.

Karem recalled the agonizingly boring past experience of the magic-tool stand—when every single minute had felt like an hour.

At this rate he would have to ask Mary—

Wait. This is a date.

The total amount of luck and joy is proportional to misfortune and suffering.

"On second thought, it's a once-in-a-lifetime special day. Clearing an entire day for it seems worth it."

Karem humbly decided to accept the suffering.

Before that, though, he needed to meet Iona first.

A picture drawn by ChatGPT.