Early Jam Donuts as a Snack Before Lunch (2)

Catherine's dilated pupils captured Mary's hands tearing a jam donut in half.

The crisply torn donut was still hot, white steam rising from it. Yet thanks to that heat, the cold jam packed inside was stirred to life, and its sweet fragrance soon shoved aside the heavy smell of oil that filled the kitchen.

A donut just fried in lard carried that irresistible aroma of bread fresh from the oven. Facing that seductive scent head-on, Mary's eyes went slack, her pupils rippling like waves.

Gulp—Fortunately she seemed to have won the battle somehow. She held the halved donut out close to Catherine.

First, a clear white boundary with a faint yellow tint ran straight across the donut's surface. One side was heaped with powdered sugar whiter than snow, grains of sugary snow still drifting down. The opposite side had been fried to a perfect light brown that proudly declared how well it had been cooked.

And the jam within. The once fist-sized donut had swollen in the oil, expanding to half again its size; every empty space was stuffed full of jam. Jam forced through a funnel had soaked the interior the way milk soaks into bread.

The bright citrus scent of jam warmed by a freshly fried donut.

"This is marmalade. Come to think of it, hadn't we finished all the jam already?"

"I brought a whole load at dawn."

"Mm. That's not the important part."

Catherine swallowed hard. Barely two hours had passed since breakfast. But she had always eaten lightly in the morning and at midday, so everything had long since been digested. Her stomach, flooded with sight and scent from above, churned as if begging her mouth to move. Catherine gladly answered that instinctive summons.

The fierce sweetness that hit her tongue first was the powdered sugar. After it melted away like sugar in water, she broke through the savory, crisp shell of the donut and found the moist interior—and the sweetness returned. Citrus fragrance rose to her nose; a bright tartness threaded through the sweetness. Flavors and aromas that made what should have been a heavy dessert feel light flooded her mouth.

"Honey-and-cinnamon warmed milk, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or mulled wine—which would you prefer?"

"Mm, milk for now."

Mary, who had been repeating the same cycle of temptation from the moment she tore the donut, immediately tilted the kettle and carefully offered a silver cup filled to the brim. One of the finest ways to eat dessert bread is with milk. The gentle sweetness of honey stirred into soft milk and the bold spice of cinnamon swept through Catherine's mouth, rinsing clean the citrus that had filled it.

Suddenly Catherine turned her head. Mary looked as though she were enduring every hardship in the world.

"If it's that difficult, you can eat with me."

"Ha—but as a Brownie, the contractor's snack time hasn't even finished yet...!"

Every second Mary was rolling the dice of temptation and barely succeeding. A house-fairy Brownie, and the master's meal not yet done!

"I feel like I'm committing a sin all by myself, so just eat."

"Thank you."

Of course she did not refuse. After all, this was simply sharing the table because her kind contractor had allowed it. At the lightning-fast change of stance, Karem stared at her with an incredulous look. Even so, Mary still handled all of Catherine's serving with one hand. As a house-fairy Brownie she could manage that much; she had simply chosen not to until now.

And the Brownie whose reins had slipped picked up a jam donut and bit into it the way a pelican gulps a fish whole. The instant her mouth closed, the jam inside reached its limit and burst like a failing dam, flooding Mary's mouth. That fierce grape aroma, the crisp shell, the moist crumb—Mary had never felt such a texture; her head swam.

"Good. This time, dip the halved donut once in the milk for me."

"Merciful heavens. Contractor! You truly did not reach the realm of a sage by accident."

Mary sighed as though the idea had never once occurred to her. Karem wondered whether it was really worth that much surprise. It was only dipping bread in milk. Yet for the one person in Winterhome more devoted to bread, butter, and milk than anyone else, it was grounds for awe.

Mary quickly tore another donut, careful not to let the jam spill. Plum jam glowed red in the clear ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sunlight. She dunked the half donut once into Catherine's cup. The surest way not to tire of the same food is to change it somehow, and milk soaked deep into the moist donut was an excellent change. Exquisitely wetted, the donut turned soft as a sponge. The already assertive plum jam grew even richer; yet when it met milk and cinnamon it softened a layer, and the gentler plum now harmonized with everything else.

"Mm—oh gods. It does not fall short even of Castellan soaked in milk."

"Good heavens. That good?!"

"Yes. Mary. So you try it too, quickly."

"Then—uh, ahem!"

Mary's sigh was only natural. She was already mad for bread and milk and loved jam just as much. Now all three were filling her mouth at once. If the flavors had fought like enemies it would have been one thing—but they lifted one another higher. Not to love that would mean she was no Brownie at all.

"Junior Karem. I acknowledge it."

"Pardon? All of a sudden?"

"It's truly frustrating. Truly frustrating—but yes, you are good enough to steal one of my jobs."

Acknowledged or not, Karem's feelings were complicated. Put simply: of all times, and with this? He could honestly claim he had presented all sorts of dishes. Some had been nothing special by his own standards, yet he had never cooked carelessly. To see a reaction he had never received even for the porchetta he poured his heart into—and for a mere donut. All he had done was render lard, fry the dough, and fill it with jam. The actual "donut" part of the jam donut had been Mary's work. Receiving praise for something he had not even made left a strange aftertaste.

This bread-obsessed little... he thought absently. But what did it matter, when she looked that happy? Still, a faint regret lingered.

There was nothing wrong with the donuts themselves. Because he had used once-toasted flour, the powdered sugar was even softer than before. Mary's dough, as expected of a house fairy skilled in baking, was wonderfully airy, and since he himself had fried them the outsides were appetizingly crisp. As for the jams—rich beyond any comparison with commercial jars. A few-thousand-won supermarket jam could not ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even stand beside them.

"For jam donuts, strawberry jam really is best."

"Hmm? Did you just say raspberry?"

"Ah—yes. I was wondering how raspberry jam would taste."

"That would be excellent too."

"I'll have to ask for some next time I go for jam."

Karem mumbled a vague answer to Catherine's words. The remark had slipped out, but there was no helping it. To him a donut meant a jam donut, and among those he loved strawberry jam best—or Krispy Kreme, for that matter. Raspberry jam might serve as a substitute, yet unfortunately none of the jams he had brought today included it. Raspberry was delicious enough, of course; it simply could not replace strawberry.

He had never once seen strawberries in the pantry. Like the otherworld version of chili peppers, was there no otherworld strawberry? On Earth strawberries originated in South America—but by that logic so did chili peppers, and the otherworld chili called Fire Demon Hand thrived even in the cold north that included Iceland. Once the thought took hold, regret kept washing over him. Such regret did not fade easily; he would have to drive it out another way.

"This alone feels a little lacking, so I'll bring something more. Just a moment."

"Hm? Even this is making my tongue dance. What more could there be...?"

Mary's mouth fell open as if she could not even imagine what Karem was doing. Catherine scolded him for walking off mid-snack, yet she was no less curious than Mary.

What Karem carried back was pure white liquid cream and sugar. The scene that followed was one both women had seen before. He added sugar and whipped with the fierce speed of making meringue; the bowl that had been splashing like water soon firmed, rising soft and cloud-like.

Catherine, who had lived long years, watched with fresh curiosity as an ingredient she had known forever revealed a new face.

"To think the cream we only ever poured or froze could be whipped like meringue."

"Whipped cream. Care to guess what I'll do next?"

"...No. Surely not!"

Mary cried out in shock at Karem's next move. He sliced a jam donut cleanly in half. At first the two women only wondered; then a generous spatula of whipped cream was plopped onto one half and the other half settled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠on top, forming donut–jam–whipped cream–jam–donut. Lightning seemed to strike the base of their skulls.

Karem understood their feelings perfectly. In his previous life he had eaten the same thing, ballooned overnight, and suffered through a diet.

A jam-donut cream sandwich. So that no quarrel would arise, Karem's hands divided it into three exact portions, one for everyone presently in the kitchen. Appearance? Fluffy pure-white cream nestled between the jam donut halves looked as though real cloud had been torn and tucked inside—better even than meringue. Cream pressed out by the weight of a hand, mixed with jam and peeping from the cut edge, made Catherine's and Mary's hearts flutter.

Being only a third of the whole, Mary casually popped the entire piece into her mouth.

"Uhaaa......!"

The sticky jam sweetness that had lingered before the milk was washed away first by the whipped cream, then by the savory donut, leaving only longing on the tongue. Catherine felt the same aftertaste. A dessert-mad girl at heart and a Brownie mad for bread, butter, and milk—contractor and house fairy though they were—still sparked with competitive tension.

While the two locked eyes, Karem calmly ate his share. With no one to stop him he rinsed his mouth with bright, sweet-tart mulled wine, took a huge bite of the grape-jam donut, swallowed, piled on more whipped cream, and took another. The last scrap he dipped in warm honey-cinnamon milk and tossed into his mouth. Naturally the jam donuts vanished in moments; he had never fried many to begin with, since they were only a morning snack.

Yet Catherine and Mary stared at the powdered-sugar ghosts left on the empty plate with eyes dripping regret.

"We've already finished them all."

"Indeed we have, contractor."

"It just occurred to me—couldn't we simply have the snack as lunch? Those jam donuts we just ate as a snack, for instance."

"Come to think of it, contractor and I have been adults for ages. It shouldn't matter."

But a snack is a snack. A meal is a meal.

"Does that make any sense?"

He had been planning to make seasoned chicken! On the principle that a snack could never replace a proper meal, Karem resisted stubbornly. Yet under the relentless persuasion of an immortal archmage whose eyes had rolled back for dessert and a professional house fairy, he had no choice but to yield.

A picture drawn by ChatGPT.