Chapter Five

 

"How do I look?" I asked.

I was hoping my lipstick wasn't too smudged, and that the dress I was wearing, a tad too loose, had been cinched in effectively by an old belt with a wide clasp. It wasn't the most authentic forties' style dress I could find, an old pink floral print with a brown background, but it paired well with the old-fashioned high heels I found at the charity shop — I matched them with a cheap handbag and an old pair of earrings.

Matt closed the door to the fridge, and Joel looked up from his homework. They both studied my old-fashioned floral dress and accessories, then Matt spoke. "You look like the photos of my great-grandmother Tressie."

"From your tone, I'm guessing she wasn't a fashion maven," I said. "What do you think?"

"You look like something out of an old film," said Joel. "Are you supposed to be in a play?" He looked confused.

"It's for the W.I. cookery class," I said. "We're supposed to get into the spirit of things by dressing in period costume, and this is the best I could do. It was Amanda's idea, not mine."

The boys exchanged glances. "Should you do something with your hair?" Matt pondered. "Should it be loose like that?"

"Thanks for your help," I said, sarcastically. "I asked for input, and I get comedy."

"No, I only thought it would be more authentic if you wore it in a little bun. Like great-grandmother Tressie." He almost managed to bury his smile, but I caught him.

"Fine. Laugh if you want, I have to go, I'm meeting Kitty," I said. "Makeup okay at least?" Joel gave me a nod, and I took this as a sign that despite my dress's loose fit and chunky brown heels, that I passed inspection for public appearance.

I left them to ponder my new fashion and let myself out of the kitchen door. Through the garden gate, I turned right, and made my way up the steep back stairs, in the direction of the W.I.'s headquarters, which was located on the lane at the top, in a converted building that once belonged to a photography shop, so the kitchen still had the faint odor of chemicals when some of the least-used cupboards were opened.

Halfway up, I met Kitty, coming out of the back gate belonging to one of the community's senior members. Unlike me, her outfit was perfect — she looked like a fashion plate out of a wartime sewing pattern, the button-down green dress fitted to her, with a trim belt, and matching black gloves and a hat.

"Did you have yours tailored?" I asked, slack jawed. "I thought you said you were going to do over one of your grandmother's old dresses."

"I had to ask Birdie for help," said Kitty. "Mum gave her all of gran's sewing things when she cleared out. Madge taught her to sew, so she fitted me up with this." I had a feeling that part of it was authentic, like the glittery little black netted hat and the wrinkled black velvet gloves she was wearing.

"You look amazing. I feel like a charity box fashion grab by comparison," I answered. "Even your handbag's authentic — everything matches your coat."

"You look fine," scoffed Kitty. "You're just self-conscious because you don't wear this sort of stuff."

"That's true," I answered. "Matt compared me to his great-grandmother, but since I had similar thoughts about Teagen's blouses a few weeks ago, I have no grounds for complaint. I should just pin this dress to fit me, and find a better pair of shoes."

"Maybe let me pin it," suggested Kitty, archly. "I'm a bit better at it than you. I'm no Birdie, but I still have some training."

"Point taken," I answered. "Do you have any more of those vintage handbags of your gran's lying around?"

We climbed the steps, past garden fences and low-trimmed hedge, where a few people watering their winter greens' seedlings gave us funny looks as we passed. It wasn't every day you saw two women in forties'-era fashions going for an evening stroll.

All of the ladies had managed to find something to wear that looked semi-authentic, even those who relied on Amanda's advice and chose tartan or plaid skirts and the ever-fashionable knit jumper. Cherish had gone the same route as Kitty and found someone to fashion a dress that looked old, judging from the attractive fit of her long-sleeved red one.

Amanda herself had clearly found a vintage-inspired dress — possibly online, a flattering one with a floral 'flower sack' print from the war days. Tights in an old-fashioned style, with 'clocks' up the back, as if she had rummaged through an old trunk just to locate a grandmother's old wartime stockings as well.

"Isn't this marvelous?" said Amanda, tying on a vintage apron sporting an applique pear. "I can't wait to begin. I feel very Ruth Goodman right now."

"So what are we cooking?" asked Charlotte, who was frowning as she looked at the ingredients piled on the counter. Powdered milk, tinned fish, salt, pepper, flour, and a pile of root veg with a grater beside them. "This is a rather strange family of ingredients, isn't it?"

"These are to make a dinnertime meal from grandmother Caroline's most tried-and-true recipes. She put notes by all the ones she served multiple times," said Amanda. "I thought we'd start with something simple and everyday to get the gist of it. This is her fish loaf with white sauce, served with parsnip fritters."

"Parsnip fritters?" repeated Marian, who looked as if she hadn't heard this part correctly. "What are those?"

"Yes — isn't that clever sounding?" said Amanda. "I thought at first it must be sort of like potatoes o' Brien, but it isn't, actually. It's sort of a medley between an American hash brown and apple fritter, slightly sweet but not too much, according to the description I read online for parsnip patties."

I put on my apron and surveyed the basic cooking supplies laid out. "Where do we start?" I asked.

"Well, someone will have to open the tins of fish and add them to the bowl, where we mix in just a touch of flour and old breadcrumbs, and a little powdered mustard for flavoring," said Amanda.

"I'll do it," said Charlotte. "Spend my days with fish, don't I?" she joked, and we all chuckled.

"Then we need to grate the parsnips in a bowl, add some gelatin and a little salt, and combine," said Amanda.

"No flour?" said Kitty, who had reached for a bowl and a grater.

"No ... it says no," said Amanda, studying the book. "To conserve, I suppose. After all, can't be tossing about such a valuable ingredient at random."

Kitty shrugged and reached for one of the roots, as Amanda thumbed to the next page marked in the book. "We'll need to make the sauce when the loaf is about halfway through," she said.

"I'll do it," volunteered Cherish. "I love to make sauces. I always make my own marinades at home."

"Perfect," said Amanda. "Lastly, we'll make a little bit of something for pudding. It was called 'carrot dream aspic' in the book — a sort of tropical-inspired salad. Rather brave in its ingredients, so it should be interesting."

I raised my hand. "I'll give it a try," I said. I made jelly in molds for the kids, so how hard could this be?

Charlotte opened the tins for the fish loaf, dumping in canned haddock and salmon. She glanced at the ingredient list, then added the cup of bread crumbs and the flour required, along with spices, and began squishing it together. "It's rather dry, isn't it?" she remarked. "Doesn't it need a bit of milk?"

"It doesn't say so," said Amanda, checking the recipe. "I think the milk was conserved for the sauce."

"Tinned milk?" Cherish held up the can, her nose slightly puckered.

"Well, the recipe calls for it," explained Amanda. "Fresh was for the children, I suppose. I suspect grandmamma was using a little bit of 'needs must' pantry stockpile in her recipes, as the bright sort when it came to cookery."

"Mmrph," said Cherish, who was holding the rest of her doubts back. She began reading the recipe, as Charlotte squished on.

"Should I add this water, do you think?" she asked Lady Amanda, glancing at the book. "It seems to me that won't add much in the way of flavor."

"Yes, but it will moisten it," I pointed out, as I dissolved my gelatin. I wanted to shred my carrots, but Kitty was still trying to shred the parsnips, which appeared to be tough and resistant.

"I suppose." Charlotte splashed in some water and began mixing. The fish made splush splush noises at first, and I exchanged glances of bemusement with Kitty, but the bread quickly absorbed the moisture.

"Here are the spices," announced Amanda, opening her basket. "Some chives, some rosemary, and some dill. Not grown in a Victory Garden, sadly, but pinched from Mrs. Norris's patch out back."

"Maybe we should have made her an unofficial member and you could have brought her along," remarked Charlotte. "She has the arms of a combat warrior in training."

The loaf was beginning to put up as much resistance as the turnips. Charlotte squeezed it, trying to form it into something palatable-looking, but the water and the fish combined had made a rather thick, pink pasty-looking mass that didn't inspire one's stomach. "I think it's combined," she announced. "What do we do next?"

"We put it in the tin," said Lady Amanda, who produced one from the cupboard, a standard loaf pan. "It says to sprinkle more crumbs over the top, along with a dash of pepper, and bake until the crumbs are crisp and brown."

"Sounds simple," I remarked, as Charlotte covered the top with a very slight sprinkling — it was difficult to make a teaspoon's worth cover an entire loaf. She poked it into the oven and turned the temperature to the medium heat setting. She wiped the pink smears off her hands with an old towel, and glanced quizzically at the book, as if to be sure that this step was correct.

Kitty was still wrestling with the parsnips, which were finally reduced to nubs. The pile of starchy shreds were ready for the shaping, although they did not shape when Kitty mixed in the gelatin with seasoning. It remained loose and sloppy as she stirred.

"What do we do with this afterwards?" she asked, looking to Amanda for guidance. I could see by her expression that she was feeling doubtful. I felt a little of the same when I looked at the contents of her bowl.

"Let's see ... we fry these in a pat of lard, according to the instructions," said Amanda. "It's supposed to crisp them slightly."

"Do we have lard?" Kitty asked.

"No, but I think a pat of butter will do," said Amanda.

"I'll heat the skillet," volunteered Marian, who put one on the stove's eye. "Bring the bowl here, Kitty," she said, as she melted the butter, waiting for it to turn brown.

The smell of the loaf cooking was better than the way it looked, I thought, as it began to bubble in the oven. I peered inside on my way back from rinsing the carrots, which I soon grated in the same fashion as Kitty's parsnips, and added them to the bowl.

The next ingredients were a pinch of coconut and a heaping spoonful of honey, which I stirred into the gelatin with the carrot shreds. The instructions said to pour it all into a mold and chill thoroughly, so I obeyed, watching the liquid splash into the mold. The carrots were sinking to the bottom, which I thought might be problematic at some point in the future. Shouldn't they be distributed all the way through?

Cherish had begun the sauce, but it showed signs of trouble partway through the process, as she stirred thickener into the tinned milk. Maybe it was the color of the tinned milk that was the problem, being a slightly yellowish-brown — or maybe it was the additional powdered milk, which had become somewhat lumpy. The seasoning added was merely flecks floating on the surface.

"It says season to taste," she said, as it coated the spoon. "Do you want me to be the judge?"

Amanda had been busy trying to help scrape the parsnips off the bottom of the pan, which had begun to stick and disintegrate. "Here, I'll help," she said to Cherish, taking two spoons — one for each of them. "Bon appetite."

They both tasted it. Strange looks crossed their faces, nearly identical in the sense that it was quizzical. "It's a bit ... odd ... isn't it?" ventured Lady Amanda. "It needs something, I think."

"What about paprika?" said Charlotte.

"It's not on the recipe's list," I said. "Did they have access to paprika in war time?"

"They did if they were in Budapest," said Kitty, who was trying to scrape burnt bits off the parsnip patty which had gone wrong somehow.

"Let's add more salt and pepper," suggested Amanda, sprinkling more into the mix. I had a feeling the dry lumps were not breaking down.

At six, the timer for the fish loaf sounded. "There's dinner," announced Charlotte, taking it out with two potholders. She placed it on the cooling rack. "It says 'cool before turning,'" she said.

"At least a half hour," said Amanda. "Let's cut it a bit early, to see." She looked eager.

"What about the aspic?" I said.

"It'll be a bit runny, but the taste will be the same, I suppose," remarked Kitty.

We stood in a curious circle as Charlotte and Marian flipped the loaf. Too hot, it cracked in half, sagging a little. The top crumbs had largely disappeared, but the scent was undoubtedly that of a standard fish loaf.

Charlotte sliced it, laying it out on plates, while Kitty scooped the sides. Cherish gave the sauce a final stir, trying to break apart its thickness before it was ladled over, since it had thickened to the consistency of custard somehow.

On the plate, it was a dismal show — the parsnips were slick and somewhat pale, and the sauce was like old gravy — but maybe it tasted better than it looked. We all armed ourselves with forks and tried it.

Silent chewing. A long moment, then Charlotte spoke. "Bit dry, isn't it?" she remarked.

I crunched something, not sure what it was, but I knew it wasn't from the contents of the loaf, unless it was from an un-ground peppercorn. More likely a bad spot in the parsnips. "It's different," I said, simply to contribute some remark. If you can't say something good ...

Glances were exchanged between the group, mostly looks of uncertainty. The look was unappealing, but the taste was not much better, if the truth was told. This particular recipe of great-grandmother Caroline was not a winner by today's standards.

Amanda's consideration was long as she smacked her lips. "Well ..." she hesitated. "I think ... it needs adjustment to be palatable," she said. "One has to keep in mind that it was wartime. This was a day-to-day dish, not something for special as well. But how fascinating is it that we just made a dish that hasn't been made in decades? This —" she pointed to the fish loaf, " — sustained our ancestors through the worst time of their life."

"Let's try the dessert," said Cherish. Of course, the aspic hadn't set, but oozed onto a plate. It was scented by the lemon, but it tasted of burnt honey to me.

"I thought the carrot was meant to taste like apricot," remarked Cherish. "Do you taste apricot?"

"Not really," said Marian.

"It's a bit chewy, isn't it?" said Charlotte. "Maybe it needs to be boiled."

"With sugar," suggested Kitty.

"That's not very wartime-spirited, is it?" said Amanda, in an injured tone. "It's the economy of dishes like this which saved a nation. Besides which, we haven't tried the special recipes, which are the real gold in the book. We're only getting into the first stage now."

We voted to try something different the next week, and Kitty and I tried not to discuss our grumbling stomachs as we walked home afterwards. I buttoned my coat over the dress, which was made from a summery fabric that didn't block the cool wind. "I think great-grandmother Caroline left out some ingredients," I remarked. "Or didn't write down whatever additional ones she made to earn her reputation as a cook. Then again, I'm not a great cook, so what do I know? Amanda cooks some, and so does Charlotte, but the rest of us are pretty rank amateurs, unless we're talking about making a showstopper from a recipe."

"Maybe I'll ask my Mum," said Kitty. "Her recipes are the worst, they're probably from a wartime cookbook. She might know why the sauce turned to gravy, if nothing else."

"The more the merrier," I said. We needed some advice if we were going to turn these recipes into a menu for a seasonal fundraising dance. "Anybody who knows their way around a saucepan is welcome to weigh in."

We were almost to the downhill path by the Frobisher's back garden when a car horn beeped for us. Nathan rolled down his window. "Take pity on a lonely G.I., babe?" he said to Kitty.

She smirked. "Do I look like a tart to you?" she asked.

"Come on. Be my U.S.O. entertainer tonight," he grinned. "I'll buy you a glass of champagne and we can toast the war's end."

Kitty glanced at me. I nodded. "Go on, he took the trouble to save you a second walk," I said. She opened the car door and climbed in.

"Do you want a ride?" Nathan asked. "I'll drop you off at home."

"Thanks, but I'll walk," I said. "Good for working off tonight's tuna loaf." He made a face, but didn't ask why that was the dish of choice.

At home, I entered through the kitchen door again, where Matt was sitting at the table with a cup of tea, glancing over his design for a garden at a private home in Penzance. I shed my coat and dropped my purse atop it, issuing a deep sigh. "Any tea?" I asked.

"You look as if you could use something a bit stronger," he said. He rose and opened the cupboard, pouring me a sherry from the bottle behind the catsup and canned soup.

"Thanks," I said. "I feel like I've been doing combat with food for the last two hours. It turns out that tinned fish is not a delicacy. I'm ready to put on my pajamas, eat a snack, and watch television until bed."

"That's a pity," said Matt. "I rather fancy you in that dress."

"I thought I looked like your great grandmother." I sipped the sherry. "Who was, apparently, not a looker."

"I never said that," he pointed out. "I merely said you resembled her. In fairness, she was sixty in most of the photos my mother had." He polished off his sherry in a large sip.

"I am wearing a garter belt under this thing," I said.

"Really?" One eyebrow lifted. He set down his glass.

"And real stockings," I answered. I put on my saucy smile.

He slid his arms around me, drawing me close. He kissed my lips, tenderly, and I leaned into his embrace. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to forget about pajamas and peanut butter ice cream for now.