“You need to tell Lady Gwendoline that you can’t do it all by yourself. They’re taking advantage of you, dear. Tell her you need at least one day off every week.”
The idea of saying anything to her ladyship—let alone asking for time off—made Nell shrink back in her seat. “No, I couldn’t do that. I’ll get it all done, don’t worry. In any case, it won’t be long until you come out of hospital, and—”
“Now don’t go all cowardly on me, Nell. Find a bit of pluck! You need to stand up for yourself.”
A flush of heat rushed into Nell’s cheeks. “But I don’t want to be fussy.”
Mrs. Quince smiled. “Nell, even if you tried, you couldn’t be fussy.” Her eyes bore into Nell. “We’re a country at war, and what we need is women with spirit, women who step forward and say, ‘I can do this.’ ”
Nell looked uncomfortably at her hands. “I don’t have a hope of winning without you. I’m not as good as the others.”
“You’re far better than them, Nell. You know that. You can’t rely on me all your life. You have to learn to stand on your own two feet. Grasp this opportunity with both hands,” she said, a twinkle once again in her eye. “You deserve better than this life in service. You’re already in second place. All you need is two more good recipes, and you’ll win.”
“B-but I thought you’d had a good life, being a cook,” Nell stammered, unsure if the stay in hospital was filling her old mentor with gloom.
“I was trying to make it sound good, trying to keep everyone happy. There are worse employers out there, to be fair, but honestly, my dear girl, now you have other chances, and you have to take them. I know you’re all worked up about your Italian lad, but you have to set that aside and focus all your attention on winning this contest.”
“But—”
“No more buts. You only get one life, Nell, and winning this contest might be your one chance for freedom. Nothing will change until you believe in yourself.”
Nell felt a tingle all over. Could she do it?
The nurse came over to tell her that visiting time was over, and she sorrowfully took her leave of Mrs. Quince, thinking about what she’d said. As she walked slowly back through the hall, through the main doors, and out into the bright light of day, Nell knew that she at least had to try.
She had to give it her all for Mrs. Quince.
Zelda
A tin of Spam sat in the middle of the long table in the factory kitchen. Behind it, the slow pace of the afternoon shift continued. Women in long white aprons cleared and cleaned from the making and serving of lunch in readiness for the making and serving of dinner. Zelda had chosen this lull in activity to create what she could out of, well, very little.
“I can’t believe it’s come to this.” Zelda sat looking at the tin with utter disgust.
Doris, the pasty young assistant, was watching it, too, only with very different thoughts in mind. “Looks a bit manky if you ask me. Couldn’t you find something better?”
Zelda’s eye had been on Audrey’s pig, until she was informed that it actually belonged to a pig club. These groups had sprung up everywhere, neighbors and friends raising a few pigs and dividing up each pig when it was slaughtered. “It means you get a nice joint and some chops every so often rather than all in one glut,” Audrey explained.
Audrey’s pig club was saving their last pig for Christmas, apparently. Zelda had no idea why people began saving food coupons and stocks of sugar as early as the summer, but the nation seemed obsessed with Christmas, fattening hens, ducks, rabbits, and pigs for the annual slaughter. Christmas had barely existed for her when she was a child. One year her mum had come home with a man, and he had given each of the children a penny to spend on sweets, to keep them out of the way. She’d kept hers, scared of spending it, eating it, having it vanish in a single delicious moment that would never come again. Then her sister stole it from her hiding place, and that was that. Another Christmas a lady from the church came and told them that if they went to the church they could have free food to make a nice dinner—there’d been a collection for the poor. But Mum had told the lady that they weren’t beggars, slamming the door in her face. Zelda had shouted, trying to go after the woman, but her mother grabbed her back, pulling her ear down until she was on the floor, kicked. What a meal she could have cooked with that free food! Desperation had already made her wise to the power of good cooking.
Zelda glared at the Spam, peeved. The first round seemed so unfair—she’d kicked herself for not using scrod, as she’d used in her practice run. She had to make up for it in this round. Among other choice items, she’d considered offal, as the Ministry of Food was always pushing it in their Food Facts columns in the newspapers. But, after standing in a line for the whole of her morning off, they were even out of that. It, too, was now officially scarce, even brains and, for heaven’s sake, tripe. It was a sign that the nation was truly on its knees.
“Shall we try a bit?” Doris said, eyeing the Spam.
The tin was oblong in shape, the black-and-white label already peeling off. “I suppose it’s had a long, dangerous journey from America.”
“I’m glad the Americans joined the war, what with all these new tinned meats. Ethel got some chocolate from one of the GIs last week. Don’t know what she had to do to get it, but it was quite a big bar.” Doris giggled.
Zelda ignored her, picking up the tin. “I wonder if it has the extra layer of fat around the edge like the American tinned sausage meat. That’s very useful for making pastry.”
Doris grimaced. “I’m not sure you’ll win a contest with that, Miss Dupont.”
Zelda rolled her eyes with the aggravating truth of this statement.
“At least I’ll get extra points for using a Ministry of Food favorite,” she muttered without enthusiasm. “Let’s open it, shall we?”
The tin took a bit of work to open, but once there, she tipped it upside down on a plate, allowing the pink, squidgy block to slither out, coated with a layer of jiggly, unsavory-looking jelly.
However, there was one, undeniable plus. The delectable smell of fresh meaty ham penetrated her nostrils, making her mouth water involuntarily. She hadn’t eaten since lunch—hadn’t had meat in over a week.
“How I loathe all this rationing. It makes me yearn to eat the most despicable things.”
“Know what you mean,” Doris chimed in. “It smells lovely but looks like a pile of something awful.”
“Shall we try it?” Zelda snapped.
Taking a knife, she carefully cut a slice, grimacing as its spongy form bounced back into shape. Inside, the flesh was processed to within an inch of its life. A ham shoulder—the worst cut—had evidently been shredded, pulped, and then molded into an oblong shape. She cut off a corner and tried it.
“It tastes all right, but that texture.” Her face crumpled with disgust. “What am I to do with it?”
Doris made an overly heavy sigh and was rewarded with a small wedge. As she chewed, she busied herself taking in Zelda’s surprising new figure. Even the long apron and bulky sweater she was wearing beneath couldn’t conceal the ominous bump. The loss of the corset had made life a lot more comfortable, but Zelda knew that troubles of a different kind lay ahead. Fortunately, the management rarely came down to the kitchen, and since she was in charge of the kitchen, none of the assistants would dare tell on her.
Would they?
A few Spam recipe leaflets issued by the Ministry of Food sat on the table beside her, and she began to flick through them, passing instantly on Spam Fritters, Spam Hash, and Spam and Mushroom Pie.
“None of these.” She pushed them to one side. “No, it has to be something original.”
The assistant piped up, “Spam is supposed to be like pork, so why don’t you make a pork dish, only use Spam instead?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped
. Yet, on thought, the idea had promise.
“It’s that rubbery texture that gives it away. How can you hide it?”
“It would have to be chopped up and redone in some way. A stew, perhaps, or a pie.”
Zelda’s mind roamed over her favorite pork creations, stuffed pork loin, pork goulash, pork meatballs—no, they’d taste like bad mincemeat.
Suddenly, a light switched on in her mind, and she had a vision of it perfectly formed. “Raised cold Spam pie, for slicing with a salad,” she murmured. “It’ll have a golden hot-water pastry crust. I can add some other meat to help with the texture—they sometimes sell wood pigeons at the farm. It’ll be perfect. I’ll sear the Spam, add the wood pigeon, and…let me think. Ah, yes. I can use a few red currants from Audrey’s bushes, and I saw a jar of pickled walnuts in the pantry. They’ll go perfectly.”
“What will you make it in?”
“I’ll need one of those lovely ornate cold pie tins. I’m sure I’ve seen a few in one of the cupboards here. An oval one—it’ll be perfect. Can you find one for me?”
The girl rushed off, and Zelda was left deep in her thoughts.
“Thyme, sage, and maybe the vaguest hint of nutmeg,” she continued with glee. “I’ll serve it with a salad of lettuce, cucumber—and, yes!—beetroot. The Ministry of Food is always pushing salads—they’ll be delighted.”
“Is this the one?” the assistant asked, clattering a metal pie dish on the table. It came in two parts, with a tightening latch on each side to squeeze the pie into shape and to make it stand firm and upright. Its sides were prettily ridged, and it curved daintily in around the middle, like a buxom shepherd girl.
“It’s perfect,” Zelda whispered. “She’ll be the belle of the ball.”
Zelda’s Raised Spam and Game Pie
Serves 8 to 10
This pie needs a flan ring or a removable-base tin 7 to 8 inches wide with a depth of at least 2 inches.
For the hot-water-crust pastry
3 cups plain flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup water
½ cup lard, cut into pieces
1 small egg, beaten, or the equivalent in dried egg powder
1 tablespoon butter, softened
For the filling
2 tins Spam, sliced into 1-inch slices
1 pound game meat (boned weight, about 4 wood pigeons)
2 cups chopped mushrooms
1 onion, peeled, halved, and finely chopped
4 tablespoons chopped parsley
A few sprigs of thyme, chopped
Salt and pepper
8 pickled walnuts (optional), removed from brine and dried with kitchen paper
For the jelly
1 jar red currant jelly
2 leaves gelatin, or 1 teaspoon powdered gelatin
To make the pastry, sift the flour and salt into a bowl and make a well in the center. Bring the water and lard to a boil in a pan, until the lard has melted. Gradually pour the boiling water and lard mixture over the flour, mixing well with a wooden spoon. Knead the dough in the bowl until smooth. Leave it covered for 15 minutes.
Prepare all the filling ingredients. Sear the Spam and set aside. Carefully take the meat from the game birds, do not cut away the fat. Chop and place it in a bowl with the mushrooms and onion. Add the parsley, thyme, salt, and pepper and carefully mix.
Lightly grease the tin. Take two-thirds of the dough and, on a lightly floured surface, roll it into a circle about ¼-inch thick and 10 inches across, big enough to line the pie dish or flan ring and overlap the edge by ½ inch or so. Making sure there are no holes in the pastry, place it into the flan ring or pie tin, carefully press into the corners, and allow it to just hang over the edge. Roll the remaining dough into a circle large enough for the top. Now preheat your oven to 390°F/200°C.
Fill the pastry with half the game mixture. Put in half the dried pickled walnuts, if using. Season with salt and pepper. Then cover with half the Spam slices. Repeat with the other half of the ingredients. Brush the edges of the pastry circle with water and carefully lay it on top.
Trim the edges with a knife and pinch the base and top pastry edges together to make a good join. You can decorate the top and edges using the leftover pastry. Cut a small hole in the center to allow the jelly to be poured in when cool.
Brush the top of the pie with the beaten egg and cook for 45 minutes, covering with foil if it starts to get dark brown. Take it out of the oven, remove the ring, brush the sides and top again with egg, and bake for a further 15 minutes. Remove from the oven to cool, then refrigerate for 3 to 4 hours, or overnight.
The next day, make the jelly. Soak the gelatin leaves in cold water for 2 to 3 minutes until soft, then squeeze out the excess water. Heat about a quarter of the red currant jelly in a pan, stir in the gelatin until dissolved, then stir into the rest of the jelly.
Carefully remove the pie from the tin by using a sharp knife to run around the edges to avoid breaking the pastry. Plug any holes in the pastry with some softened butter. Slowly pour in the jelly and if it springs any leaks, plug them with more butter before pouring in more jelly. Fill to the top with jelly, then return to the fridge for a few hours.
Serve cold and sliced with a salad.
Lady Gwendoline
Late again—only this time forgiven—Chef James arrived ten days before the contest to finalize the arrangements. Once again, Lady Gwendoline awaited him in her back reception room, but this morning, she had spent a little longer than usual on her appearance. Instead of her usual formal suits and dresses, she was wearing a rather modern dress, tapered at the waist and rather low at the front. Her mascara was a little thicker than usual, and she’d used a little of her expensive Parisian perfume, too.
Chef James did not disappoint. Although his face was the same, handsome and square-jawed, today he wore a smart, tailored suit, which sat impeccably on his muscular form, and she felt compelled to exclaim, “How lovely that suit looks on you. Is it Saville Row?”
“It is.” He stepped a fraction too close as he came to take her hand. “I only wear the very best.” His hand lingered on hers.
She invited him to be seated, and he pulled his chair around the table beside hers.
“I have some plans I would like to show you.” He seemed to take a deep breath of her perfume, and then he bashfully said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look quite marvelous today. That rose color of your dress, it’s goes beautifully with your dark hair.” He blushed, and she couldn’t help but do likewise.
“Gosh, do you think so?” Why was she behaving like a girl?
He brought out a few pages and spread them open on the table in front of them. “Here is your winning dish. I’ve decided on whale steak and mushroom pie,” he said with a grin. “The Ministry of Food chaps will be head over heels that you’re using whale meat. They’re finding it incredibly hard to shift.”
The idea worked its way through her mind. “That’s all very well, but how are we going to mask the taste?”
He laughed slightly, pulling himself closer to her conspiratorially. “If you know how to cook it properly and conceal the flavors, it’s just like a jolly good piece of steak.”
She let out a tinkle of a laugh. “Ambrose will love that! I wouldn’t have known where to start.”
“You’ve probably never had the need to cook whale meat, luckily for you.” He grinned. “In the restaurant trade, we have to show willing—especially if we have one of those weeks when we can’t get anything else.”
The first page had a list of ingredients, and behind it was an illustration showing how the final dish would be arranged on the plate.
“How clever of you to think of presentation, too.” She held the page up to get a better look, turning it toward t
he light.
“It’s utterly crucial.” His eyes gleamed. “Cooking, to me, is more than just taste and nourishment. It’s about art.” He came in closer, his voice softer. “It describes how we feel about ourselves, about life.”
“How poetic. Sometimes I feel this war is killing poetry, making everything so uniform and orderly. Bossing us about.”
He smiled. “I can’t imagine anyone bossing you about, Lady Gwendoline.”
Her face fell as she thought of her husband, always angry. Perhaps it was Chef James’s handsome face, or it could have been his gentle eyes, but Lady Gwendoline found herself confiding, “Sometimes life at the top isn’t as much fun as it seems. It can be quite lonely.”
“Life can be lonely wherever you are. It’s not easy being a top London chef, either. A lot of people view a young man out of uniform as a coward or deserter. Sometimes I feel like an outcast.” He dipped his head.
She reached over and put her hand on his. “Don’t feel that way! It’s so unfair of people to treat you like that! Top restaurants are crucial, keeping spirits up and showing Hitler that life goes on as usual.”
“Thank you, Lady Gwendoline. I can tell that underneath, deep inside, you have a kind, generous heart.”
She felt her heart stop for a moment. “No one has ever said that before.” How could this man—this newcomer—see so much inside her? She felt disarmed, and yet a gush of gratitude flurried through her. “Most people only see what’s on the surface.”
“I don’t know what it is, maybe we’re similar, or perhaps we have a special connection, but I feel as if I already know you.”
And before she knew it, she was replying, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
He took her hand to kiss it, turning it over to kiss the palm.
The Kitchen Front Page 20
