by Eric Flint
Arch shook his head. "No, John. I want it plucked. I just want an old, tough, scrawny one that's too stringy to fry and too skinny to bake."
"Mister Pennock, are you sure? Nobody asks for that."
"It's what I want, John."
"Well, if you are sure, I have just the bird. You come back in little bit and I have it ready for you."
"That's fine, John. I've got some other things to pick up."
* * *
After Arch had walked the market and picked up some garden produce, he stopped back for his chicken. As asked for, it was indeed a scrawny old bird. Arch smiled. "It's exactly what I wanted."
Janos was worried. He thought the only way he was going to sell that bird was when it was the only one left. He found Arch's smile reassuring. "Mister Pennock, can I ask why?"
"Sure. I've got a hankering for my grandmother's chicken and dumplings. She only used the oldest hens to make dumplings and I want it to be just right. I could make a better dish, but I'm cooking a memory as much as I'm making dinner." He didn't add that he could get a chicken from the grocery store near his home for not that much more, and he could save himself the walk. He liked the walk. Then, too, he wanted a freshly plucked bird, not one that had been in the meat locker for several days even if it was kept just above freezing. His grandmother's chicken went into the pot minutes after it was plucked. He thought it made a difference.
Janos got a faraway look in his eyes. "I know just what you mean. My bushka, my grandmother, she would make the most wonderful dumplings. When there wasn't enough of any one thing in the house to feed everybody, she would make dumplings. I miss them. The food is good, but I miss those." Janos was living in a settlement house, a co-op one step up from a refugee camp, practically a dorm. When he said the food was good, he meant there was enough to eat, but, truth be told, it wasn't the cooking he was used to.
"Well, hey, you know where I live don't you?"
Janos nodded.
"Tell you what, I'll start the pot a little late and you come on 'round after you shut down for the day. You can share a bowl or two with me so I don't have to eat alone."
"Are you sure, Mister Pennock?"
"I asked, didn't I?" Arch grinned. "See you tonight. Bring your appetite, there'll be plenty. I don't know how to make less than two gallons at a time anyway."
* * *
Arch walked back into the market to buy more milk. It was pasteurized and the heavy cream was skimmed off, mostly for butter, but it still separated out when it set. Homogenization was just a word in Grantville, which was all right with Arch. His grandmother had kept a cow and he remembered the difference between cow's milk and store milk. The younger generation didn't like it at all, claimed it just didn't taste the same. As far as Arch was concerned, the raw milk tasted better.
Meanwhile, he need the half gallon mason jar he used for milk full instead of half full. He was having a guest and wouldn't dream of having anything to drink with the chicken and dumplings except milk, even though Janos would probably prefer small beer.
* * *
When the market closed, Janos got cleaned up and ready to go. All day long his mind and his mouth had been busy remembering his home and the meals of his childhood. At Arch's home, he was again reminded of just how rich these people were. The table was set for nobility. There was a bright white tablecloth and expensive paper napkins from up-time. Janos thought they should have been sold. You could use the back of your hand or a cloth which could be rewashed and reused. The flatware was steel and the drinking vessels were glass. He knew from past experience that the up-timers had so much they just didn't think about how rich they were.
Arch was stirring a pot on the stove. "Hey John," he called when Janos knocked on the screen door. "Come on in and set yourself down. Everything's ready." Arch turned the fire off under the pot then he opened the refrigerator and poured two tall glasses full of milk after giving the jar a good shaking to re-mix it.
"I hope I got all the bones out when I cooked the chicken. I always think I have but then I always find at least one I missed when I'm eating, so be careful." The bread Arch bought at the market was sitting in a rack. He took an electric knife to it and set half a dozen perfect slices on the table next to the butter. At last, he set the pot in the middle of the table. "My ex-wife would have raked me over the coals for doing that. I should have put it in a soup tureen or at least a serving bowl before I put it on the table. I didn't even know what a tureen was until I married her. I haven't had one in years, not since she moved out. Besides, it's just us three chickens here anyway."
Arch scooped a healthy serving into the bowls and dug in.
Janos looked at the meal set before him and swallowed his disappointment before he started swallowing a rather tasty meal. Three bowls later, Arch brought out ice cream for desert. When he knew he had company coming, he'd gone home and grabbed a covered Tupperware dish, some ice from the ice maker and a small cooler, then walked back into town to the ice-cream store. Most of the ice cream was sold over the counter and eaten in a hand-made waffle cone or in dishes on site. If you wanted to take it home you bought a container or brought one with you.
"Well, John Ose, what do you think?"
"Mister Pennock, that hit the spot. Those were first rate noodles. They were the first real noodles I've had in Grantville. Thank you."
"That's what my grandmother called dumplings. I know it ain't what Yankee's call dumplings. I've had Yankee dumplings and it was what I would have called broth pudding."
Janos hurried to explain. He didn't want to offend anyone. "Mister Pennock, please, it was very good. I ate three bowls, did I not? You had more pepper than Grandmother used but the noodles were just like hers except yours were wider. I miss her noodles, too." He finished the serving of ice cream and sighed. "Mister Pennock, I have Sunday off. Could I use your kitchen Sunday after church and I will cook for you real Hungarian dumplings like my grandmother used to make."
"Well, John, it's my turn to host poker night." In the old days they would meet to watch sports on Sunday afternoons. Now they played poker. "I usually feed them sandwiches. But I tell you what, if you let me pay for it and you cook enough for twelve, you're on."
"You have twelve for poker?"
"Nah. There's five of us, and you'll make six. But I know how these guys eat."
"Can I bring things by on Saturday and put them in your refrigerator?"
Arch nodded. "How much cash are you going to need?"
"Twenty dollars ought to do it, unless you want me to pick up the beer."
"I'll get the beer." With the number of brewers in town increasing every time you turned around, Arch didn't think it was safe to let a foreigner pick up the beer. After all he liked it warm and dark, not thin and pale. "You sure twenty's enough?"
Janos ran through what he would need to buy, where he could get it and how much it would cost. Most of what he wanted, he could get in the market where he worked at a better price than customers could get. Of course, any chickens that were plucked at the end of the day went home with other vendors at live chicken prices. "Mister Pennock, I'm making dumplings. Twenty is more than enough; there will be money left over, unless I need to buy salt and ground black pepper at the grocery store." Importers usually sold wholesale, so if it wasn't locally-raised, the grocer was pretty much the only option.
"I've got plenty on hand," Arch said.
* * *
Sunday afternoon Arch had bowls full of crackers, dip, pickles, carrots, celery and green onions set on the card table. He was a bit worried about what he had gotten himself into. The idea of making enough food for twelve on twenty dollars had him a little worried, so he was ready with back-up food, and had plenty to snack on.
Kirby Frank showed up first. "Hey Arch, what's up? You getting fancy on us? We've always used the kitchen table before."
"John Ose, the kid who works in the chicken stall down at the market, is making dinner for us so we're playing out here."
> "Oh, okay. What's he making?"
"Dumplings."
"Real dumplings or Yankee dumplings?"
"Hungarian dumplings, like his grandmother used to make."
Kirby got a sour look on his face.
"Hey, Kirby," Arch whispered, "don't sweat it. If it don't work out I've got head cheese and cheddar in the fridge."
Kirby smiled. "Hey, I came to fleece the flock, not feed my face," which was less than half true, in Arch's opinion. Kirby came out of habit for an afternoon of male bonding, but if he wasn't fed, he wouldn't stay. He had a closer bond to a growling stomach than he did to anything else.
About an hour into the game, Janos stepped into the room to announce that dinner was ready.
Kirby threw in his hand. "I was playing on a busted flush anyway."
"Well, bring your chairs and your glasses on into the kitchen and let's see what Hungarian dumplings are like," Arch said, getting up and taking his own advice.
The old five gallon canning pot was sitting, a bit over half full, in the center of the table, along with bread and butter and beer. Five bottles were out of the refrigerator and sweating drops of dew in the warm kitchen. The sixth one was room temperature. Janos started scooping servings into the bowls. Verlyn poked at it with his spoon, Kirby cautiously put one to his mouth and bit it in half. When his face lit up instead of him spitting it out, the others followed suit.
"Hmn." "This's good!" "Hey, it's the first time I ever saw ravioli served with something other than spaghetti sauce." "Best damn ravioli I ever ate." "It is not ravioli, I have had ravioli, they are dumplings." "I don't give a damn what you call 'em hand me the ladle." "This really is good." "Here, dip me another scoop." With the exception of Janos defending the national pride of Hungary against an Italian invasion, it was rather unclear as to who said what as they repeatedly slurped the bowls empty and then scraped the bottom of the pot.
When everyone was stuffed and the dumplings were all gone Verlyn said, "I've got the game next week. You think you could come over and cook this again?"
Kirby popped up about the same time, "I've got to have my brothers and sisters and their kids over to the house for a family dinner later this month. They always poke fun at my cooking. How about it, John?"
Before Janos could answer, Arch spoke up. "Verlyn, everybody else has folded and it's a hundred to me. I'll call and see your raise with a Hungarian dinner next week?"
"You're on."
"I'm serious," Kirby said. "I could use a pot that size for a family dinner. It's worth every penny of a hundred dollars."
"But when will I have time?" a rather stunned Janos asked.
"Kid, don't sweat it," Arch told him. "I'll take care if it. As of now, you and me are in the catering business." Arch could do the math. There was a lot of money sitting across the kitchen table. "You up for it?"
Janos grinned. "I'm up for it."
Thunder in the Mountains
by Richard Evans
Bern , Swiss Confederacy
Midwinter, 1634
The Inn of the Sleeping Mule
"Thomas, are you sure this'll work? Those illustrated magazines of yours may have been explicit enough for you, but I've never seen a cannon with two open ends before. How does it fire and what are we going to do with it?" Giuseppe Benito-Fransoni asked.
"I checked them myself, against the magazines." Thomas "Boom-Boom" Cahil chuckled. "I'll show the Americans that firing me for experimenting was a bad move. That I will."
Giuseppe knew that "I" meant "we" again. Sometimes the half-Irishman irritated him immensely, but other times Thomas amazed him with his wealth of knowledge from the future.
Thomas had the magazines and formulas to support his claims, but he didn't look like the type one would want assisting in an alchemist's lab or even blowing things up. Thomas' build was that of a born laborer, one only fit for grunt work, something Giuseppe was definitely allergic to, unless it involved cannons.
The two of them seemed to have a mutual fascination with the idea of blowing things up, and in the comics Thomas had lots of things got blown up. Including a pass filled with an attacking company of infantry covering a line of twelve tanks. Giuseppe had wanted a tank for himself, but he knew that was well beyond anyone's means.
But this "bazooka" in the comics—yes, that they could get built. The other, darker, comics about the vigilante with a skull on his body armor even had pages with detailed explanations about a similar weapon and a cutout drawing of the device. Those were Giuseppe's favorites, when he could pry them away from his partner.
Thomas had made the decision to simplify the design until they had something that could be built and that they could afford. The rocket parts hadn't been as easy. No cut outs, no formulas, just what Thomas said he knew and learned before he was invited to leave Grantville.
Thomas winked at Giuseppe. "Everything I learned in Grantville is still up here." He tapped his battle-scarred forehead.
Giuseppe mentally counted the months since Thomas had said he'd been discharged from the USE Army. It didn't leave him much time at the explosives factory that he went on and on about. Or with their dynamite and the magical RDX they had just started producing either, but apparently he'd been there long enough to copy the formulas and take note of the methods used to produce the explosives.
With the right alchemist, maybe we can do this, Giuseppe thought.
"What about the tasks I set you, Giuseppe?"
"That Austrian smith you had me find can build the 'zooka-tube.' It's not much more than a long pipe with a smaller tube for a sighting mechanism, and the other side has a latch and catch in the rear for this 'rocket-round' you've mentioned. And a lever-trigger for activating the battery."
"I've heard of batteries being made in Lucerne from passing merchants. Can we build one of those here?" Thomas asked, as if this were just another minor detail. Details that usually cost them money or another midnight shopping expedition.
Giuseppe calculated his own wealth. He had exactly twelve Italian copper pesetas and two silver crowns. It wouldn't last long, not the way his partner was spending money. At least Thomas was an adequate thief when he needed to be.
"If we can make one, it will be larger than what they are selling in Lucerne and it will have to be connected by copper wires to the launcher. That means it will take two of us to operate the 'zooka.' If we can't get one of those, maybe one of the smaller Elektrische Generators that are popping up in every store here in town might work."
"One of those Elektrische Generators will have sufficient power for our needs. We just need enough power for a spark to the launching charge." His partner once again had the answers before Giuseppe could ask the question himself.
"You've only shown me parts of the final rocket designs, Thomas. I . . . we . . . need to be sure that all the parts we get made fit together properly so that when I load them with . . . you know what . . . we're sure they'll work."
Thomas nodded and passed him a sheaf of drawings and contracts. Giuseppe eyed the plans for the bazooka and the bits and pieces of the rocket they were supposed to be firing from this weapon.
If it worked there was no doubt everyone would want to build their own bazookas. That was why they'd had the parts built by different men, with strict tolerance requirements written into the contracts.
What that meant to them was that the contractors would never know what the parts they were making would end up looking like once assembled or what they'd be used for. Much safer for the two of them that way. Much safer. Giuseppe was sure he could put the various parts together easily enough.
He remembered the fateful words that night two months ago when word had come that the passes were closed for the winter. "I wish there was a way we could bring down all that snow hanging over the passes, let the mountains settle and the roads could be cleared." Then Thomas had smiled and pulled out the several comic books and two worn magazines he'd brought with him to Bern. Several buckets of cheap beer later, a
plan was hatched. One that Thomas said he had the necessary knowledge for. Giuseppe would get his wish, and they'd be able to make money doing it too.
This bazooka wasn't going to be a weapon of war, but one to start controlled avalanches. From a safe distance. Giuseppe hoped it was a very safe distance. He was no math genius, but he did know how to load cannons. Loading and firing the "bazooka" should be child's play for him, but still . . .
"I used the last of our project money to buy enough of the explosives." Thomas grinned. "I think I got the mix right this time."
Giuseppe snorted. He hoped Thomas was right about the blend. Their first attempt had blown up their shack just outside of town, where all the new labs were being built.
Using a fulminated mercury impact fuse to set off the warhead was just a bad idea. They were down one partner from that mistake and the city watch never did find all of him either.
They'd finally decided to use a standard skyrocket time fuse ignited by the last gasp of the propellant as the rocket motor burned out to set off an explosive detonator inside the warhead. This one used a mix of one of Thomas' up-time formulas and old fashioned black powder, ground real fine, mixed with some other ingredients Thomas kept secret even from Giuseppe.
Mathematically, Thomas insisted, it would work perfectly. His math was much better than Giuseppe's. Thomas' drawings showed exactly how it was supposed to work, but still, Giuseppe's guts quivered every time he remembered their shack rising into a cloud of debris moments after they'd stepped out of it.
* * *
All the merchants caught in Bern had to go somewhere to spend their hoarded money and this was the cheapest of the cheap inns in town. It was a natural marriage with the stingy merchants who were waiting on the spring thaw and clear passes, not to mention safety from avalanches. The merchants were losing money with each day they were stuck in Bern.
While they waited for the inn to fill up with its nightly crowd, Giuseppe studied the drawings intently looking for any flaws and asking Thomas questions.
Between questions Thomas related his experiences with the Swedish Army and his time at the explosives factory. The story changed with each telling, but Giuseppe could tell some parts were true. His palms itched when he'd heard about the RDX and other explosives. Especially the dynamite. RDX was beyond their means right now, so they'd settled on a form of dynamite Thomas knew about and the alchemists could make if they were really careful. Something he would insist upon.
