“And the boy?” asked Benjamin.
“He cannot resist the lure of perfection,” said Palatus. “There are guards scouring the castle as we speak. They will either capture him, or he’ll surrender from desire. The Harbinger of Peace will fulfill his duty.”
That’s what he thinks, thought Guster. He wasn’t going to give in to Palatus. He’d eat mud first if he had to. And yet, Palatus seemed so certain of what Guster would do.
“No,” said Mom. She folded her arms across her chest.
Palatus looked taken aback. “No, what?” asked the Arch-Gourmand.
“I will not make it,” said Mom defiantly.
It was hard to tell who looked more shocked, Palatus or Felicity. Then Palatus began to boil inside, like he’d never even considered the possibility of being disobeyed. He lowered his eyebrows in a poisonous stare.
Mom stared back, her round face hardened. He seemed like he was waiting for her to break. She did not flinch.
“You would let the wars of the earth continue to rage? You would deny humanity its peace?” said Palatus. Mom clenched her teeth. She did not budge.
“And what about your son? How long do you think he can bear to live without it?”
Guster wanted to call out to her. He wanted to leap from his hiding place and tell her that he didn’t care anymore, that she didn’t have to do it for him.
It was too late. Mom’s eyes dropped to the floor. He could tell Palatus’ words had hit their mark.
Palatus clapped a metal dome triumphantly over the plate of chocolate. “Take the ingredients to the kitchen; we begin at once!” The Budless opened a heavy wooden door on iron hinges. One of them took the platter of chocolate, the other the ice chest, and like pall bearers marched them inside.
The guards shoved Felicity and Mom through the door behind them. Palatus stopped Uvula before he could enter. “Not until after,” he said. Uvula and his men turned reluctantly away.
Mom took one glance back toward the hall where Mariah had gone. It took two Gastronimatii to shove the door shut. Then they were gone from Guster’s view.
“Don’t let them out until they are finished,” Palatus commanded the guard who took up position in front of the door.
Guster slid to the floor. He’d never felt so weak and small — a real ‘Capital P’. What good was he against hundreds of Gastronimatii? He had to follow Mom; he couldn’t leave her alone.
He felt his way along the stone. The passage wasn’t exactly going in the right direction — it veered off too much left, but it was his best shot.
The ceiling got lower as he went, until it dead-ended in a hole that was only as high as his waist. A faint glow low and to his right caught his attention. As near as he could tell, it was coming from the general direction they’d taken Mom. He crawled through the hole.
The tunnel was low, so he had to stay on his hands and knees to keep his back from scraping the ceiling. At the end, the glow got brighter. As Guster crawled closer, he instantly recognized the source — another tiny door covering a set of eyeholes.
When he got to the end he stood up carefully — he mustn’t be heard. The tunnel dead ended in a room the size of a phone booth. On the same wooden wall as the eyeholes were three rusty hinges. Judging by the size of the room and the way the hinges were fastened, he was standing behind a secret door that swung outward, hidden by a portrait on the other side.
He heard the muffled arguing even before he’d slid the tiny door covering the eyeholes open. Sure enough, it sounded like Mom so he pressed his eyes against the holes to get a better look.
On the other side was a spacious tiled room with gleaming countertops, brass sinks, dark wooden cutting boards, and silvery pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. A huge bronze oven stood in the center of the wall on the left. Two yellow, blue and red stained-glass windows made up the far wall that faced the courtyard. Every bit of wooden trim was ornately carved. Every tile was polished like marble.
Felicity’s secret, state-of-the-art kitchen. Guster didn’t care much about cookware or home decorating, but the way it gleamed and shined, it was like it had been carved from a pearl. Had circumstances been different, this would have been Mom’s dream come true.
“How long have you known about this?” demanded Mom. She stared at Felicity with the hot fury he’d only seen her use on Zeke.
Felicity kept her cool. “Ever since I saw the eggbeater in Prison.”
“And you didn’t tell us?”
“Would it have made a difference? When you started out on this journey, who did you think would make the recipe?” asked Felicity.
“I…I don’t know,” said Mom. “But when we met up with you, I guess I thought that you would. You’re the Celebrity Homemaker. You’re the gourmet. You are FELICITY CASA! I shouldn’t be the one to make this. I can’t cook like you can.”
“I would make it if I could,” growled Felicity. She looked frustrated, like something had been taken from her.
“Then why don’t you?” said Mom.
Felicity snatched the eggbeater from Mom, gripping it in her fist. “Because, roughly translated, the last few lines of the recipe say this: ‘ Mixed not by the hand that pleases for wealth, but by the hand that nourishes for life; Confirmed by the tongue of the Harbinger of Peace,’” Felicity recited.
Mom looked blankly at her. “So? What does that mean?”
“I cook for money. It means I don’t qualify. Neither does Palatus. In fact, there is only one person in this castle who does. ‘The hand that nourishes for life.’ That’s what the last line of the recipe means: only a mother can make this soufflé.”
Mom pressed her hand to her bun. She looked overwhelmed, like every danger they’d faced since leaving the farm had all coming crashing down on her at once.
“If we don’t follow Archedentus’ instructions exactly, the soufflé could fall, and the ingredients would be wasted. Palatus doesn’t want to risk that. And frankly, neither do I.”
Mom looked incredulous. “You think this Archedentus is some kind of saint.”
Felicity nodded her head. “He’s as close as they come.”
“But all this time you knew!” shouted Mom. “You came after Guster and I so you could get us to make this!”
Guster felt himself boil. Mom was — no, both of them were — pawns in Felicity’s game. Everything she’d told the Lieutenant in the jungle now made sense.
Mom shook. It wasn’t anger this time. It looked like anxiety. “By now Guster is far away,” she said. She smoothed her blue apron with her hands. She stared at the oven. “And I’ve never actually made soufflé before,” she said quietly.
“You’ve seen my program. You have the recipe. I’ll show you how to do the rest.”
After a long while, Mom nodded. She crossed the kitchen toward the Budless — she looked like an ant compared to the two giants — and took the silver platter with the chocolate on it back to the counter. They did not protest. She did the same with the ice chest.
“I’ll set up for you,” Felicity said, throwing open a pair of cupboard doors behind her head and retrieving a stainless steel mixing bowl. She set it on the counter in the middle of the room, then whirled to the other side, where she turned the oven on. She grabbed wire whisks, glass bowls, and little scales from every corner of the kitchen and set them on the counter as she went.
Mom put the ingredients on the counter, one by one. Felicity held the egg beater and read off the instructions, translating them into English. “‘The Fruit of the Fowl, sunshine and cloud,’” she said. Mom cracked the watermelon-sized egg open with a small mallet. Guster could smell the meaty sunshine of the yoke burst into the air of the kitchen as soon as she broke the shell. It had been so long since he’d eaten that egg plucked fresh from the tree in the orchard at Machu Picchu. Too long.
“Split the egg whites from the yokes carefully. You mustn’t break either one too soon.”
Her hands shaking, Mom poured the contents of the egg
into a gigantic bowl. She stopped to steady herself before separating the egg yolk from the egg white. He’d never seen her more nervous.
“And then ‘Twenty-one shekels of the Buttersmith’s Gold.’”
“What’s a shekel?” asked Mom.
“Here, use this,” said Felicity handing her a small balancing scale. “Scoop it out of the barrel, weigh it, then melt it on the stove,” said Felicity. Mom opened the barrel of butter and carefully weighed several spoonfuls. Guster could almost smell the sweet crispness of the clover.
Felicity turned on the range next to the big bronze oven. Mom put the butter in a pan. “Stir it once, then three times the opposite direction.”
Mom stirred. “The opposite direction,” snapped Felicity. “It has to be perfect.” Mom stirred the other way.
“‘Fifteen and a half Shekels of The Mighty Apes’ Diamonds’,” said Felicity. “Crush the nuggets up into a granules the size of Saharan sand.” Mom unscrewed the jar, and with a bowl and a porcelain grinder, she broke up the diamonds. “Not too fine!” said Felicity. Mom stopped crushing.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” she said.
Felicity gripped the countertop with both hands. “Mabel, if you do not, you may never see your children again.”
“And if I do, I’m not sure I will either,” she said. She closed her eyes, “Guster,” she said.
She measured out fifteen and a half shekels of sugar-diamonds on the scale and set them aside.
She cut off chunks of the Dark Milk Bricks from Arrivederci’s Bean. She measured those on the scale, then put them in a pot on the range to melt.
“‘Beat the cloud of the fowl to soft, white peaks,’” read Felicity. She took an electric mixer from the cupboard below. “Here,” she said, handing it to Mom.
Mom shoved it away. She reached over and grabbed the eggbeater from Felicity instead. “This one seems more fitting.” Felicity’s lips curved; it was almost a smile.
Mom turned the crank of the eggbeater, mixing the egg whites into a frothy foam. She added sugar bit by bit to the mixture. “Good,” said Felicity when she was done. Mom set the eggbeater down, rushed to the stove and removed the butter from the heat.
She continued to move pans here and there as she mixed this and that, then buttered the surface of seven small, white cup-like dishes. She squeezed out seven generous drops of the Sweet, Black Tears into a mixture of yolk, whites, sugar and chocolate, until finally, she had a bowl of thick, dark, foamy mixture. She poured it evenly into the seven dishes.
The smell soaked through the eyeholes of the portrait into Guster’s nostrils. He had never imagined the combined ingredients could be so perfect. He had never imagined he would want something so badly. He wanted to jump from his hiding place and drink it up, but he couldn’t; he knew he mustn’t — not with the Budless standing guard. Not with the Gastronimatii swarming the castle, waiting to pounce. Control, thought Guster. He bit his lip.
Mom, moving a bit more slowly now, donned a pair of oven mitts, opened the oven, and pushed the dishes inside, one by one. She closed the oven door. Mom had come this far — he hoped she’d done it right.
“There,” she said in a honey-covered voice, dusting off her butter-covered apron. “Oh, I do feel quite relaxed now.”
“A job well done will do that,” chimed Felicity. It wasn’t something Guster expected her to say. Perhaps, since her soufflé was finally in the oven and the One Recipe was at her fingertips she was lightening up. Either way, it was about time.
But then again, maybe Guster had been too hard on her. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. There was no time for grudges with such a wonderful smell in the room.
“In so many ways, I envy you,” said Felicity. She looked different, like someone who’d just woken up, or was home from a long vacation; her shoulders slumped and there was a grin smeared across her perfect face.
“Oh?” said Mom, leaning on the counter and resting her chin on her hand nonchalantly. They were all acting so… so comfortable.
“You’ve got a great job. As a housewife I mean.” Mom looked puzzled, but happy. “You know, with Mariah, Zeke, Henry Junior.” It was the first time Guster had heard Felicity use their names.
“But I’ve never been on TV,” Mom said cooing, like she did with Henry Junior. “You have one of the highest-rated shows in television history. You’ve served dinners at the Whitehouse! You have millions of fans and an empire that spans the globe!” It was like she was talking to her old hero again.
Guster wished Mariah was there to interpret — was this something women always did when they cooked?
“None of that matters! Haven’t you noticed?” said Felicity, smiling intently, the first hint of warm soufflé rising out of the oven. Oh it was glorious.
She grasped Mom by the arms and looked her in the eyes. “I don’t have children like you do. I may have millions of fans, but it was the best I could do. To them, I’m a mere hobby — a passing thought. For all the success I’ve attained, I have never shaped four lives as deeply nor as permanently as you have the lives of your children.
“It’s the power of food — the power of the things that you feed them, day in and day out! I’m not talking about gourmet dishes. I’m not talking about exotic flavors, custards, tarts, or frilly sauces. I’m talking about life! Think about the rolls you’ve kneaded with your palms, the nuts you’ve sprinkled with your fingers, the cuts you’ve grated into your own skin without so much as crying out! You’ve made these children. They are you.”
Mom looked startled at Felicity’s words.
“Everyone running the world was once a child, Mabel, and you are shaping yours. ‘Mixed not by the hand that pleases for wealth, but by the hand that nourishes for life’ Like it says! Only a mother could make this soufflé,” said Felicity.
Mom leaned back on the countertop. She looked like she’d only thought about that just now, for the first time. “That’s kind of you,” she said. “And perhaps, well, maybe you are quite right.”
The smell grew stronger — not like before. Not like anything Guster ever knew.
“I do wonder if everything in the end will turn out alright here,” said Mom.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Felicity nonchalantly. She looked straight up at Guster. “Archedentus, you ol’ trickster. This was all very clever of you. Very clever.”
Guster held his breath. She’d looked him right in the eyes; did she know he was there?
He nearly choked when he breathed again. It was like the Patisserie back in New Orleans had baked all its treats at once — no, that did not do it justice. It was like the baked goods of the ages from the creation of the earth to the very end had all combined in one buttery sweetness.
Then there was a scuffling noise. The faint sound of scraping on stone somewhere way back in the tunnels behind him. Had the Gastronimatii found their way into the tunnels? Were they searching for him? Somehow, it didn’t matter.
Felicity dusted off her hands. “Well, we have a few minutes before our doom,” she said, taking a seat next to Mom. Mom swung her head back and forth, like she was listening to a melody only she could hear; it was like she was in a dream just like Guster had been at the pillar of sugar-diamonds. He didn’t realize until now how silly he must have looked. It’s controlling her, he thought.
Did it matter though? Maybe Mom was right. Maybe everything would turn out alright. Certainly with such a delectable smell like that, there would be no harm in running out there right now and having a lick of the batter. He could use the secret door. To test it before it’s finished, thought Guster.
Guster stomped on his own foot. No. He couldn’t. He mustn’t. Not with the Budless standing there. They would capture him in a heartbeat, and all would be lost. He had to wait for the right opportunity. He pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose again.
“My dear Felicity, when should we take the soufflé from the oven?” said Mom.
“Oh, I don’t know. A moment to
o soon, and the air bubbles inside the soufflé will burst, causing it to fall. A moment too late, and it will suffer the same fate. Either way, it will be a failure.” Felicity looked like she was on the verge of giggling now too.
How could they say that? It couldn’t fall. Right now it was the only thing in the world that mattered. I have to snap out of it, thought Guster. He couldn’t let it get to him.
“Well, what do the instructions say?” asked Mom.
“‘Be vigilant! Bake until it is time,’” read Felicity.
Mom rolled her eyes. “Until it is time? He tells us which direction to stir the melting butter, but won’t tell us when to take it out of the oven? Silly ol’ Archedentus couldn’t get more specific than that?”
“Probably not. Soufflés are subtle. They are influenced by the whims of the oven! You will have to decide when the time is right.”
Don’t mess this up now! thought Guster. Please Mom, just this once! His hands were locked on the stone walls. A thin strand of drool fell from his lips.
“Should be any minute now,” said Felicity.
Mom knelt next to the oven door and peered through it. Guster wished that he could see into the oven, but he couldn’t from his vantage point behind the portrait. Mom flexed her hands, like a batter waiting for a pitch. “It’s risen so nicely!” she said. “A few more seconds…”
Palatus burst into the room. The gray bandana was tied tightly around his face again. “Is it time?” he cried.
Mom held up her hand. She counted to herself silently, then said, “It’s time.”
Palatus gripped the countertop tightly, his knuckles white. “Bar the door,” he said to the Budless. “No one gets through.” The Budless closest to the door moved toward it and dropped a heavy wooden beam down, locking it off.
Mom opened the oven door. She reached inside, and swiftly, like she was setting the table back at the farm, pulled the seven dishes from the oven and set them on the countertop.
As soon as Mom opened the oven, the sweet aroma slammed into Guster like a wall of water. He fell to the ground, consumed by the smell. He bit his arm through his shirt, writhing, trying to gain control. He could not let Palatus discover him now. He was the only one left.
Evertaster Page 23
