User:Yuanchosaan/A Small Selection of Recipes

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Wildberry jelly
At four years old, her twins are two peas in a pod, one soul born in two bodies. Only their eyes are different: one deep red, the other sky blue, a perfect set of corundum. But their eyes are identical in their expression, looking at Fioralba with a mixture of curiosity and delight that fills her with so much joy that she cannot help but pick up one, then the other, spinning them around with whoops of elation.

If she wheezes a bit and drops Zane slightly harder than she had intended to – well, the twins are getting older and heavier now, and the summer grass is so soft that he merely rolls over and laughs, and soon she has to fight off Clair who wants to be rolled along the ground as well. She only manages to halt their attempts to scramble onto her back by exclaiming that their surprise was over the next hill, and they’d never get there if the twins tired her out first.

“I’ll race you!” the twins shout together. Of course, it turns into another game – tag, and then hide-and-seek, and then they run around madly in circles, so it’s high noon by the time she manages to drag them to the hill she remembers from her youth.

It’s exactly how she recalls it. There is a brook running at the foot of the hill – one day when they are older, she will show the twins how to tickle for trout in it, she decides – and the grass seems greener than it is in town. The hill is covered in dense brambles and bushes of different types, so it looks like a patchwork quilt of verdant growth, spotted with-

“Berries!” exclaim the twins. Zane looks like he is about to faint out of sheer delight. Clair is already running towards the shrubs.

They collect basketfuls – and in Clair’s case, fistfuls – of berries of all sorts: haw and blackberries, blueberries and raspberries. Underneath the brambles, she shows them where they can find wild strawberries growing in patches of sunlight, and she watches with consternation as they scale the trees for mulberries, agile as little monkeys. By the time the sun sets, all three are covered in tiny scratches, sticky berry juice and an almost palpable sense of happiness.

At home, she deposits most of the berries in a pot of boiling water and the syrupy twins in the bathtub. The fruit is so sweet that she doesn’t bother with adding sugar. It’s no work at all to make jelly, she muses as she stirs the pot. Summer does all the work for you. All she has to do is add gelatin and stir.

By the time the twins are finished, she is already pouring the mixture into moulds. She leaves them the best job – adding the leftover berries into the solidifying jelly. Then it’s simply a matter of waiting.

When she tips over the moulds, the berries hang in the jelly like gemstones set in glass. The twins gasp over it so dramatically that she bursts into laughter. Zane solemnly declares that it is too pretty to eat. Clair looks torn between agreeing with him and diving straight in. Of course, Clair wins out, and the entire family is soon eating jelly underneath the night sky.

Fioralba closes her eyes in contentment, letting the sound of the twins babbling wash over her. They have their own secret language, all whistles and excitement. She hopes they will never grow out of it.

A quiet, tranquil weariness suffuses her. Lately she has become more easily tired out, and felt strange twinges of pain deep in her bones. It’s been a long day, she tells herself. If my life is filled with such beautiful, long days, then I think I can bear anything.

Olive bread
Now that they are ten, her twins are beginning to differentiate themselves. They are still close – she catches them whispering in their personal language when they think no one is listening – and in appearance, nearly identical, but the differences in their personalities are beginning to blossom.

Zane thinks that he has to be the man in the house. He spends much of his spare time carving wooden sticks to serve as swords, writing lists of needed supplies in wobbly capitals, instructing his sister, and practising playfighting. If Fioralba wants him to learn or do anything, all she needs to do is mention that it would be a major responsibility and he will apply himself with a fierce solemnity which makes her smile.

Clair has no patience for any of Zane’s activities except for the playfighting. Five minutes of sitting still and she begins to fidget; fifteen minutes and she runs away. Clair is always exploring, running, collecting, building, always wanting to show Fioralba something new. But whilst she runs, she never strays too far from Zane. If he moves, then she follows. So her son is the still centre, and her daughter the orbiting storm around him.

There is one exception to this rule. When it comes to cooking, Clair develops an intensity of focus which matches her twin’s, whilst Zane is liable to become bored. He’ll stand there and watch her cook with his twin when asked, but those red eyes are focused on some daydream, not what is in front of them.

One afternoon, she supervises them making olive bread. Their trees give them more than she could ever use, but she doesn’t have the equipment to press them into oil in their little house. So each autumn she makes hundreds of little olive rolls, bartering them for food she can store for the winter. It’s tiring work, and her arms are aching from days of kneading dough. Might as well let the twins have a go, she thinks.

Zane is dutiful as always, applying himself as if kneading the dough was a test of his manly strength. He slips out the door as soon as the kneading is done – her little shadow escaping from the room.

Clair stays to roll the dough into balls with her. She keeps up a constant stream of chatter as they clean the kitchen, wait for the dough to rise, and watch the loaves brown in the oven. Her daughter has the amazing ability to seem in motion even when she is sitting still.

Her back twinges again when she bends over to extract the tray from the oven. It’s bad enough to make her wince. I really should get that checked out soon. But the twins keep her so busy, and it’s hard to think about spending money on a doctor when they eat so much and outgrow their clothes every few months. She’s young yet. She’ll manage.

Chicken and herb soup
The key to making a good soup, Clair has secretly decided, is love. This is a thought that she has never told to anyone, not even Zane. She knows he will laugh at her sentimentality. If she’s lucky, that is. Lately, Zane’s eyes will often flash with scarlet anger instead. Soft emotions leave one weak, he has stated once. What was the use of them if they couldn’t be defended? How could they spend time laughing when there was nothing good in their life to laugh about? Better, he says, to concentrate on improving the concrete.

It’s Zane’s work which allows them to afford healing herbs like the ginseng root that she is putting in this soup. Hard labour after school, for which he is only paid a pittance, but she has never heard him complain about it. In a way, it proves her right. His love is in the soup as well, in the form of the ingredients that she has bought with his pay. Her love is simmering with it, suffusing it with warmth and heart. Soup without feeling is a thin broth that will never heal anyone. No matter how much meat you add to it, it will feel insubstantial and lacking.

It’s past seven when Zane finally returns home. She senses him coming before he opens the door, not even bothering to turn around as he enters. Her smile is reflected in the simmering surface of the soup. She knows he will be able to feel it.

“Is that for Mum?” he asks her.

“Yup. Chicken, ginseng and herbs. They’re supposed to be healing.”

Zane drops his backpack on the floor and drops into one of the dining room chairs. She knows without looking that he is sitting sideways in the seat, arms draped over the back, his chin resting on the top rail. She feels his eyes drilling straight into her back.

“So you acknowledge that she’s sick.”

The ladle continues to stir the soup without breaking its rhythm, even though it has simmered down to completion. She finds some measure of peace in its cadence.

“Sure she is. But she’ll get better.”

There has to be calm in the soup. If she lets her worries infect it, then how will she be able to feed it to their mother? A soup full of anxieties would make her ill.

“Clair, this isn’t some temporary illness she has. She’s seriously sick.”

“I know she is. I’m not dumb, Zane.” ''Even if I’ve always been more stupid than you. Except in the ways that count.'' “That’s why I gotta do stuff that will make her better. I’m helping her out until then.”

Zane snorts. “You think you’re going to save our mother with soup? Face it, sis. You’re delusional.” He stomps off upstairs before she can think of a reply.

“At least I’m here,” she tells her soup. A ripple appears in its surface, breaking her reflection. She tells herself that it’s from a bubble in the broth, though it has long stopped simmering.

Parfait
The kitchen is a disaster area. An explosion of icing sugar and flour coats half the table, and Clair has to wipe away layers to read the names of her ingredient tins. There are clots of cream on the cupboard doors, spilled chocolate shavings on the floor, berries leaking their juice unnoticed in the sink. Incongruously, a pot is frozen onto the surface of the stove, with icicles frosting its rim.

The clamour is so loud that Zane descends from his bedroom to find his sister in the middle of this kitchen catastrophe.

“The hell are you doing?” he demands.

“Good to see you out of your room for once!” yelps Clair cheerfully, as she attempts to rescue a soufflé from the flames.

He scowls at her – an expression that is almost permanent, of late. A few months ago, she had shouted at him over all the time he spent glowering in his bedroom, brooding over the latest insults that the townspeople had shouted at them. He only came out to train with sparring and target practice, even though he would often declare that he was already the strongest warrior in their rubbishy little town. Their argument had been bad enough that their mother had raised her thin voice, telling them that she was too tired to see her beloved twins fighting in this way, even if they were in their terrible teens.

That shut them up. Since then, Clair has told herself that it was just teenage moodiness. Boys will be boys. Always so immature and wanting to fight or sulk. With practiced ease, she pushes her worries back down.

The soufflé has collapsed beyond rescue. She sets it down with a sigh. “I was trying something new. It’s a lot harder than I thought it’d be.”

“Looks like you should give up on whatever it is.”

“I never give up.” Time to start again.

She begins with egg whites and cream. This should be the easiest part, but beads of sweat form on her face as she directs her magic into the hand touching the bowl. A thin film of frost grows on its surface, chilling the parfait mixture. It’s hard work, keeping the chill delicate rather than freezing the entire thing.

To her surprise, Zane dusts off one of the chairs and slouches into it, staring at what she is doing. “You use magic for cooking?”

“Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

''There. It’s done.'' In one of their few remaining clean pans, she begins heating up the chocolate fudge sauce. Another bowl is used to prepare a chocolate sponge mixture. ''Easier than soufflé. And I need this to be easy.''

There are too many moving parts in this, she despairs. She has to keep some parts chilled at just the right temperature without freezing, the cake warm, the fudge sauce hot without letting it melt the parfait. Never has she fragmented her magic into so many tiny pieces.

“Do you want my help?”

“What? But you hate cooking.”

“Yeah, but I’m better at magic than you are.”

“You’re going to ruin things.”

“More than they’re already ruined? Might as well bankrupt us properly with your stupid experiments.” He places a hand on the parfait bowl. “Just tell me what to do.”

It does help. Zane’s magic flows over hers – pure strength over elemental chaos, stabilising her shaky control and dividing it into the tiny tributaries that she needs. For the first time in years, they murmur together in the whistling language of their childhood, barely needing to communicate aloud.

Before long, she has the three perfect parfaits that she had envisioned. They are better than her imagination. Even she could never have hoped that Zane would join her in making them. He even helps her carry them upstairs, still holding a tendril a cold around the glasses to keep them chilled.

At their mother’s door, he pauses. “I’ll take mine and eat it in my room,” he mutters, turning to go.

“No way!” She stamps her foot. “Are you serious? You help me make it for Mum, and then you won’t even go in to show her?”

“I can’t go in there!” Zane’s voice is curiously strained.

“Why not? You barely talk to Mum anymore! It’s like you’re scared to face her.”

“You know why I can’t.”

“‘Cos you can talk all you want about fighting and standing up for us, but you’re too much of a coward to help look after our sick Mum?”

“I’m a coward? You’re the one living some kind of dream life rather than facing the truth! How the hell can you pretend that things are okay? Mum’s dying, we’re poor, everyone in the world hates us and you go around singing and making desserts! At least I’m trying to look after you.”

“Mum’s more important than me. You need to look after her-”

The door swings open in front of them. Fioralba leans against the doorway, wan and breathing hard. “Are my two beautiful children going to come in, or let their desserts melt in the corridor?”

“You shouldn’t be standing up,” Zane and Clair say simultaneously.

“Then you should come in and help me back into the bed.”

Clair sets the tray on the bedside table whilst Zane supports their mother to their bed. It’s only a few metres away from the door, and yet she collapses into it as if she has run a marathon. For a moment, she says nothing – merely closes her eyes and breathes. When she speaks, it is in short sentences, punctuated by gasps for breath.

“Open the window for me, will you?” The twins hesitate, then shake their heads.

“You know the sunlight is bad for you,” Zane says. The last time she had gone out, her skin had erupted into a blistering red rash that took weeks to heal. She hasn’t seen sunlight since.

“It’s late afternoon. Probably almost sunset. A little bit won’t hurt me. And I want to feel the breeze.”

He hesitates again, then complies. Clair hands him his parfait without looking at him, before returning to sit by their mother’s side. He stands by the window, as if ready to jump up and guard her from any stray rays of light that might threaten her. Both twins hold their parfaits stiffly until Fioralba begins to eat.

She smiles – a wan, frail shadow of her old smile. “The two of you made this together? It’s beautiful.”

“How can you tell?” asks Clair.

“I can always tell when you two do things together. You’re stronger for it.” The corners of her mouth lift slightly, fighting against the lines of pain etched prematurely into her face. “I won’t be around for much longer. Promise me you two will stay together. You’re all each other has.”

“Don’t say such things!” Clair scolds. Her twin shakes his head, but says nothing under her glare. He is trembling with emotion, but there are no tears in his eyes – only the red gleam of anger.

For a while, there is no sound but the clinking of spoons against glass. The light of sunset begins to fade, and with it goes some of their tension. It’s not quite tranquillity, but it’s closer to family than they’ve had for a long time.

“Oh, you’ve put berries in this!” Fioralba exclaims. “You know, berries always remind me of summer.” More quietly, she adds, “I met your father one summer.”

It is exceedingly rare for their mother to ever mention their father, even in passing, but Clair can’t focus on that. She is remembering another summer, so distant and full of happiness, and a family picking berries on a hillside.

Coffee and vanilla mousse
Coffee is the newest obsession in town. It comes from overseas and is hideously expensive, but as soon as Clair detects its delicious aroma wafting from one of the fanciest restaurants in town, she knows she has to have it. She’s never smelt anything so rich, such a scent filled with élan and vitality. Her mother will love it.

Uncharacteristically, Zane gives her money to buy coffee without a single protest. She wants to press him on what is behind his recent distance, to dote on him as much as a sister should, but the peace between them is too new and fragile yet. At least this is better than the flurries of rage which had been occurring more and more frequently until this past month.

The coffee beans are hard, unpalatable, and stubbornly refuse to let go of their secrets. It takes her days of lurking around the upper class dining district (days full of people giving her dirty glares, days of muttered whispers of abominations lurking amongst their betters) to learn that one has to grind the beans and then seep boiling water through them.

Her delight at learning the secret is matched by her horror over her discovery: coffee is chokingly bitter. She drowns it in milk and sugar, and then it tastes nothing like that first scent she had smelt. All she is left with is slightly bitter sweet milk.

Inspiration strikes her in the middle of the night. The impulse is so strong that she jumps out of bed, ignoring the cold of the stone floor tiles to rush to the kitchen.

By candlelight, she takes out the ingredients that she will need: chilled cream. The last of the eggs. A little gelatin. A touch of sugar. Then the heart: cinnamon, essence of vanilla, chocolate shavings and her beautiful coffee grounds.

So many ingredients have such strength in their purity. Even vanilla is suffocating in intensity when taken as an extract. But you could use that strength, modulate it, blend it so that the clarity of its notes folded into a melody of others. Coffee without its bitterness is naught. One just has to find the right setting for such a gem.

She doesn’t bother trying to blunt the sharpness of each ingredient as she mixed them together. In the right proportions, they will do battle with each other and arrive at peace. Then she whips air and egg whites into the heavy mixture, giving it lightness and delicacy to balance its depth. By the time she’s done, her candle has nearly burnt out. A soft susurrus of rain is falling, cloaking the house in its comforting murmur.

“What are you doing up so late?”

She jumps at her brother’s voice. “Don’t scare me like that, you bastard!”

“If I’m a bastard, so are you,” he replies drily.

“Uh…” I didn’t think that through. “Yeah, well, you’re still a jerk. I could ask you the same. Why the hell are you up?”

“I was wondering what my idiot sister was up to.”

“I made something new. Coffee mousse.”

He plucks one of the cups from the tray without asking her permission. “Coffee? Is it like chocolate?” He sticks a spoonful in his mouth and immediately makes a face. “Ugh! It’s bitter.”

“Serves you right. And?”

“And what?”

“It’s bitter and…?”

“Mm…kind of sweet as well. And there’s also a kind of…spiciness? You know I’m bad at describing stuff like this.”

The sky is beginning to lighten outside, even through the rainclouds. She can just see Zane’s slight smile in the shadows. A genuine smile, rather than the cocky smirk or bitter grimace that he’s been sporting of late. To her surprise, he is also fully dressed for work, not in his pyjamas.

“I like it,” he says, distracting her from her train of thought.

“You’d better!” she snaps, but smiles as well. How long has it been since they’ve shared a moment like this? Perhaps things are getting better, after all. “Hey, Zane?”

“Mm?”

“You’re a stupid, annoying, grumpy, violent, overly-protective jerk, but I still love you. Always stick with us, okay?”

“Oi, don’t get all sappy on me! This is what happens when you stay up too late.”

She glares at him, a retort at the ready, but a yawn gives away her lie. “I hate you.”

“I love-hate you too. Go to bed, sis.”

She makes her way towards the staircase. “You coming?”

“Nah. Can’t sleep. I’m going to watch the sunrise for a bit instead.”

“Okay. Night, Zane.”

“Night, sis.”

When she descends again in the late morning, Zane is gone. He doesn’t return that evening, nor the evening after, nor the one after that, and slowly her hope fades. She will never tell her mother this, but she can see Fioralba fading as well.

The tray of mousse sits in the fridge, one empty cup in the corner. She can barely stand to look at it, let alone throw it away or eat it. Finally, more than a week later, she picks up one cup.

It’s bitter and sweet, just as Zane said. Just as she had planned.
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