one large turkey (someone gave it to Tremayne for Christmas), pints galore of chocolate ripple ice cream (Gareth liked it) and a whole lot of bags of ice cubes for gins and tonic.
Was it for this, I surmised wildly, that I’d sold my soul?
“Well,” I said in amusement, “what do we have in the larder?”
“What larder?”
“Cupboards, then.”
“You’d better look,” Gareth said, closing the second freezer’s door. “What are you going to make?”
I hadn’t the faintest idea, but what Tremayne, Gareth and I ate not very much later was a hot pie made of beef extracted from twenty defrosted sandwiches and chopped small, then mixed with undiluted condensed mushroom soup (a find) and topped with an inch-thick layer of sandwich breadcrumbs fried crisp.
Gareth watched the simple cooking with fascination, and I found myself telling him about the techniques I’d been taught of how to live off the countryside without benefit of shops.
“Fried worms aren’t bad,” I said.
“You’re kidding me.”
“They’re packed with protein. Birds thrive on them. And what’s so different from eating snails?”
“Could you really live off the land? You yourself?”
“Yes, sure,” I said. “But you can die of malnutrition eating just rabbits.”
“How do you know these things?”
“It’s my business, really. My trade.” I told him about the six travel guides. “The company used to send me to all those places to set up holiday expeditions for real rugged types. I had to learn how to get them out of all sorts of local trouble, especially if they struck disasters like losing all their equipment in raging torrents. I wrote the books and the customers weren’t allowed to set off without them. Mind you, I always thought the book on how to survive would have been lost in the raging torrent with everything else, but maybe they would remember some of it, you never know.”
Gareth, helping make breadcrumbs in a blender, said a shade wistfully, “How did you ever start on something like that?”
“My father was a camping nut. A naturalist. He worked in a bank, really, and still does, but every spare second he would head for the wilds, dragging me and my mother along. Actually I took it for granted, as just a fact of life. Then after college I found it was all pretty useful in the travel trade. So bingo.”
“Does he still go camping? Your father, I mean?”
“No. My mother got arthritis and refused to go anymore, and he didn’t have much fun without her. He’s worked in a bank in the Cayman Islands for three or four years now. It’s good for my mother’s health.”
Gareth asked simply, “Where are the Cayman Islands?”
“In the Caribbean, south of Cuba, west of Jamaica.”
“What do you want me to do with these breadcrumbs?”
“Put them in the frying pan.”
“Have you ever been to the Cayman Islands?”
“Yes,” I said, “I went for Christmas. They sent me the fare as a present.”
“You are lucky,” Gareth said.
I paused from cutting up the beef. “Yes,” I agreed, thinking about it. “Yes, I am. And grateful. And you’ve got a good father, too.”
He seemed extraordinarily pleased that I should say so, but it seemed to me, unconventional housekeeping or not, that Tremayne was making a good job of his younger son.
Notwithstanding Tremayne’s professed lack of interest in food, he clearly enjoyed the pie, which three healthy appetites polished off to the last fried crumb. I got promoted instantly to resident chef, which suited me fine. Tomorrow I could do the shopping, Tremayne said, and without ado pulled out his wallet and gave me enough to feed the three of us for a month, though he said it was for a week. I protested it was too much and he kindly told me I had no idea how much things cost. I thought wryly that I knew how much things cost to the last anxious penny, but there was no point in arguing. I stowed the money away and asked them what they didn’t
Was it for this, I surmised wildly, that I’d sold my soul?
“Well,” I said in amusement, “what do we have in the larder?”
“What larder?”
“Cupboards, then.”
“You’d better look,” Gareth said, closing the second freezer’s door. “What are you going to make?”
I hadn’t the faintest idea, but what Tremayne, Gareth and I ate not very much later was a hot pie made of beef extracted from twenty defrosted sandwiches and chopped small, then mixed with undiluted condensed mushroom soup (a find) and topped with an inch-thick layer of sandwich breadcrumbs fried crisp.
Gareth watched the simple cooking with fascination, and I found myself telling him about the techniques I’d been taught of how to live off the countryside without benefit of shops.
“Fried worms aren’t bad,” I said.
“You’re kidding me.”
“They’re packed with protein. Birds thrive on them. And what’s so different from eating snails?”
“Could you really live off the land? You yourself?”
“Yes, sure,” I said. “But you can die of malnutrition eating just rabbits.”
“How do you know these things?”
“It’s my business, really. My trade.” I told him about the six travel guides. “The company used to send me to all those places to set up holiday expeditions for real rugged types. I had to learn how to get them out of all sorts of local trouble, especially if they struck disasters like losing all their equipment in raging torrents. I wrote the books and the customers weren’t allowed to set off without them. Mind you, I always thought the book on how to survive would have been lost in the raging torrent with everything else, but maybe they would remember some of it, you never know.”
Gareth, helping make breadcrumbs in a blender, said a shade wistfully, “How did you ever start on something like that?”
“My father was a camping nut. A naturalist. He worked in a bank, really, and still does, but every spare second he would head for the wilds, dragging me and my mother along. Actually I took it for granted, as just a fact of life. Then after college I found it was all pretty useful in the travel trade. So bingo.”
“Does he still go camping? Your father, I mean?”
“No. My mother got arthritis and refused to go anymore, and he didn’t have much fun without her. He’s worked in a bank in the Cayman Islands for three or four years now. It’s good for my mother’s health.”
Gareth asked simply, “Where are the Cayman Islands?”
“In the Caribbean, south of Cuba, west of Jamaica.”
“What do you want me to do with these breadcrumbs?”
“Put them in the frying pan.”
“Have you ever been to the Cayman Islands?”
“Yes,” I said, “I went for Christmas. They sent me the fare as a present.”
“You are lucky,” Gareth said.
I paused from cutting up the beef. “Yes,” I agreed, thinking about it. “Yes, I am. And grateful. And you’ve got a good father, too.”
He seemed extraordinarily pleased that I should say so, but it seemed to me, unconventional housekeeping or not, that Tremayne was making a good job of his younger son.
Notwithstanding Tremayne’s professed lack of interest in food, he clearly enjoyed the pie, which three healthy appetites polished off to the last fried crumb. I got promoted instantly to resident chef, which suited me fine. Tomorrow I could do the shopping, Tremayne said, and without ado pulled out his wallet and gave me enough to feed the three of us for a month, though he said it was for a week. I protested it was too much and he kindly told me I had no idea how much things cost. I thought wryly that I knew how much things cost to the last anxious penny, but there was no point in arguing. I stowed the money away and asked them what they didn’t
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