A Culinary Princess

Cimorene grumbled to herself as her lady-in-waiting finished dressing her hair. She was beyond bored. Her fencing lessons had abruptly stopped only days before, when her parents found out about them. For two days, she'd tried to concentrate on her etiquette lessons, but to no avail. It was spring in Linderwall and everyone was restless, Cimorene more than most. The feast to be held at dinner was the only thing keeping her from going mad. Anything was better than endless rounds of lessons.

"There," the lady-in-waiting said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "You look quite nice, princess."

"Thank you for your help," Cimorene said politely, even though she wanted to scream.

They went down to the hall and everyone entered in careful order of precedence. As the king's youngest daughter, Cimorene was allowed to sit at the top table- 'as long as you behave yourself,' her mother admonished- and she quickly took her place.

Her father the king kept a good table at his castle, and on this first day of spring, it was even more exceptional than usual. The servants ate their usual bread, cheese, and boiled meat at their seats further down the hall, but the high table groaned under the weight of so many beautiful and tasty dishes. Cimorene's mouth watered just from looking at them. She didn't like sitting in front of so many people, but it was worth enduring their stares, just for a chance at the food.

The bread was soft and fluffy as a cloud, the meat spiced and tender, even the stewed fruits melted in her mouth. Cimorene couldn't stop looking at the apple tart that the server had placed before her; it was decorated with gold leaf and sparkled in the low light of the hall.

But the best part of the feast came near the end, when the peacock pie was brought forth, carried by liveried servants and announced by the blaring of trumpets from the serving chamber.

Cimorene leaned forward in her seat, entranced by the creation. Because it wasn't simply a pie, baked like any other and placed on the table for people to help themselves. The peacock's feathers had been saved and carefully arranged over the pie, so the bird appeared alive, its head raised proudly and tail fanned out in perfect order. The pie itself was invisible under shades of blue and green; Cimorene wouldn't have even known there was a pie underneath the decoration if her oldest sister hadn't whispered in her ear.

Applause echoed around the hall as the pie and its enormous platter were placed before the king. He smiled and called in his booming voice, "Let he who made such a work of art come forth, so all men might know him!"

A moment's pause, and the head chef entered, bowing in acknowledgement of everyone's acclaim for his culinary masterpiece. At the king's command, the other servants removed the feathers. Cimorene wondered how they managed to carry them out of the hall without leaving any behind. And the peacock's head stayed upright, so perhaps it had been supported by a wire frame?

She fidgeted, wanting to ask the chef, and her oldest sister put a restraining hand on her knee. Before she could glare her displeasure, she was distracted by a flash of silver as the chef took up a pair of carving knives and carefully began selecting choice pieces for the king and his family.

Cimorene smiled her thanks when a bit was placed on her plate, then took up her spoon and ate in silence, thinking. The peacock pie was beautiful and delicious, and she could appreciate the skill that it took to arrange the bird's feathers so naturally. She wondered if all cooking required so much skill. Perhaps even simple foods like bread were difficult to make.

But how could she find out? Her mother and sisters would be horrified by the mere thought of stepping into a kitchen, and her lady-in-waiting never ate more than a morsel, so Cimorene couldn't ask them.

But the head chef would know. He'd worked in the kitchens for years, Cimorene assumed, and probably knew everything there was to know about cooking. Perhaps he would even teach her! Her mind immediately began spinning with possibilities. Since this gave her an unaccustomedly vacant look, her parents probably thought something was wrong with her, but they didn't comment and Cimorene let her imagination fly free in a quest for a plan.

The head chef was unmarried, as were all of the servants, so Cimorene wouldn't try to make him think of a daughter when she asked for his help, as she'd done when asking for fencing lessons. But he had a little sister. Cimorene had seen the girl visit her brother more than once, and envied the child her freedom. A girl who was allowed to walk through the town alone! The very idea filled Cimorene with longing, and she imagined a pleasant walk in the woods, seeing the town and the castle in the distance, a visit with a wise older brother- so different from Cimorene's silly sisters- and returning to a little cottage nestled in a bright clearing and bedecked with flowers.

Cimorene wanted to be that little girl. Since she couldn't, she settled for what she could get, vowing that, once she was grown up, she would never settle for anything ever again.

But being a grown up seemed so far away, so Cimorene carefully hatched her plan. The next day, she found her way down to the kitchens, careful to arrive shortly after dinner, when she assumed the cooks would be taking a short rest before beginning to prepare supper.

The kitchen was hot and dim from the fires. Even open windows couldn't whisk away the delicious smells of cooking food, and the low murmur of voices echoed off the high ceilings and plastered walls.

She hesitated at the door, but only for a moment, until she saw the head chef sitting in a corner, watching over his domain with a refreshing cup of ale in his hand. He saw her at the exact moment she saw him. Before she could begin to cross the kitchen, he was out of his chair and standing in front of her. He bowed and she dropped a tiny, automatic curtsy of acknowledgement.

"Good afternoon, princess," he said respectfully. "Might I help you with something?"

"I want you to teach me," she said bluntly. "I saw the peacock pie last night. I want to learn how it was made."

She expected him to scold and send her away. She didn't expect him to laugh.

"Now why would I do that?" he demanded, smiling down at her.

"Because I want to learn, and there's no reason why you shouldn't teach me," she said staunchly, lifting her chin so she could glare at him.

"Their Majesties might object," he said and there was a touch of mockery in his smile.

"They won't care, as long as I don't neglect my other lessons," she argued. "And I won't. So, teach me."

There was a pause. "There are other things you have to learn first."

"Like, what?"

"Can you build a fire?"

She shook her head minutely. "No."

"Then we'll start with that."

Even the simple task of making fires was harder than she expected. It seemed to take forever before she could wield a flint properly, and when she complained that she should be allowed to take a burning brand from one of the other fires, the chef promptly snuffed out the fledgling flames she'd managed to coax to life, and told her to do it again. And again. She learned how to make fires for bread ovens, for boiling, for roasting. They were all different, and such a small task might have been boring, but Cimorene refused to give up, certain that the chef was looking for a chance to make fun of her.

She had to leave after two hours, certain that her mother was looking for her. The chef sent her away with barely a word of praise, only a promise to teach her bread baking the next day.

That was good enough for Cimorene, and next afternoon saw her up to her elbows in coarse brown dough. Her wrists ached after only a few minutes of the unaccustomed exercise, but it was better than etiquette lessons.

The day after, she watched the chef make cherries jubilee. Then there were two days of no cooking. Cimorene had never despised embroidery more than she did during those two days. When she finally escaped back to the kitchens, she thought the sun had come out from behind a cloud. Everything looked so much brighter.

After two weeks of tending fires, kneading bread, and watching the people around her, Cimorene had her chance.

"Princess, put that down and come over here, if you please," the chef said from across the kitchen.

Cimorene eagerly dropped the mortar and pestle- grinding spices wasn't particularly exciting- and went to the other work table. A gray goose lay waiting for attention, along with a set of knives and a basin. "Do you need my help, sir?" she asked, still feeling a bit awkward about the mode of address. Calling the chef by name would have been overly familiar, yet 'sir' was only supposed to be used for knights and other gentlemen.

The chef had more important things on his mind, luckily. "You wanted to learn how the peacock pie was made, yes?" he said. She nodded. "Well, that was a special occasion, but I can show you something similar with a goose. Is that to your satisfaction?" he said, and she wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

"I'd like that very much," she replied, deciding to ignore any hint of mockery. If she kicked up a fuss, she might be asked to leave.

The goose had already been dressed and hung for a few days in the larder, the chef explained. Now it was time to skin it and remove the meat from the bones. Cimorene watched eagerly as he removed the skin and feathers in one piece. It was an extraordinarily slow, painstaking process, and she began to understand why a creation of this sort was only for feast days. It would have been much easier to remove the bird's skin in pieces but, as the chef said, that would ruin the beauty of the presentation.

After the goose was skinned, the meat was carved off the bones. Cimorene was allowed to chop an onion and some herbs to add to the meat, and together they piled the ingredients into a pie crust so thick it stood upright on its own, without even a dish to support the sides.

"Now we bake the pie," the chef said. "What temperature?"

"Medium heat," she answered promptly. "After the bread comes out of the oven but before it's cooled any more than that."

"Correct. Now, I believe you have to be getting back to your lessons."

She nodded reluctantly. "But what happens when the pie comes out of the oven?"

"Well, it's left to cool for a moment, then a wire frame is placed over it, and the bird's skin is draped over that, to look as lifelike as possible. We use more wire to make the head stay upright, and for the tail feathers in the case of a peacock. Be sure to place the pie on its serving platter before arranging the feathers, though. It can be tricky to move from one place to another," the chef said wryly. Cimorene wondered if he'd made that mistake before.

She didn't have time to ask before she was gently shooed away. And when goose pie appeared on the table at supper, she thought her heart might burst with pride at the sight of something that she helped to make.

oOoOo

She never knew how her parents found out about the cooking lessons. All of the kitchen staff smiled at her, and while she didn't like being treated as their pet, she was sure none of them would have told tales to the king and queen.

Someone must have told, though, because she was hauled up in front of her parents to explain herself.

"What's this I hear about cooking lessons?" her father asked, wanting to give his daughter a chance to explain that, no, there had been a mistake; there were no cooking lessons.

He was disappointed, naturally, when Cimorene drew herself up and said, "Cooking is perfectly proper. Girls do it all the time."

"In their own home, yes," her father said. "But not among strangers."

"This is my home," she protested. "I'm cooking for my family, just like the other girls. And the servants aren't strangers; most of them have worked here longer than I can remember!"

"It's not proper," her mother maintained. "It's not right for a little girl to work next to men."

"The cook's sister visits him," she muttered. "She's even younger than me, and no one thinks she's in danger."

"She's a common girl. You're a princess. You can't go around doing all the things peasants do; what would people think?" the king said.

"I don't care what they think," she said under her breath.

Her mother heard. "You should care. People are watching you, to see if you behave properly. That's why you have to learn etiquette and dancing."

"Boring," Cimorene said, still under her breath.

"Be that as it may," her mother said sternly, having heard everything, "you will stop these cooking lessons and give your attention to things a princess must know."

Cimorene couldn't stop her parents from telling her what to do, and she decided to take a chance. "I'll do what you say, if you promise- both of you, on sacred honor- that the other cooks won't be punished. I made them teach me; they shouldn't be dismissed because they followed my orders."

She held her breath, hoping, and barely managed to keep from sighing aloud when her father said, frowning, "That sounds fair enough."

Before she could rejoice at her small victory, her mother said, "Well, then, that's settled. You'll go to your room for the rest of the day. I want you to study your dancing diagrams for an hour, then I'll help you start a new embroidery. And no more thoughts of cooking lessons," she added, shuddering delicately at the thought.

Cimorene's heart sank at the thought of sitting still for so long. Even practicing dances was better than studying them, but her room was too small for that. She curtsied to her parents and trudged out of the throne room, shoulders slumped in dejection and expecting to be scolded for her poor posture at any moment.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the court philosopher standing near the window. He gave her a sympathetic smile, and she forced herself to smile back, certain that the smile looked more like a gargoyle's grimace. Perhaps she could convince him to teach her something. She'd always wanted to learn Latin…

The End.

oOoOoOo

A/N: There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. I've been reading up on medieval food and cooking, and thought this would be a good way to put my knowledge to work. I recommend Ian Mortimer's "A Time Traveler's Guide to Medieval England" as a good basic resource for anyone interested in the subject.

And if you liked this little piece, head on over to my profile for more information about my original fiction, now available on Amazon. Thanks for stopping by!