Alistair swore, and shook his hand, then sucked on the bleeding cut on the heel of his left hand. He was an expert with a blade - as long as that blade was a sword held in his right hand. A paring knife to peel potatoes with... not so much.

It took time to peel, cut up, and fry enough potatoes for eight people - even longer when he belatedly remembered he was supposed to be cooking for ten, the dwarfs being in camp with them this evening, and had to dig out and prepare a few more potatoes. But eventually he'd produced a great golden pile of fried potatoes. Perfect, he thought - for once he'd done something just right, and everyone would have to admit that he could, on occasion, cook something good.

It was only then that he realized that, as focused as he'd been on making the fried potatoes, he hadn't actually made anything to go with the potatoes. And hungry people would be arriving back at camp from bathing any time now and expecting to be fed. He quickly checked through the packs, and lifted the lid on various pots, as if hoping more prepared food would magically appear. Apart from a quantity of thick stodge in the bottom of the big cauldron - all that was left of the stew they'd eaten the night before - there was nothing else to serve.

Desperate, he set the stodge to heat, and remembering how they sometimes added extra water and had soup instead of stew, added water to it. Broth and fried potatoes weren't going to make much of a meal, however... if only he knew how to make dumplings. Wynne sometimes made those, and they certainly were good at making a meal stretch further. He knew she used flour in making them, and there was flour in the packs... Some time of desperate experimentation later he gave up. The contents of the cauldron were back to being a thick dark sludge, the flour having blended in with the stock to make a thick gravy instead of, as he'd hoped, neatly forming itself into light fluffy dumplings. At least it smelled good.

All right... so he had fried potatoes, and gravy. That was almost a meal, wasn't it?

It was only when he heard the voices of the others returning to the clearing that true panic set in. He grabbed his backpack, and dug out the parcel full of lovely delicious soft fresh cheese curds he'd bought at a small farm they'd passed earlier that day, dumping the lot of them into the gravy. Cheese. Yes. Cheese made everything better.

Except, he thought worriedly, now that it was too late - maybe cheese didn't make gravy better. In a final surge of panic, he grabbed the pan heaped full of beautiful golden-brown fried potatoes and dumped them in as well, gave it a quick stir, groaned at the horrible-looking mess it made, slammed the lid back on, and darted into hiding in his tent, pulling his blankets over his head.

He re-emerged some time late, flushed with embarrassment and ready to take his teasing for producing yet another flop of a meal.

Oghren looked up from his plate. "You've outdone yourself this time, pike-twirler," he growled.

"What exactly is in this mess?" Morrigan asked, poking around at the contents of her plate.

"Enchantment!" Sandal exclaimed, lifting his fork high in the air, a melted string of cheese and gravy oozing down from it.

It was only then he realized they were actually eating it. Eating it, and with every sign of enjoyment.

Maybe cheese really did make everything better, he thought, and smiled as he hurried over to serve a plate full of it for himself before it all disappeared.

For those of you unfamiliar with Canadian cuisine - poutine is a dish invented in Quebec, reportedly as "truck stop food", comprised of hot french fries (aka chips, aka fried potatoes) topped in cheese curds and drowned in gravy. It's horrible and wonderful all at the same time, and can now be found across pretty much the entire country, including at big fast food chains like McDonalds.