HAPPY NEW YEAR -rg
# # # #
Chez Murdoch & the Kitchen Confidential
The Toronto Rowing Club, Tuesday Afternoon
Six ladies, in matching long white aprons, were bent over copper-bottomed pans and moving like some demented cello section to a syncopated rhythm. Afternoon sunlight streamed through plain glass windows, creating no dark corners in which to hide one's mistakes. The white-robed chef, his high toque blanche towering above him, was clearly the maestro in charge, calling out the score to his orchestra:
"Maintenant, lay-deez. The sauce requires patience and a light touch. Move the whisk in a clockwise manner, pouring the steaming hot milk in a little at a time, ducement, then adding more heat. You will know when it is done when the sauce becomes velvety smooth and glossy…" The Head Chef announced in French–inflected tones, mimicking the movements of the whisk with flicks of his right hand.
"Just in case we students cannot not tell which is clockwise and which direction is anti-clock wise, as if that mattered," Julia grumbled under her breath to Mrs. Greatbach, standing beside her at the long wooden table which bisected the Toronto Rowing Club's enormous kitchen. Her companion flashed a smile, but kept her hand moving, adding to the rhythmic swishing sound of whisks against metal which bounced off the Club's hygienic, white-tiled walls.
A mere three hours ago Dr. Julia Ogden, temporary Chief Coroner of the City of Toronto, had pulled an Erlenmeyer flask away from the heat, turned off the flame at her workbench, and held the glassware up to the light to examine it with a critical eye. She was rewarded with results she had come to expect which was a perfect tincture of willow bark. She set it next to the cooling batch of red cabbage water she used as a quick reference for acid/base. Several other nicely labeled and sealed containers encompassed the rest of her efforts to stock her morgue with effective reagents—on the cheap. The City Fathers might have agreed to pay Miss James's salary but they cut back the morgue's budget for supplies to pay for it; hence, she made do.
Here, she was merely Mrs. William Murdoch, cooking student. Beside her was the brand-new Mrs. Stanley Greatbach (née Foster) who had just come back from her honeymoon and was enthusiastic about keeping her husband interested in staying home and not resuming his bachelor-habit of dining at his Gentlemen's Club most nights.
The bride leaned over to confide in Julia. "I hope my Stanley enjoys this better than Tuesday's lamb. He eats venison at the Sportsman but says he did not care for the roast shank, and I was so very disappointed. Tonight I am planning a trifle for dessert with brandy-soaked sponge-cake and all his favourite fruits." She dropped her voice even further. "I hope he will like it better than the Bombay Pudding from last week. Why ever do they call it 'pudding'? It was nothing of the sort all fried and sauced. My Stanley hated it so that is off the menu, permanently! My new momma-in-law, suggested the way to a man's heart is through his stomach." She giggled. "That must be true because her husband is, well, portly indeed! I am hoping my Stanley will be so stuffed he will stay home tonight," the newlywed having alluded to her woe about already taking second place in her husband's social priorities.
Julia smiled in faux sympathy. William is often late or absent from home due to his duties at work or absorption in a case, but never due to disinterest in me. Julia thought there might be more, mutually entertaining, ways for young Mrs. Greatbach to lure her husband away from his fellows, but that was hardly fit conversation for polite, or public society, and made Julia feel positively ancient and world-worn next to the creamy-cheeked, eighteen-year old bride. Of course I feel quite smug too… Julia kept her face directed at her own pan, back again on the burner with the contents sloshing around, unable to keep a wicked smile off her face. Being Mrs. William Murdoch certainly has some benefits - I still feel like a new bride in William's arms. Julia considered how lucky she was, always grateful that she and her husband possessed matching carnal appetites, if not gustatory ones.
She gave a sidelong glance at her young companion, thinking how absurd 'Society' was that a woman was not really a person to be reckoned with until she was married and a mother, at which time, until recently, she became a legal non-entity upon that very same marriage. Mrs. Greatbach was, as an eighteen year old girl, towards the lower end of the prime age for marriage amongst the upper classes, with the median age at about twenty-one. Marriage was the only entre into mainstream society as a full adult for women, since 'Spinster' was pitiable and signaled 'disregardable' as well. Julia knew her father had not really seen her as an adult until her wedding to Darcy, well-past the average expiration date for a 'marriageable' daughter.
She looked again at her young companion, wondering if half a lifetime ago she ever looked so…young. 'Wife' and 'Mother' are the imperatives, Julia observed. Lover, was not amongst the roles of a proper female. Such a shame. Perhaps I will have a private word with the new Missus, in my role as a physician, of course. At least it is an area of my expertise…
Julia's arm was getting fatigued with all that stirring. Ordinarily Julia was quite satisfied with her creations. However prowess at her chemistry workbench and in the morgue did not translate well to a kitchen, as evidenced by a slew of pots, pans, bowls and crocks, frustratingly-filled with her abject culinary failures from today's cooking class. Her knife skills this evening had been a disaster as well. She marveled how it was possible for her to so elegantly dissect a human brain or the chambers of a heart with a fine scalpel, yet utterly crush a tomato or chunk a carrot into untidy oblivion with a well-balanced kitchen knife. As for the lesson's main dish, she salvaged enough of the chicken breast and green beans which were now waiting patiently on the table behind her to be enrobed with sauce. Thank god! Sauce should cover up so many sins, she prayed.
"Mesdames, you may now add the Gruyère de Comté, allowing it to melt a little at a time…" Monsieur le chef continued, while marching down and back along the stove. "Sauce should complement your dish, not, how do you say…overwhelm…"
Julia stiffened when he paused behind her to make that pronouncement. Last week, what had once been a very nice lamb shank became, somehow, inexplicably, nearly charred beyond edible rather than roasted with a golden crust. Fortunately, in the past William was known to tolerate most meal items as long as they were hot and filling, having survived on Mrs. Kitchen's cooking for a decade. Her husband had dutifully eaten the lamb, smothered in an excess of mint sauce, and even praised her effort. There was a time when she would have accounted for that as his simple tastes or a general disinterest in food.
Unfortunately, William had also come to expand his palate and appreciation of food at her very own urging, accelerated by living at the Windsor Hotel with its fine chef along with having two excellent meals delivered each day for him to enjoy. Now he knew what exquisitely prepared food tasted like. Which had also accelerated his waistline, she smirked, as evidenced by the less form-fitting suits he'd taken to wearing. Her husband was by no means fat, but until recently he was not as sleek looking as he had been at one time-the passage of a decade notwithstanding. She quite disliked the baggy, boxy outline of his current wardrobe and had made some comments here and there about it, which had so far fallen on deaf ears; rather, he made some excuse about comfort and mobility at his job. She still found him to be completely physically irresistible, but on the other hand her own waistline had not budged even a quarter of an inch!
Julia assumed his praise for her cooking was likely politeness and good judgment about how a wise husband was supposed to behave, versus his enjoyment of the dish, prompted his compliment. He did not lie, I noticed, since he praised my effort and not the actual meal itself. She frowned. I've created a monster, she sighed, and it is my own damn fault! Julia had eventually learned to make some simple stews and soups whilst she was sequestered at her family's lake house after her release from jail, but those dishes did not compare at all to the fare at the Windsor.
She sighed, looking down at her pan. Her only hope for vindication in class this evening was the remaining objective of whipping up a smooth, creamy Béchamel cheese sauce, but the roux she concocted refused to cook itself properly and the instructor was 'tisk-tisking' behind her back in a most ineffective and patronizing way.
Hell and damnation! She yelled at herself and the world in general, peering at the magical sauces produced by other hands, to the left and right of her own pan.
Julia's foray into learning to cook was not going well and she was despairing. For the last three and a half weeks, two evenings each week, she'd been taking "Cooking Lessons for Modern Ladies" which were being offered at the Rowing Club in their large kitchen by their imported Parisian chef. The Club recently purchased brand new gas stoves with ovens which were the envy of every other establishment. The purpose of these cooking classes was ostensibly to introduce ladies to all the wonderful new gadgets and appliances being sold in the contemporary market place. The 'lady of the house' was more and more expected to personally understand how these newfangled inventions functioned: moreover because modern society was leaning away from having extensive servants in the home, even ladies of means might be expected to cook in the 'modern home.'
Modern home indeed! She gritted her teeth and exhaled sharply at the congealed mass lounging at the bottom of her copper-bottomed pan, which looked nothing like the contents produced by her five classmates. What am I, as a 'Modern Woman 'doing in these classes?
Julia laughed at herself. The answer, of course, was simple: William.
William had been so excited about the plans for their new home, endlessly tinkering with small changes and improvements. He was especially keen on adding electric conveniences to their house, going so far as to sending away for several of them from catalogues and rounding them up at inventor-fairs - that is, when he could not figure out how to custom make one himself. Toasters, coffee makers, teapots, griddles, and something called a table burner arrived at their suite and were arrayed in the centre of their small dining table, nearly crowding out anywhere to put a plate. William had even persuaded the hotel to run an electrical line from the ceiling lights to the table to power these wonders of the modern century. He was so sure these items were going to make servants unnecessary and relieve any supposedly unfair burden on her for domestic chores.
Julia did not buy it for a minute— She believed William had an excessively romantic notion of how life in their new home was going to be, especially sans servants. 'The house will help clean itself,' she groaned. Ridiculous! However the smile on his face and the gleam in his cocoa-brown eye was infectious when he promised her how wonderful it was all going to work out-she could not bear breaking his heart.
Julia had not pointed out that William was quite used to Mrs. Kitchen cooking, cleaning and laundering for him, pressing his suits and shirts to within an inch of their useful lives. He enjoyed delegating constables to do the tedious or often dirty work of his investigation (well perhaps enjoy was too strong a word). He certainly accommodated to the benefits of hotel living readily enough, even if he conveniently left out the fact that others did all the menial work even if he did not consider them servants per se. She did not think he had any idea at all about the complexities of running an entire household - after all, where would he have ever leaned such a thing? As far as she knew, he went from his mother's home, eventually to his aunt's, to boarding school and then to jobs where food, lodging and laundry were provided —finally ending up at Mrs. Kitchen's. He'd never lived completely, independently, by himself, or at least never let on to her that he had done so, without some anonymous woman or other picking up the slack. Julia, on the other hand had been her father's hostess, schooled by her mother then Mrs. Hastings in the intricacies of domestic life, helped raise her younger sister (as much good as that had been!), ran her husband's large home, and had lived alone after separating from Darcy. Actual cooking had never been one of her areas of experience, unfortunately, but that was beside the point!
Therefore, Julia, was persuaded to try cooking lessons with some of the new culinary inventions as her share of the equation. That was right after William confessed that he still visited Mrs. Kitchen every two weeks for a surreptitious haircut and a taste of his ex-landlady's beef stew; Julia would admit to no competitiveness in the matter, but it did lend a certain momentum to her decision enroll in these infernal cooking classes.
I hope he appreciates this! In her mind Julia dared William to reject her efforts. There was only one lesson left, and the final exercise was supposed to be Boeuf bourguignon a la Escoffier, to be cooked in the gas stove oven and served over bread made crisp with the new toasting appliance. This was as close to Mrs. Kitchen's beef stew as she could get and it had to be started marinating tonight of all things and cooked off in two days' time.
….A month ago Julia had gone to visit Mrs. Kitchen with the flimsiest of excuses, awkwardly sitting in the woman's parlour sipping tea, discussing the weather, the latest fashions and….more weather. Mrs. Kitchen saved them both by getting right to the point.
"Doctor Ogden, is everything all right?" She offered a worried smile. "I do hope Mr. Murdoch is well. Is there something amiss you wish to discuss?"
Julia could not resist the open, honest face across from her. "Mrs. Kitchen, I am here to ask a great favour of you. It has come to my knowledge that William visits you every other week for a trim and, er…luncheon." Julia observed a blush steal up Mrs. Kitchen's face. "He quite enjoys his visit, and speaks so very highly of one of your dishes, your beef stew in fact."
Mrs. Kitchen's eyes narrowed. Narrowed suspiciously, in Julia's assessment. Seeing Mrs. Kitchen's frown deepened, she changed tactics in mid-course. I see a disarming charm is required. "Dear Mrs. Kitchen, I was wondering if you would be so kind as to share your recipe with me?" Julia smiled her most winning smile. "I think William would be so happy to know that I sought your help and guidance, since we will be moving into our new home soon. You took such good care of him for so many years…" She deliberately left the statement open ended, so that Mrs. Kitchen could read into it whatever she liked.
So far it seemed she did not like. Mrs. Kitchen was very still except for kneading her apron nervously between thin fingers, looking stricken.
The parlour clock ticked.
Tea was sipped.
Julia waited.
Then it came to her. Mrs. Kitchen thinks William is no longer going to visit… Julia moved fast to reassure her. "After we live in our new home, I am certain William plans to continue the arrangement you have," Julia added as she set her tea aside, "assuming you are agreeable, of course. You have been like a second mother to him, after all." Julia guessed, accurately it seems, by the challenge in Mrs. Kitchen's eye. "I was just thinking how pleased he would be to have one of his favourite meals at home, you understand, for special occasions. He would be ever so tickled to know the recipe came from you."
Mrs. Kitchen blinked, and exhaled. "My recipe? Oh, it is nothing special. It is just beef, onions, carrots and potatoes cooked in a covered pot in the coals. A sprig of parsley perhaps. Mr. Murdoch always seemed to like plain-cooked food when he was my boarder. A suet-cake for his sweet, or tapioca." Mrs. Kitchen managed to say this with no inflection at all-which Julia interpreted as a not too subtle poke at the glories of eating at the Windsor Hotel and her view of the sin of gluttony.
In the end, Mrs. Kitchen was no more forthcoming than Monsieur le chef, with the landlady's instructions to 'take a hunk of meat from the haunch' with little bit of that and a handful of the other and a scoop of the third thing, then 'take out half the coals to make a spot for the covered casserole then leave it alone for a while until it is done.' It was all gibberish to Julia-no list of specific ingredients, no measurements, no temperature, no time-table-and to top it off she did not have the same casserole dish let alone the same stove as Mrs. Kitchen possessed. Julia walked rapidly down Ontario Street with frustrated heels striking the sidewalk, hoping to calm herself down before hailing a cab. She was now becoming personally offended by the very existence of this beef stew, and William's extraordinary attachment to it. There has to be a better way…
Julia remained irritated. The most appalling part? - Mrs. Kitchen alluded to the idea it may take five to eight hours to cook! Goodness gracious! Who in their right mind has that kind of time to cook a single meal? Clearly not someone who works outside the home! Or outside the kitchen for that matter!
"….Madame Murdoch?!" The aggrieved voice cut through Julia's reverie, just as the tip of her nose started to unconsciously protest by wrinkling up. She looked around, then down at the pan in front of her where her white-sauce was anything but. The sides of her pan were brown-turning-blackened, emitting the foul odor of burned milk. Julia swung the pan off the burner, nearly colliding with the chef in the process.
Damnit! Julia muttered under her breath as she burned her finger. Monsieur le chef had his large green eyes focused down his long Gallic nose with unfettered distain for the cloddish efforts of his student.
"Madame, perhaps it is better that you concentrate on preparation for the final lesson, non?" he suggested, while surveying the damage Julia did to one very nice copper pot; the sauce had gone well past cooked and was a hardened mess.
Julia pressed her lips closed with great effort. She noticed the other ladies refused to make eye contact, quickly packaging up their own chicken and bean dishes, before starting the marinating process for Thursday's boeuf. This is William's fault too, she grumped, and then had an evil thought while contemplating the 'naked' chicken she just prepared.
And I will serve this to him as well; let's see what he has to say about that!
# # #
Station House No. 4, Tuesday Evening
"What is that?" Constable George Crabtree leaned over his detective's desk and pointed to the contents of a blue-rimmed plate. "It looks, well…mummified. And I should know a thing or two about that…"
William Murdoch grimaced and thinned his lips to keep from answering defensively. Julia came 'round on the way home from her cooking class full of enthusiasm for her creation, going on and on about the ability of the gas powered stove burners for regulating heat while waiting impatiently for him to sample the dish and pronounce it delicious. He had already agreed that their new home would possess a gas cooking range, even though he had wanted to hold out for an electric model. The 1893 Chicago World's Fair showcased an entire electric kitchen including an electric oven patented by a Canadian, Mr. Thomas Ahearn. The designs and drawings had been featured in one of his scientific magazines and he had delighted in reading all about the new inventions, never really imagining ten years later he'd have his own house to furnish in this way.
Unfortunately the electric ranges were harder to come by and running one was exorbitantly expensive, so he acquiesced to use gas. William had been a little suspicious at how excessively bright and prideful Julia had been today, over what was a rather tough, dry piece of bird, accompanied by something called Haricot vert which to him appeared to be limp, over-cooked green beans. Not something he'd ever admit to her and certainly not to anyone else. William finished the beans and told her he was going to save the rest of the chicken for 'later.' Not that anything could exactly save that, he thought, and it was hardly an endorsement for a gas appliance. He gallantly refused to publicly acknowledge the problem was Julia's cooking skills, but regarded George's knowing smile before deciding distraction was in order. "What have you, George?" he asked.
"Sir. I have that calendar you asked me to make up with all of the Inspector's regular meetings and the list of reports that are expected by the Chief Constable next month. Looks like you will be quite busy while the Inspector is away." George handed over the folder to his detective, but not before he took another look at the unfinished meal. "Sir? Is this more from Doctor Ogden's cooking class? What new invention was she trying out today? Some sort of dehydrator? That would be marvelous, would it not? Just think, sir. You could have a whole meal, dried out and light as a feather, then just add plain water and bring it back to life anywhere at any time. Why, you could carry a whole kitchen full of food with you and all you'd need is access to water. None of those heavy cans of things. Are you getting one for your new house?"
William tried to interrupt several times without much success, eventually allowing George to run out of steam on his own. This idea of drying food to preserve it was not a new idea, of course… But George might have an idea there for people who have to travel long distances with a light load, or my next bicycle trip with Julia…. William shook his head faintly to clear his focus. "No, George, we are not. And thank you for the calendar and the list. While I am attending to these, you and Henry will have to step up with the investigations."
"Are you being appointed 'Acting Inspector' while Inspector Brackenreid is away?" George wondered hopefully. The opportunity to earn his own way back to Constable first class was never far from his mind. If his detective was temporarily promoted, perhaps he could be as well.
"No, George," William said again with a closed look on his face. "That was part of what the Chief Constable wanted to see me about. It seems there is a budget freeze—we are to make do with what we have and there will be no temporary advancements." William tried to keep his face neutral. After he'd convinced the Chief Constable that there was no need to send over a temporary Inspector from another station house, the Chief Constable countered with: "So, detective, if I understand your argument, then there is obviously no need to appoint any inspector at all." So William had all the responsibility for his job and the inspector's and no increase in his pay packet. He started to say good night, when George interrupted again.
Walking past the worktable on his way out, George paused to admire a new piece of equipment. "Is this what came by messenger today?" He peered at the shape and then spied the crate in which it had been packed. "Sir. Is this what I think it is?" he asked, tapping on the metal which produced a decidedly 'thunking' sound.
William's frown broke into a proprietary smile as he hustled over to the object in question, putting a hand out for it. "Yes, it is! It is a new version of Mr. Seeley & Mr. Dyer's resistively heated electric clothes iron. I had it delivered here because I am going to modify it before I…" He was unable to prevent George from hefting it.
"I've heard about these…ooof!" George grunted while trying to pick it up. "My Aunt Petunia used to have a coal-heated version where you put the lumps right into the pan here, and then of course there are the ones which get heated on top of the stove. Hot, nasty work to get all those ruffles pressed properly, pulling two and three irons on and off the stove to heat them, also assuming you did not burn the material you were working on. I remember once when Aunt Ivy left one iron too long on one of Aunt Zinnia's pleats in her favourite orange dress. Made a sort of triangle burn pattern. I tell you they did not speak for weeks afterwards!"
William interrupted before George could offer and more. "Why yes! That is why I got this new electric model which is lighter, only eleven pounds instead of fifteen…" He tried to get his hands on the device, but George was pantomiming the motion of ironing a dress, and doing it quite convincingly, the detective observed.
George narrated as his arm swung and his fingers waggled. "Eleven pounds you say? That is quite heavy! Pressing something properly takes a devilishly long time, and I should know," he said as an aside, letting his eyes dart back and forth to make sure no one else heard his confession. "I cannot imagine how any housewife would want to use such a thing, especially now there are so many laundries which will pick up, clean, press and deliver back to you for only pennies. I certainly cannot imagine Dr. Ogden, or any women for that matter, volunteering to use such a thing unless it was part of her job. And hardly a romantic present…" He looked at the detective. "What are you doing with this, if I may ask?"
William's face looked like he just ate a lemon.
Peel and all.
He removed the iron from George's fist and set it down, effectively ending the conversation with a curt, "Thank you, George. And good evening." William shooed George out, making sure the station house was quiet and empty except for the desk sergeant. He had told Julia he needed to work late tonight, which is why she brought his dinner to him. He was working—just not constabulary work—and he did not particularly want to be observed in his off-hours activities.
He closed the door to his office and pulled the shade, turning back to his work bench, a frown settling back on his face. Why, yes, George, I was indeed thinking this was a present for my wife- why wouldn't she like such a marvelous new thing..? He himself had been quite excited about acquiring it and planned to work on modifying the electrical cord so that it could be plugged in and out of a socket. He admired the technology behind the device, going so far as finding the patent drawings. He originally had been interested in a different patent by Mr. Earl Richardson for his new iron, but they were not being manufactured yet, so he went with Seeley & Dyer.
William looked mournfully at the ironing appliance while he moved it left and right across the surface of his work bench. It was heavy, he gave George that. And he has a point about how time-consuming it might be to use, but the whole notion of the laundry cupboard I am designing for our house implied that washing would be taken care of in the home and not sent out. He had a sudden flash to the future fate of his own shirts under Julia's caretaking, considering the condition of his supper this evening.
William winced at the vision his mind presented to him, suddenly doubtful. My tailor would not be pleased…Perhaps this is not such a good idea after all. Fortunately he had not tinkered with the iron yet and had all the packing material. The idea of resistively heating an item was compelling, but his enthusiasm was tarnished somewhat.
He sighed, trying to figure out if there was a way to rescue his plans. This whole house business was becoming an overwhelming project that seemed to make both Julia and himself frustrated. She had done more than just hint she was unhappy about the delays in choosing a builder and starting construction, and he was unhappy about – well, displeasing her regarding the house plans he had had such high hopes for. He so wanted this to be a gift to Julia, an expression of his love and care for her and their intended family as well as for her to be delighted with the results. Instead, the two of them were dangerously close to not being on the same page.
William reflected on Julia's visit today and the results of the cooking lesson du jour. He dared not let on that he himself could actually produce relatively simple but edible food, having been forced by circumstances to do so at various times in his life. She'd kill me, he recognized, which regarding Julia was no idle threat!
William stroked the sides of the iron while one part of his mind considered the wonders and benefits of electric heating elements, including Mr. Richardson's heating pad and the incubators he constructed last Christmas, while the other part of his mind contemplated his wife. While I do not suspect Julia is deliberately sabotaging her culinary efforts, the results leave much to be desired. At least today she did not complain about the lack of actual instruction provided by the lessons or the unruliness of the equipment.
He hesitated, torn between wanting to see how the ironing device was constructed and what it could do, and the realization that George might be right-it may not be a practical addition to their home, nor possibly wise to offer to Julia as a courting gift. Unable to completely stifle his disappointment, he re-crated it and set it aside for later.
I just might be able to get my money back…
# # #
The Windsor Hotel, Thursday Evening
Julia was grateful that her cooking lessons were finished. Monsieur le chef seemed just as grateful his students were gone, no longer despoiling his kitchen. She doubted that he was going to repeat the experience, or not unless the fee was at least doubled. At the door to the Windsor, she handed her casserole out of the carriage to one of the hotel wait staff, and dragged a basket with the rest of the meal up three flights to their suite.
Julia and the waiter delivered the results of her afternoon's labour to the table, then the waiter closed the door behind him. William greeted her with a kiss, and brought her over to the table where he had laid out a white table cloth, two plates, flowers, candles and a glass of Pinot noire for her. She smiled at him, also gratefully, and took a sip of the wine.
"Good evening, Julia. My, the aroma is wonderful. How was your day?" he asked. As he listened to her description of sectioning a liver first thing this morning, William did the honours with a nice loaf of bread, making beautifully even slices then toasting them until they were golden and crispy brown in his electric toasting device, then putting the bread proudly on two plates, waiting to be crowned by her pièce de résistance.
"There, perfect! See, Julia? We can prepare meals together in our new kitchen just like this, and I can even bring you breakfast in bed. Now," he gestured. "For your casserole." William had cleared some of the electric appliances aside and was grinning broadly in anticipation. The Boeuf Bourguignon had indeed smelled enticing, and was steaming nicely as she spooned it out on their plates.
"Bon appétit," she offered, then he dug in. Unfortunately, the dish was overly garlicky and swimming in the pork lardons grease while the mushrooms were rubbery and the pearl onions were mushy. In fact, this morning's liver was easier to cut through and less fibrous than her beef on toast had been.
"What a waste of good Burgundy,"she complained while stabbing at her plate with a fork, wishing the wine in which the beef cubes marinated and sauced had been put to better purpose. William had dutifully tasted his portion noting it was hot and full of flavour, while washing it down with copious amounts of water.
"Oh, William, I am so sorry. You are being quite gallant but this is really not very good." Julia tried not to shake the whole table while attempting to cut her beef. "In fact, this is a disaster and so frustrating! I am an intelligent person, capable of turning out any number of concoctions in my lab, so it is beyond me why I cannot produce a decent meal." She narrowed her eyes at William. "Perhaps I should stick to the culinary equivalent of chemistry, whipping up alcoholic slings in a speak-easy. How would you like that…? Should make the adoption process go even more smoothly." Julia kept an 'I-dare-you' expression in her eye as she delivered this.
William accepted her glare good-naturedly. He took her hand left hand in his right and fingered her rings. "Julia, I know you are doing this for me, and I appreciate it. As much as I enjoy when we eat out at a restaurant, or dine here at the hotel, I really don't require gourmet fare. It is you who are used to finer food—I can do just was well…"
"With Mrs. Kitchen's beef stew?" Julia challenged. "Or Mrs. Brackenreid's?" She was pleased her husband coloured slightly. "What is it about that dish, William? Really, I want to know." She pushed her plate away and cross her arms over her chest.
He saw she was serious, so he tried to figure out exactly how to answer. His memory traveled to the meal his mother would make, the few times when there was a break from the ever-present fish on the menu. Beef of any kind was a luxury in his sea-coast village. He had no idea what went into it or how it was prepared, other than knowing it was an inexpensive piece of meat that cooked in a pot and somehow it got more tender rather than tougher. He shrugged. "I suppose it reminds me of home in Nova Scotia, a special meal from my childhood." He was not going to say it reminded him of his mother…
"Well, William, according to Mrs. Kitchen it takes hours to cook, more time than even this Boeuf Bourguignon. I don't see any chance that I am going to be able cook beef stew or pot roast for you. It's not just that I don't have the talent, where would I get the time?" Julia asked reasonably.
"Yes. I see that. We will just have to adjust." He selected some bread and broke off a piece of yeast roll, handing half to her. "These are delicious," he commented. "You worked your considerable magic on these"
Julia exhaled exasperatedly, waving the roll in her fist. "That is what is so infuriating. I can bake—why can't I cook?"
# # #
The Windsor Hotel, nine days later, Saturday night.
Julia wended her way home, exhausted after a very long day which had been split between early morning rounds at the asylum and then autopsy duty regarding an unexpected death in Station No. 1's area. Her husband had been able to go in at eight this morning and leave at six pm, even coming back to the hotel for luncheon and bring her something to eat at noon, his calendar being exceedingly clear today. There had been an odd hiatus in murders in William's jurisdiction so she and her husband had very little professional interactions in the past four weeks that Inspector Brackenreid had been gone. In fact, Toronto's miscreants appeared to be taking the same sort of time off from bad behavior, and foolish people were not causing their own demise at the same rate as they previously had, which was the only reason Julia had been free to take those dratted cooking lessons in the first place. Even though she was not a religious person, she admitted she had been praying, in vain it turned out, for a nice messy, time-consuming murder or two which cried out for her personal expertise, and which would have excused her from her miserable bi-weekly trek to the Rowing Club.
Why, oh why did Noah Turnbull have to postpone his heart failure until today? Why not last Thursday instead, so he could have saved me from my final humiliation?
…No such luck.
In life, Mr. Turnbull looked to be the picture of health from the outside, but inside his chest was another matter. That heart of his was so clogged and damaged it could have given way at any time—Although she had to admit the coronary occlusion, or "L'infarctus du myocarde" just as described by Dr. René Marie in his 1896 monograph, was fascinating to dissect, but hardly made up for the fact she was available for the final cooking lesson. Julia bit her lip. William had been gracious, non-judgmental and had not mentioned cooking again.
I knew he was a smart man, she thought. Only one more flight and I'll be home. She was looking forward to a romantic evening alone with William, hoping to start with a hot bath and a deep massage from his expert hands. He'd hinted that he'd be taking care of her tonight in some special way after such a long day, making her take the stairs with a certain alacrity and her blood pump in excitement.
She turned the door knob to their suite and was welcomed by the most savoury smell imaginable. "William?" she asked as she took her hat off and hung her coat in the small foyer, then peeked into their sitting room. There, on their dining table were two table settings in front of a small tri-fold screen, hiding the various electrical contraptions which had taken up residence of late. Their cords were tethered to the ceiling by a snake, or perhaps an octopus, of wires plugged into the lighting fixture, but they were at least out of the way tonight.
"Julia! Welcome home. Come in, come in!" He was smiling ear to ear, coming over to give her a hearty kiss.
That wonderful smell was coming from the table. "William. What is that?" she pointed to a covered casserole, and inhaled deeply. William lifted the lid. A mouthwatering steam rose, causing Julia's stomach to growl. Julia picked up a spoon and dipped it in the casserole, tasting the broth. It was sublime.
"Please sit, it is ready to eat." He pulled her chair out, settled her at the table and poured a nice Pinot noir for her.
William scooped a generous portion onto each of their plates. Julia saw beef fairly melting off the bone, carrots, onions, potatoes and what looked like hearts of celery. "Did Mrs. Kitchen bring that over?" she wondered. In all this time she had not been privy to tasting this special meal, and was beginning to understand why William was so enamoured by it. It looked and smelled heavenly.
Her husband merely smiled and encouraged her to really taste it. "Oh my goodness. This is marvelous," she said after taking her first bite. "No wonder you like it. " She sighed, suddenly disappointed that it was beyond her abilities to make it for him. She looked at his expectant face.
He told her: "No. Mrs. Kitchen did not cook this."
"Well. It is very good. Perhaps I can get it delivered to our home…"
"So, you like it?" he inquired.
Julia could not decide if he was feeling proud, mischievous or bashful, but his brown eyes were wide and he bounced in his chair a little. She saw William puff up. Pride it is, she thought. Then he shocked her.
"I made it!" He stood and removed the screen which blocked her view of all his appliances, revealing a behemoth of metal, dwarfing his other electrical gadgets.
"You what? You made the meal or this machine?"
"Both!" He brought her right over to it, and clapped his hands together. "I call it the 'Hands-free Electric Tabletop Low Temperature-regulated Capsule'!"
William had spent a few days or so after Julia's last cooking lesson with his busy, multi-layered mind flipped through options, discarding most and reserving a few for later. He'd been at work in a lull between report writing, when he stopped suddenly, a smile inching across his face. Leaving his desk he pulled his chalkboard upright and erased it until the surface was blank, then started sketching. What has Julia been complaining about, really? Time, temperature and the recipe. I think I have an answer for some part of that, he felt confident in asserting, at least to himself.
He practically glowed, she noticed. "What does it do?" she asked.
"It heats a ceramic casserole inside at a low, even temperature, regulated with a bi-metallic strip."
Julia was impressed. "In other words, it cooks things?"
"Yes! But better. It cooks things at a low, regulated temperature. I assembled all the ingredients this afternoon, set it to cook and when I came back, voila, supper!" When she looked blankly back at him he went on. "You said it yourself. You are very intelligent and are an excellent chemist. Your limitation has been inadequate equipment as well as no formula to follow for the recipes and no time for elaborate menus. What makes this beef dish the way it is requires the application of low, moist heat over a long period of time to…"
Julia joined in. "Of course…to break down the ligaments and tendons in the meat. How clever. But where did you get this idea?" She waved her hand at the device he created.
"Well, you recall the incubators I designed and built last Christmas? It is almost the same principle—although not the same technology, obviously. And, and …er..hotter. I used multiple resistive heating elements, a mechanical temperature regulator and a timing element. You put your ingredients in, turn it on, and it safely cooks while you are elsewhere engaged. When you come back home at the end of the day, your meal is ready." He was obviously pleased with himself.
William had cobbled together several pieces of other electrical appliances and linked them together. He'd practiced on a piece of pork, donated by George Crabtree, and fed the men at the station house the day before with good results.
She was pleased with the results as well. "But William, not every meal can be done automatically like this. There will have to be actual cooking, you know." She hated to disabuse him of his fantasy, and as wonderful as the device was, it did not solve their fundamental problems with her inability to cook. He was still smiling anyways.
I love his smile… she was forgetting her objections already.
"That is where this comes in." He reached over to a package which rested on the sideboard. "Open it."
Julia knew it must be a book. She tore the paper off to reveal 'Fannie Merrit Farmer, The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book.' She looked at William skeptically. She'd been reading books like these and they were generally imprecise and contrary.
He rushed to reassure her. "No, it's all right. Mrs. Farmer has pioneered a new, more scientific approach to cooking. She has exact measurements, ingredients, time and temperature guides. It's rather like a chemistry text!" William positively beamed.
That is perfect. Her heart was so very warmed by his gift and she was impressed by his creativity. "I suppose George wants you to make and sell these?" she asked. He nodded and explained the cook book was George's idea, and she saw an opening. "You know, William, you are pretty good at chemistry too. Perhaps we shall cook together after all…"
William hugged her closely. "Yes, I think we shall. And by the way, I think I have selected our contractor for the house. I will be interviewing him tomorrow. His name is Mr. Michael Holmes, and he has an excellent reputation. As for cooking together..." he hooded his eyes, " first….we finish supper!"
-END-
Author's Note: The technology existed for creating the "Crock Pot" in 1904-5—and William would have gotten every single electrical device on the market—you know he would! And he always finds a way.