The Cookery Book Of James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser


1.

100% A Scot Pie

Pastry –

250 grams all purpose flour
50 grams lard or vegetable shortening
50 grams butter
100-120 milliliters water

Filling –

250 grams ground lamb or beef
50 grams chopped bacon
1 medium onion, minced
2 tsp mixed dried/fresh herbs according to availability – rosemary, oregano, thyme, basil, cloves, and sage
½ tsp dried mushroom powder
½ tsp freshly ground celery seed
40-60 milliliters beef bone broth or vegetable stock
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Method -

Make pastry cases and lids according to the Hot Water method. Above amounts should be enough for four.
Cook bacon until crisp, remove from pan, reserving fat.
Saute onion and herbs in bacon fat until onion begins to be translucent and herbs are fragrant. Add ground meat, and cook until well browned. Add bacon, season to taste. Deglaze with stock, and stir until meat is evenly moistened. Fill pastry cases ¾ full, top with pierced lids, and bake at 180°C for 45 to 50 minutes or until lightly golden brown and crisp. Let cool before serving. Serve with brown sauce, chips, and cherry tomato vinaigrette.


I pace back and forth in this Castle Leoch's private dining room, occasionally looking out of the window that overlooks the big sandy ring of the performance stage, but unable to settle in to watch the current show.

If you weren't such a Scot, Fraser, you wouldn't be in this mess. . .

Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn. . .

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

What will she be like?

Dougal is an all-star idiot, but he has good taste, and he doesn't want you back in Scotland – so she has to be mildly appealing, right?

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

Oh, why did you have to be such a stubborn fool, Fraser? Stubborn over Annalise, stubborn over staying in this country, stubborn over your own opinions and ideas and hopes and dreams, and might as well throw your recipes in there too!

You're a damned Scot, and serve you right if this Ms. Beauchamp Dougal has dug up for you is a sharp-tongued Sassenach who'll do nothing but put you in your place!

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

I hear the actors shout as they execute this evening's final Highland Charge.

I don't bother to go and watch. I've seen it a dozen times before.

She'll be here soon. . .

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

What will she be like?

Tall or short, round or thin, I don't much care. Clear, confident voices, and well-lashed, colourful eyes are what do it for me. . .

Well, that and a nice, full, smackable bum. . .

Focus, Fraser! She's not coming here for that, she's coming to help you because you've been an utter, damnable, stubborn fool! She'll be perfectly within her rights if she never once touches you at all!

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

A simple, emotionless, businesslike marriage. That's the best you can hope for.

That's all you can hope for. And better than you deserve. . .

But my wame still rumbles at the thought. . .

Focus on the Green Card, man! Don't let the thought of another woman ignoring your feelings turn your stomach! This time it won't be because she hates you, or is trying to hurt you at all. She won't know you. Take what comfort you can from that!

Ms. Beauchamp. . .

I wonder if she will be at all like the Ms. Beauchamp that won that harassment lawsuit against Dougal last year.

She can't be the same one. . .

Can she?

How many Ms. Beauchamp's does he know?

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

Behind me, the doorknob rattles. . .

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

With a slow creak, the door opens. . .

Pace. . . pace. . . pace. . .

I turn. . .

Pace. . . pace. . . pa-


Analog chapter of Green Card - Chapter 2


2.

Ye Ken Ye're Hot Toddy

1 cup of distilled water
1 ½ or 2 ounces single malt whisky
2-3 tsp honey
2-3 tsp freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 lemon wedge (garnish)
Sprinkle of cinnamon (garnish)

Method -

Heat water until steaming - do not boil. Add in whisky, stir well. Slowly add in honey and lemon, stirring continuously, and tasting often, until flavors are balanced. Pour into mug, and garnish with a lemon wedge and a pinch of cinnamon. Serve hot.


clunk

I hear her mug hit the floor.

I tiptoe in to get it, and make sure she's well covered by her duvet at the same time.

Short, light, adorable snores greet me, from underneath the wild riot of dark brown curls obscuring her face. I restrain the impulse to tidy them, to run my fingers through them, and as I do, to let my thumb caress the edge of her ear, and watch as her lips part with a sharply indrawn gasp. . .

Don't think about her mouth, Fraser! Good grief, two kisses and you're reduced to a mewling schoolboy!

I pick up the mug, glad to see she enjoyed the toddy I made her, and put it in the sink to wash later. I really ought to be doing what Claire is doing right now – taking a good, sensible nap – but I got a bit too much sleep on the plane for more to come easily, and I'm a good deal too riled up and anxious to relax now we're finally here.

My eyes take in the room, my heart a very strange mixture of amused and bemused. Vegas will be Vegas, I know, but the blatantly overdone, ostentatiously stereotypical Scottishness of this place is so ridiculous, it's almost sad.

Well, there's one thing at least that isn't trying to be Scottish, and is just pure Vegas, all the way.

The hot tub.

I pour myself a dram of the same good whisky I used to make Claire's toddy – there are positively dozens of bottles of it abut the place, as a matter of course – take a long sip, and consider.

We've agreed we are attracted to each other. Flirting is allowed. Hugging is allowed. Holding hands and snuggling is allowed.

I wonder if any of those things stretch to stripping off and sitting in hot water in front of each other. . .

I know she wouldn't be repulsed by the sight of me. I'm very conscientious in that way. Ten years in a household of nothing but girls and women, and I have cultivated what I am certain society would call an almost feminine attitude towards bodily hygiene. But would getting naked and relaxing in the hot tub tread on any boundaries with Claire?

I decide I don't care. We haven't talked about this specifically, and I need the relaxation more than I am worried about her reaction.

If she even sees me at all.

She is asleep in the other room right now. . .

Why am I disappointed at that thought?

I finish my dram, and pour myself another before slowly and methodically taking off my clothes.

I leave my boxers on, just in case.


Analog chapter of Green Card - Chapter 8


3.

G.O.A.T. meal

Oats -

1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1 cup rolled whole oats
¼ cup milk of choice
¾ water
Generous pinch of salt
1 pinch each, cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg (optional)

Topping -

Zest and juice from 1 orange
½ cup unsweetened dried cranberries
¼ cup brown or raw turbinado sugar
Squeeze of lemon juice
Pinch of salt

Method -

For topping, add cranberries, juice, zest and sugar to a pot, stir and bring to a simmer. Cook on medium low until sugar is dissolved and mixture is slightly thickened, approx. 15 to 20 minutes. Add lemon and salt to taste. Cool before serving.

For oats, add butter to pan and cook on medium until just beginning to brown. Add oats and toast while stirring constantly, for 5 to 7 minutes. In a separate pot, add milk, water, salt and spices, and bring to a boil. Add oats, stir well, cover, and remove from heat. Let stand and cook for 5 to 7 minutes. Fluff with a fork before serving.

Serve with butter, fresh cream, runny honey, and cranberry topping.


I admit I might have overdone it with breakfast. But I cook when I get nervous, and Claire didn't seem to mind that there were half a dozen more dishes on the table than there needed to be. . .

I grin as I step quickly into the shower. She even tried my oatmeal. I fully admit I am inordinately proud of my oatmeal.

Well. I am a Scot. So maybe not inordinately. . .

My mind is a jumbled mess as I wash, and shave, and put on my kilt, and suit jacket, and boots, and tie. And then I fumble with all the attendant hardware Claire selected for me two days ago. . .

Brooch, pins, cufflinks. . .

I've never been good at the frippery side of formal dress. As far as I'm concerned, all the extra effort that formal clothes take should count as jewelry enough.

Eventually, I'm ready. Or as ready as I am ever going to be. . .

I exit into the main room, stop, and stare as Claire turns to greet me.

She is wearing something silvery and shimmering and as braw as the day is long, but what really dazzles me is the long string of my mother's baroque pearls around her neck. The pearls that I gave to her for her "something old".

They gleam, and wink at me, with promises I had almost forgotten existed.

Annalise never wore them.

I didn't realize just how much that hurt until now.

As I look into the eyes of this woman – decent, and kind, and caring, and generous – I allow myself to admit. . . we have a connection, and it is something good. Something real. Something worth working at. Something worth tending, and preserving, and protecting.

Something that, if we are very, very lucky, might turn into something great. . .


Analog chapters of Green Card - Chapters 9 and 10


4.

Spaghetti Married-nara

Marinara Sauce -

10-12 fresh whole Roma tomatoes, blanched, peeled, seeded and chopped -or- 1 28 oz can San Marzano tomatoes – do not drain, crush by hand
1 medium onion, diced small
4 large cloves garlic, thinly sliced
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tsp dried Italian oregano
½ cup chopped fresh basil
½ tsp Colatura di alici or any available anchovy or fish sauce. Dark soy sauce may be substituted as a vegan option.
Flaky sea salt, and freshly ground pepper
Extra virgin olive oil for finishing

Pasta -

210 grams "00" or all-purpose flour
6 egg yolks plus 1 whole egg (weigh out to 140 grams total)
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon whole milk

Method -

Put pasta flour in a small heap on a clean worktop. Whisk all wet ingredients together in a separate bowl. Make a well in the flour, and pour wet ingredients into it. Gradually work into the flour with a fork or your fingers, and then kneed until a smooth, taut ball forms. It should be elastic, but neither sticky, nor cracking. Wrap in cling film, and let rest at least five hours or up to overnight. Then remove from cling film and separate into fourths. Use the pasta attachment on your mixer to roll out until desired thinness, dusting and folding as you go. When the sheet is as thin as you want it, run it through the spaghetti cutting attachment. Snip with shears, and drape over pasta drying rack. Let dry for two hours. Cook in salted boiling water for 3-5 minutes, or until al dente. Drain and rinse, and set aside. Reserve 1-2 cups cooking water.

Cook garlic in oil until light golden brown, add onion and oregano, and season well. Saute until onion begins to soften. Add tomatoes and fish sauce, bring up to a simmer. If using fresh tomatoes, you may need to add up to ½ cup of water. Adjust seasoning, cover and let cook until partially reduced, approx. 10 to 15 minutes. Stir in basil and season again if necessary. Reduce heat to warm.

In a separate pan, melt butter until foamy, add cooked pasta, and stir until coated. Ladle in sauce, and toss with reserved pasta cooking water until emulsified and evenly distributed. Serve hot, topped with salt and freshly ground pepper, and a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil.


Well, it's out now. Claire knows just how much of a fool I've been, in love, as well as in life. Two of my four children aren't fully mine, and I still stayed married, because I thought Annalise's cheating was my fault.

And when you think something is your fault, you also think you can fix it. . .

I've wasted eight years, thinking I was the worst, most worthless husband imaginable, because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't fix something that was never my problem to begin with.

It's no small thing to realize you've been stupid, as well as stubborn.

It's an even greater thing for your second wife to know you've been stupid, as well as stubborn. . .

Claire and I have been married a grand total of half an hour, and here we sit, in our limo, on the way to lunch, and I, like a silly, infatuated idiot, just opened up to her. . .

But, to my shock, and confused, wild delight, the first thing Claire does isn't blaming me for all my woes, or tongue-lashing me for being foolish, but instantaneous, perfect, thorough support.

Encouragement. . .

Reassurance. . .

Praise?

And my God, she means it. . .

My starving heart can hardly believe the feast that is this woman. I seal my lips to hers and kiss her more passionately than I've kissed anyone in. . .

In. . .

In maybe ever. . .

Uh oh.

Much more of this, Fraser, and she's going to make you love her.

I know, I know. But would that be so b-

You promised yourself, Fraser. Promised. You were going to put a pause on trying to find love. Maybe you could have a little fun with a willing woman, no strings attached, but on the whole, you were going to focus on you. Remember? You need to let yourself heal a little. Or a lot. . . No looking for love! You promised yourself you wouldn't do it, Fraser!

I know.

But now, it's found me. . .

We pull up to the restaurant, and I have to stop kissing her.

I would rather lose a limb, but I force myself to do it.

I know it's an Italian place, since I booked it, but I don't recall anything else about our lunch other than the glow in Claire's eyes, and the smile on her lips, and the beautiful, loud, unrestrained joy in her laughter.

I am in so, so, so much trouble. . .


Analog chapter of Green Card - Chapter 11


5.

You're In Deep-fried Mozzarella Sticks

1 (16 ounce) package individual mozzarella cheese sticks
2 large eggs
¼ cup water
1 and ½ cups toasted bread crumbs
⅔ cup all-purpose flour
⅓ cup cornstarch
1 tsp Italian seasoning
½ tsp garlic powder
½ tsp paprika
½ tsp onion powder
¼ tsp ground cayenne(optional)
¼ tsp red chili flakes(optional)
Salt and pepper to taste
2 cups peanut oil, or as needed frying oil of choice

Method –

Unwrap cheese sticks and cut in half. Arrange in a single layer on a tray, and freeze until firm to the touch, but not fully frozen. Edges should feel "crispy" but the center of each stick should still have some "bounce" if you press on it.

Combine cornstarch and flour in a bowl, and season well with salt, pepper, and paprika. In a separate bowl, whisk together eggs, water, salt, cayenne, onion and garlic powder. In a third bowl, mix together breadcrumbs, Italian seasoning, salt, pepper, and red chili flakes.

Dip cheese sticks in the flour mixture, then the egg, the the flour mixture again, then the egg once more, before coating with breadcrumbs. This ensures a thicker, sturdier coating, and helps to prevent cheese leakage. Arrange on tray. Heat oil to 185 °C. Using slotted or spider spoon, cook for 20 to 45 seconds, or until golden brown. Set on paper towels to drain. Sprinkle with salt while hot if desired.

Serve with BBQ sauce, ranch dressing, and buffalo sauce.


Trouble? You didn't know what trouble was before now, Fraser.

I watch my wife dance, and absentmindedly eat the sub-par food they serve at this club, and watch my wife dance, and nervously bounce my leg under the table, and watch my wife dance, and desperately hold myself in check.

Do not leave this table, Fraser. Do not go to her. You have no idea what you might do if you did, and you've not only known the woman for less than three days, you are currently in public.

But I still have a strong, undeniable, elemental attraction to this woman. Is it magnetism? Gravity? Both?

Maybe it's neither. Maybe this is atomic. Nuclear.

It certainly feels just as life-changing.

Face it, Fraser, when the perfectly publicly-acceptable motions of a seemingly ordinary woman - dressed, it is true, in quite wonderful wedding finery - but still dancing to unremarkable club music, in a commonplace section of Vegas, on a no-name day in March, become in your eyes, the naughtiest, the most sensual, the most mind-numbing sort of display you would have to pay extremely handsomely for in a totally different type of club, then you're not only in trouble, you're in the most deep shite a man can be in.

When your mind starts playing tricks on you, your heart isn't far behind.

Behind. . .

My eyes follow the sweeping shakes of her lovely, round. . .

I close my eyes tight and shake my head.

You met her three days ago, man!

More importantly, she met you three days ago. Some nice kisses, a bit of flirting, some hand-holding, and enough pleasant conversation to be able to pass the Green Card interview in a few weeks. That's what she signed up for. You both agreed that if a genuine affection grew out of that, you would see where you were in six months.

Now, you haven't even been married to her for six hours, and here you are, already imagining what it would feel like to. . .

No, Fraser. She didn't sign up for that. She's just dancing because she's a happy, energetic, confident woman, and you wouldn't want to diminish any part of that about her, would you?

No, of course you wouldn't.

So, let her dance, and don't impose your own meaning or desires onto it, even in the privacy of your own mind.

I chomp away at appetizers, trying desperately not to think how much – how infinitely much - more delicious my view of my wife is than anything on this table.

Finally, she comes back to sit next to me, flushed, and grinning, and – dear Godbreathless. . .

I have never, ever, been so grateful for the heavy wool of a kilt, and the highly fortuitous placement of a sporran. . .

And now she wants me to dance with her. . .

Forget deep shite, you're drowning, Fraser.

But, as I make my request to the DJ, and then pull my wife out on to the dance floor with me, I know, deep in my bones, I wouldn't have things any other way.


Analog chapter of Green Card - Chapter 12


6.

For Holl The Rest Of My Daise Sauce

3 large egg yolks
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp smooth-ground Dijon mustard
¼ tsp salt
2 tbsp cold, unsalted butter, cubed
½ cup melted unsalted butter, cooled to just above room temperature
Pinch of Cayenne (optional)
White pepper to taste

Method -

Combine egg yolks, salt, mustard, and lemon juice atop a double boiler and whisk vigorously until lemon-pale and slightly thickened. Add cold butter and continue whisking until fully incorporated, and thickened to the point that when the whisk is pulled along the length of the pan, the sauce does not immediately fill in the trail. Reduce heat to low, and slowly stream in melted butter while still continuing to whisk briskly until all of it is incorporated.

If mixture breaks, add to a blender, and blend on high while adding an additional egg yolk, and slowly streaming in two tablespoons of boiling water.

Stir in cayenne and/or white pepper to taste. Adjust seasoning if necessary.

Serve over roasted vegetables, poached eggs, grilled veal, or smoked fish. Garnish with fresh tarragon, pureed roasted garlic scapes, red tobiko caviar, and ground pink peppercorn.


I lean in and kiss the last vestige of sauce and eggs and hot buttered toast away from the edges of my wife's mouth. While I am there, I cannot help but run the tip of my tongue lightly across her lips. With a soft, sweet sigh, she opens for me, and I eagerly take everything that's on offer. She is lounging delightfully in my lap, and so it is a matter of ridiculous ease for me to slip off her bathrobe, gather her into my arms, and deposit her back into our bed, all without breaking our kiss.

My own robe disappears just as easily, and all at once here I am again, a happily married man, my wife in my arms, and so many remarkable feelings surging through me, I can barely encompass them all.

My wife.

Our bed. . .

The caress of her hands, the press of her body, the hot, breathless clash of our lips and tongues and teeth. . .

The rising, urgent, hungry insistence in both of us, only barely less than the nearly insane desperation we experienced two hours ago, almost as though neither of us got satisfaction that time at all, even though we both very much had. . .

She pushes at me this time, writhing and nudging until I'm flat on my back, and she is all spread out atop me. My hands immediately take possession of the soft flesh of her backside, and her mouth takes possession of mine with far more skill than anyone so recently a virgin should be allowed to have.

Even if I were inclined to tell them, there isn't anyone on earth who would believe that two hours ago was this woman's first time. She's much too perfect a blend of responsive, graceful, eager and adept. She has no fear, no inhibitions, no hesitations, and, glory be, no shame. None.

In all the things we've done together, everything has felt right, not wrong. Beautiful, not shameful. Things to feel proud of, not guilty over. I doubt she knows what a balm all this is to my recovering Catholic soul. . .

What a past few days it has been. What a past few hours it has been. I did not wake up this morning thinking our day would end with us speaking our love for each other. . . and then showing it.

Love! What a short, simple, inadequate word it seems!

I am besotted, intoxicated, utterly lost. I am gone, gone, gone. . . I love her, beyond safety, beyond sanity, and beyond all reason. I was born to love her. Put on this earth to be hers, hers, hers alone. . .

She cries my name to the heavens again, like she did the first time, and once again it's like an oath, a prayer, a benediction – so much more than the luscious cry of ecstasy that it very much is too – and for all I want to watch her, my eyes slam shut with an answering surge of pleasure, and my own hoarse, nearly incoherent cry of her name. My vision glows white, and for a rapturous few moments, I float between Humanity and Heaven.

I have never been one to think of sex as anything resembling a religious experience before. Rather the opposite, actually.

But as my newly discovered goddess settles languidly into my arms, and our sacrificial sweat cools on our skin, and the breaths we are each taking for the other slow, I begin to realize that there is a sort of worship that Humanity cannot do without. A sanctuary we cannot defile. A sacrament we cannot misuse. A doctrine we cannot misinterpret.

For all we may try, there is a Faith we cannot lose.

Regardless of any Human failing, it is. These things. . . are.

I run my fingers through the curls Claire has spread out across my shoulders.

We are.

We are.

From now, until the end of time, we are.

And I will love her, for all the rest of my days.

A small, hard, nearly forgotten piece of my soul suddenly softens, and makes itself felt again. After countless years of abandonment, betrayal, torture and near death, it glows with the light of the woman in my arms.

Claire.

Mo Sorcha.

Light of my life. . .

I fall asleep to the rhythm of her heart beating against my chest.


Analog chapter of Green Card - Chapter 24


7.

French Toasted

1 loaf bread (any type – if not pre-sliced, cut into pieces ½ inch or 1 ½ cm thick)
1 egg per 2 slices of bread used (approx. 6 for 1 loaf)
1 to 2 tbsp water
1 tbsp sugar
1 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
6 tbsp butter (divided in half, 3 for cooking, 3 for topping)
1 tbsp apricot jam per finished slice
1 cup apple sauce
½ cup slivered almonds, lightly toasted
1 tbsp cinnamon sugar for finishing

Method -

Add eggs to shallow casserole dish or pie plate. Add sugar, nutmeg, salt and vanilla extract and whisk with a fork very well, until sugar is dissolved and spices are evenly distributed. Dip slices of bread in mixture, and let sit for a minute on each side, so it absorbs well. A small amount of water may be incorporated into the mixture to aid this, if needed. Fry slices in butter on medium low heat for 2-3 minutes on each side, until golden brown and set. Keep cooked slices warm in a crock pot on low. When ready to serve, butter lightly, and spread with a layer of apricot jam. Top with a large spoonful of apple sauce blended with a splash of vanilla and a pinch of nutmeg. Sprinkle with almonds and cinnamon sugar. Serve with hot apple cider.


I end up being very glad I made breakfast at Claire's apartment this morning.

At first it was slightly annoying that she had a whole loaf and a half of bread, and nearly a dozen eggs just sitting unused in her nearly empty refrigerator, slowly going bad, but at the same time, she'd made sure there was no milk, and no fresh fruit in her apartment before our long weekend away. And she had just eaten the very last of the yogurt not five minutes before I arrived in the kitchen. . .

A quick survey of her cupboards revealed classy but sparse condiments, a limited array of canned and dry foods, only ordinary spices, and a barely workmanlike array of tools to use. I'm so used to having professional kit around me, and access to virtually unlimited ingredients that such common, everyday restrictions brought me quite uncomfortably down to earth for a minute or two.

But then, I chose to take it as a challenge, and see what I could throw together. And now I'm glad I did, because in order to use up all that bread and all those eggs, I made far, far more French toast than just the two of us could eat, and now, finally back in my own home, with four girls clamouring incessantly for breakfast, but also insisting on climbing all over me, demanding personal attention, all I have to do is re-heat the leftovers, leaving me mostly free to reconnect with my girls.

I unwrap Bree from one of my knees, and lift Sal down from my shoulders when the oven timer rings, to only mild protest, thankfully. I cut up Joanie's breakfast for her, while sitting next to Faith, listening to the latest news about her and Bree's Zoom classes.

There is some PTA talk about their school re-opening in-person classes through the summer term, and I hope it is more than talk, because my two eldest chicks are very clearly missing their friends.

I wrap up breakfast with a long, and mostly not-as-awkward-as-I-was-expecting talk about mothers. And wives. And me. And them. And how much I love them and want them to have everything it is best for them to have.

And how I have a new wife now, and that means they have a new mother, and she can't wait to meet them all, and she will be here at lunchtime.

I haven't been confronted with so many silent, wide eyes since I sat at this same table two years ago, and told them their mother was dead.

Joanie reaches for me, and I pick her up out of her high chair, and cuddle her.

Slowly, the questions come. I can't answer them all, but I do my best. I think they all realize that.

Eventually, there isn't much more either of us can say until Claire gets here. I give them each a hug and kiss, and send them off to play. One by one, they wander upstairs to the schoolroom.

Finally, I go upstairs myself, and stand for a long, long couple of minutes in the doorway of the master bedroom.

Just a few days ago, I felt ambivalently noncommittal about everything in this room. Now, the plain duvet reminds me that Annalise called my grandmother's hand-knitted lace coverlet "overdone", and the minimalist pictures on the walls remind me that she said my mother's gloriously artistic photographs of the Scottish countryside were "pretentious", and the modern-chic furniture reminds me she called my preferred style of neo-Jacobean revival "fit for the guest room, at best", and the washed-out pastels and French-gray background colour to everything reminds me that she thought dark browns and bright greens and reds and deep blues and purples "unnecessary to an educated taste", and on, and on, and on, and on – until there isn't a single detail about this room that doesn't make me remember exactly how miserable I've been for the past the decade – or at least, how miserably I've been treated.

Mere hours in Claire's company, and the thought of enduring even a moment in this room as it currently is turns my stomach.

I don't care how much it costs, in time or money, I am going to make this room ours – Claire's and mine – before she gets here.

I pull out my phone, and bring up the list I've been keeping of her likes and dislikes, preferences and such. I have a very detailed set of things that I noted down from her apartment last night that will serve me very well now. . .

I spend half an hour and at least a car down payment on Prime, and then, resolutely, I toss my phone aside. I stretch my shoulders and flex my hands, and then get down to business.

It's out with old, the outdated, the left over, the previous.

In my case – the French.

I dust my hands after I deposit the first old bedside-table into the guest room, and shift the new one from there into the master bedroom.

There. That's better.

I'm hardly naïve enough to think overcoming my past is all going to be quite this easy, but nevertheless it's something to have started. To have a goal. A reason. A guiding Light.

To have Claire.

She challenges everything about me, and I've never been happier.


Analog chapters of Green Card - Chapter 29 and 33


8.

Marry Me Again Chicken

Brine -

4 cups cold water
5 tbsp Kosher salt
2 tbsp white or raw turbinado sugar
2 tbsp red wine (may be substituted with apple cider vinegar)
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tsp granulated garlic
½ tsp finely grated lemon zest
¼ tsp ground white pepper
¼ tsp or one cap-full mesquite smoke extract
1 tsp Tabasco sauce (optional)

Chicken -

4 medium boneless and skinless chicken breasts
¼ tsp onion
salt
¼ tsp ground black pepper
6 tbsp all-purpose flour
2 tbsp
olive oil (1 tbsp may be substituted with oil reserved from sundried tomatoes, if desired)
2 tbsp
unsalted butter

Sauce -

3 cloves minced garlic
1 cup chicken or vegetable stock
⅓ cup white wine

1 cup heavy or double
cream
½ cup freshly grated parmesan or pecorino romano cheese
1 tsp chili flakes
¼ tsp oregano
¼ tsp thyme
¼ tsp tarragon

⅓ cup sundried tomatoes (chopped, reserve 1 tbsp of oil)
1 tbsp fresh basil leaves
Squeeze of lemon

Method -

Add all ingredients for brine into a bowl, and stir until salt and sugar are dissolved. Taste before adding chicken, and adjust flavours as desired. Add chicken breasts, cover and refrigerate for at least 45 minutes, but no longer than 2 hours. Remove and pat dry. Do not rinse.

Next, butterfly to an even thickness – use a meat tenderizer to flatten if necessary. Dredge in seasoned flour, and fry in oil and butter over medium heat for 3-4 minutes on a side, or until golden brown and crisp. Remove to a wire rack when done.

In the same pan, add any leftover dredging flour and stir into any remaining oil for 1-2 minutes or until floury odour has cooked out. Add an extra tablespoon unsalted butter, if necessary. Add minced garlic and stir until fragrant. Deglaze pan with wine, and stir until alcohol has evaporated off. Add stock and let simmer 2-4 minutes, or until slightly thickened. Slowly stir in cream and sprinkle in cheese. Once these are fully incorporated, add in spices and tomatoes, and let cook on low until flavours combine and sauce thickens. Chop chicken into bite-sized pieces and return to pan. Stir until fully coated. Finish with chopped basil, a squeeze of lemon, salt and freshly ground pepper. Serve with potatoes, pasta or rice, warm dinner rolls, and a crisp salad.


Claire's apartment feels strangely like home this time around. I find it odd, since this is only my second visit here, but I suppose it is really down to Claire herself. Wherever she is, I will make that my home.

My blood surges at the thought, and my stomach warms, imagining all the things I have planned for tonight. . .

The many, many things. . .

I smile grimly at myself as I unload the large cooler of things I have pre-cooked for our weekend date, some into the refrigerator, and some directly into the oven to re-heat. Pace yourself, man! Yes, it's been nearly a week since you've been properly inside her, but you have more than enough time now. Time, and quiet, and privacy. There's no need to rush things, Fraser!

My smile turns mischievous as my eyes alight on the very special little tupperware containing Claire's dessert. . .

A few minutes later, she leaves to go get her keys back from her neighbor, and I busy myself over the stove, concocting my signature sauce to go over the fried chicken cutlets I now have re-warming in the oven.

I owe her so much. So much. Chef that I am, an elaborate, luxurious dinner date seemed the only logical means of repayment. . .

She's been on her knees for you, Fraser - no matter how lavish you make it, you owe her a hell of a lot more than a date, and you know it!

And indeed, I mean to reciprocate in full tonight. And a lot more. . .

Claire's pearls burn in my pocket, begging to be used to handsfast us.

There's magic in them – a meaning in them - these old Scotch pearls. A meaning that I think Claire might actually understand – and I do know she appreciates. A meaning that, if she accepts me tonight, will go a long way towards healing my heart. It wasn't just my present or my future that Annalise poisoned and tried to destroy, it was my past as well. My history. My ancestry.

Handsfasting with them now, with Claire, will resurrect not only my dreams, my hopes, my desires for the future – it will start to heal my bruised, torn and bleeding past. Bandage it over. Soothe the pain of what is done and gone. Cleanse away the old infection. Let us start new, start fresh.

Start for real.

Last time, I asked her for her help with a Green Card. This time, I am going to ask her to join her life to mine. Because I love her, not because I need her. Though I do need her too. . .

I don't only owe Claire this – I owe myself this.

She comes back, her keys jingling as she tosses them casually on the counter. I bring glasses and a bottle to the living room, where she sniffs curiously, and then turns lovely, questioning eyes to me.

I pour us some wine, and then tell her the names of all the things I have cooked for our dinner, leaving the main dish for last.

My heart braces itself inside my chest. . .

I say the name of it, and then, for the second time in two weeks, I drop to my knees and ask her to marry me.


Analog chapters of Green Card - Chapters 38 and 39


9.

When All Things Look Black Walnut Sugar Cookies

2 cups all-purpose flour
½ cup butter (softened)
1 cup sugar
½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
1 egg
¼ cup sour cream
1 ½ tsp vanilla
¼ cup black walnuts (Shelled and finely chopped. May also be lightly toasted, but this is optional)
Generous pinch of salt
Extra sugar for topping (May be substituted with
buttercream frosting, royal icing, fondant, or sprinkles)

Method -

Let all ingredients come to room temperature before combining. Do not allow butter to over-soften. It should still hold its shape when a finger is rested on it, but dent easily when pressed. If there is no resistance, it is too soft.

Cream the butter and sugar together until smooth. Combine all dry ingredients except walnuts in a separate bowl. Add egg, sour cream and vanilla to sugar mixture and beat thoroughly. Add dry ingredients, one half at a time, and stir until just combined. Do not overmix. Stir in walnuts last, until just evenly distributed. (optional step - at this stage, for best results, wrap dough in cling film and refrigerate for 24 hours) Roll into 1 ½ inch balls, and flatten slightly. Mark with a fork if desired. Place 3 inches apart on a parchment lined baking tray, and bake in a preheated oven at 375°F (190°C) for 10-15 minutes, or until edges are slightly golden brown. It is alright if the centers still look slightly underdone. Remove to a wire rack. If using on their own, sprinkle extra sugar or candy sprinkles on top while hot. Let cool before frosting/decorating otherwise. Pairs well with Lady Grey tea or hot buttered lemonade. Store in an airtight container.


I keep waiting for the screaming.

We just passed our Green Card interview, but my mistake means we still failed.

The whole reason we met, and we failed. . . because of me. . .

If I had mucked anything up as badly as I just did around Annalise, I'd be in for at least half an hour of shouting. So I keep waiting for it.

It never happens.

Of course it doesn't, Fraser! What were you thinking?

I grip the steering wheel hard. I know Claire isn't Annalise. I know this. But this is the first time our connection has been tested quite like this – from outside, and officially. It's the first time that how right we are for each other doesn't actually matter, in the end. If someone with veto power says so, I'm off to Scotland, for six months at the least. Inexorably. Legally. We've faced many challenges in the past month and a half, but none nearly this existential.

In my heart, I know Claire is strong enough to not only take this news, and fight it alongside me, but also to endure the separation if that's what it eventually comes to.

But I still expected more than rueful, ironic laughter, contemplative conversation, and then focused, determined silence.

What is this woman made of?

Even with text messaging – even with Facetime – I'm afraid six months apart might break us. This early on in our relationship? It could, I know that much. There's a non-zero chance. No matter how we take it, it would be a risk.

And that's not a gamble I want to take.

How can she. . .?

And then she mentions Plan C, and all the clamouring anxiety in my brain quiets down for a minute, and I remember we've actually planned for this scenario. Well, not this, not exactly, but close enough.

Her parents have whole teams of lawyers on retainer. In more than one country too.

I never intended to marry a rich man's daughter, but I am learning that it comes with some rather unexpected benefits. . .

We pick up the girls, and arrive at the Big House in good time for lunch.

Introducing my chickadees to their new grandparents goes just about as well as it ever could, but I still end up porting shy wee Joanie about for a while, even after Claire and Bee-bee go off with Lamb, and Fay and Sal settle in happily with Henry and his admittedly impressive array of card tricks. Sadly, my littlest chick isn't impressed. Fortunately though, Grandma Julie has some familiar treats at her tea table. . .

I tell my new mother-in-law how glad I am to see Leoch's Butter Biscuit Assortment, and hand wee Jo-Jo one of her favourite frosted walnut kind. Julia responds with glowing praise for Claire's choice of career, and tells me all about how much they have also fallen in love with Alex MacKenzie's cooking.

I am delighted to inform her of my full official name.

The room goes quiet, save for Fay and Sal giggling over their attempts to learn how to do the "bridge" shuffle.

Henry comes over to the tea table, and takes a plain shortbread biscuit. I know he heard my full name too, but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he starts telling me more about his own difficulties in obtaining a USA passport, and, later, citizenship. Julie joins in with stories about Claire's school days, and family reunions they've been to – in both the US and UK – and all the while she makes cup after cup of herbal tea, in tiny clear glass mugs, using all manner of colourful dried flowers.

Slowly, Joanie's curiosity partially overcomes her shyness, and she turns around on my lap, transfixed by the array of sweet treats, and all the pretty colours and fancy flowers.

Julia lets her pick which tea she wants, and Henry hands her another cookie. They don't stop talking to me while they do it, but they do throw a nod or a smile her way, neither insisting on her attention, nor trying to coax her away from me.

Suddenly, I no longer wonder what Claire is made of. She was raised by these people. These two, and Lamb. She is made of herself, and them. And their wealth and status is nowhere near the most remarkable things about them.

Jo-Jo asks her first sweet, shy question about the special blue flowers next to the teapot, and I decide, right then and there, to trust these people. If my chicks can, so can I.

No matter how black things may look, I know they'll stand by me – not for Claire's sake, but for my own. For Alex MacKenzie, a man they loved without knowing him. For James Fraser, a man their daughter loved at first sight. For Fay, and Bree, and Sal, and wee Joanie's father, just a man, who needs their help.

I take all our paperwork out of my coat pocket, and put it on the tea table. I make eye contact with each of them in turn, not interrupting Sal and Fay, who have just discovered we have treats, and are asking many eager questions about them. Once they are served up and re-settled, I turn back to my in-laws, take a deep breath. . .

And start at the beginning.


Analog chapters of Green Card – Chapters 56 and 57


10.

Green Card-amom Spice And Pink Lemonade Birthday Cupcake Cake

Batter -

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
1 ¼ tsps baking powder
1 tsp freshly ground green cardamom
½ tsp powdered ginger
½ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
½ tsp ground cloves
½ tsp Kosher salt
4 tbsp freeze-dried raspberry powder
1 tbsp lemon zest (approx. 1 large, or 2 small lemons)
1 cup granulated sugar
5 tbsp softened butter
3 large eggs
1 cup prepared lemon pudding (3 oz package of dry mix, prepared with milk)
1 whole vanilla pod
2 tbsp lemon juice

Filling -

1 4-inch piece of ginger (peeled and grated)
3 large eggs
½ cup fresh lemon juice (about 4)
½ cup sugar
4 tbsp cold unsalted butter (cut into small cubes)
2 tbsp candied ginger pieces (finely chopped)
Gel food coloring (optional)

Frosting -

1 cup powdered sugar
¼ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp ground green cardamom
pinch of cloves
pinch of nutmeg
2-4 tbsp lemon juice
1-2 drops raspberry flavoring/essence(optional)
12 whole fresh mint leaves (apple-mint variety is best)
edible glitter (optional)
favorite color sprinkles (optional)
mini birthday candle cake topper (optional)

Method -

(Meyer lemons are ideal throughout)

For frosting, mix spices and sugar in a large bowl until evenly distributed. Then, slowly add in lemon juice, and mix until consistency is pourable – thick enough to spread, but not thin enough to run – about the texture of pudding or custard. Add a very small amount of raspberry flavoring if desired. Set aside

For filling, peel and grate ginger very fine. Pass through strainer, and press firmly. Reserve juice, discard pulp.

In a double boiler, whisk together eggs and sugar until at least half of the sugar is dissolved. Add lemon and ginger juice and whisk until mostly dissolved. Continue whisking over medium heat, until the mixture thickens and starts to bubble (approx. 6 mins). Remove from heat and whisk in butter until fully emulsified. Pass through a fine mesh strainer, and allow to cool. Mix in chopped candied ginger. Add food coloring if desired. Set aside

For batter, grate lemon zest directly into granulated sugar and rub with fingers/mash with fork until oil expresses and sugar resembles lightly wet sand. Cream with butter until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time and blend until fully incorporated.

Make pudding according to instructions, adding an opened and scraped vanilla pod to infuse into milk.

Mix flour, salt, spices and raspberry powder in a separate bowl. Add flour mixture, pudding, and lemon juice to egg/sugar mixture in alternating spoonfuls, stirring constantly, until just combined. Be careful not to overmix.

Line a 12-cupcake tin with paper or foil cases of choice. Fill each approx. ⅔ to ¾ full with batter, and bake in preheated oven at 375°F (190°C) for 20 to 30 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Carefully remove from tin and set on a wire rack. Let cool completely before filling/decorating, ideally overnight.

Using a cupcake coring tool or the tip of a paring knife, carve out a 1x1x1 inch center to each cupcake. Fill with 1 tbsp each of lemon ginger curd. Trim and replace cored out pieces, so top surface is as smooth as possible. Frost with lemon sugar-spice glaze, and top with a fresh mint leaf. Add glitter/sprinkles if using.

Arrange cupcakes in the shape of the birthday number intended, or whatever shape desired. Finish by placing candle topper on the cupcake that will be nearest the birthday honoree when cake is served. Light just before serving. Distribute cupcakes before allowing honoree to blow out candle.


I'm more thankful than I ever thought I'd be.

Thankful for more things, and more thankful for each one.

I'm thankful Joe, Gail and Claire are singing Happy Birthday to Sally, so I don't have to.

I'm thankful I'm a chef, so I can make my chicks any special treat for their special days that they happen to ask for.

I'm thankful Claire's friends have children much the same ages as mine.

I'm thankful we all got our booster shots in time to make a party with children present a possibility.

I'm thankful Claire has such good taste in friends that on only our second meeting, I feel like I've known Joe and Gail for ages.

I haven't had any friends outside of work for an embarrassingly long number of years. I'm thankful Claire is able to give me so many things I didn't know I needed.

And everything that I did. . .

Claire. . .

I'm thankful my wife is the most remarkable, kind, loving, brilliant woman I've ever met.

I'm thankful she chose me.

I'm thankful she chose us. . .

My eyes linger for a few seconds on the faces of my four wee chickadees.

I'm thankful they all seem to be healing from the years of emotional exploitation, neglect and abuse I was not able to protect them from.

I'm thankful Claire and I are in perfect accord as to making their remaining years of childhood as beautiful as we possibly can. Not by spoiling or indulging them, but by loving and listening to and teaching and treasuring them. By making as many moments as possible special, and worthwhile.

By loving each other, and letting them see that we do.

I'm thankful I learned a long time ago to think private thoughts and do public things comfortably at the same time. . .

We're in the middle of a cute party game involving empty aquariums and beanbags shaped like fish when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I can tell by the sound that it's Ned.

Suddenly, my heart freezes, and all other sounds seem as though they are coming from far away. I retreat from the party, into the thundering quiet of the rest of the house.

I don't remember answering the phone, but I must have done, for I am listening to a voice on the other end of the line. It is Ned's voice, but I am in such a state I do not recognize it for a long several seconds.

And as for what he is saying. . .

I make him repeat it. Twice.

I thank him profusely – or try to. He is quite cool and professional about it. But I think he understands, nevertheless.

I hang up the phone, and stare off into space, trying to get my head around the suddenly altered universe that now surrounds me.

It hasn't even been two months since this whole mess started. It's almost over now, and it feels like it's been a lifetime. Several lifetimes. . .

I call Claire in to me, and tell her the good news. Then, I take her in my arms, and kiss her, like the free man I finally am.

I am so, so much more thankful than I ever thought I'd be. . .


Analog chapter of Green Card – Chapter 60


Fin