The Undomestic Goddess (14 page)

I had no idea! We continue to walk along the street, but I cant stop looking around,
wide-eyed. Look at the river! Look at the little church !

I feel like a child discovering a new toy. Ive hardly ever been to the English
countryside, I suddenly realize. We always stayed inLondon or went abroad. Ive been
toTuscany more times than I can remember, and I once spent six months inNew York when Mum
was working there. But Ive never been to the Cotswolds in my life.

We walk over the river on an old arched stone bridge. At the top I stop to look at the
ducks and swans.

Its just... gorgeous. I exhale. Absolutely beautiful.

Didnt you see any of this as you arrived? Nathaniel looks amused. Did you just appear in a
bubble?

I think back to that panicked, dazed, desperate journey.

Kind of, I say at last. I didnt really notice where I was going.

We both watch as a pair of swans sail regally under the little bridge. Then I glance at my
watch. Its already five past ten.

We should get going, I say with a little start. Your mother will be waiting.

Theres no rush, Nathaniel calls as I hasten down the other side of the bridge. Weve got
all day. He lopes down the bridge. Its OK. You can slow down.

I try to match his relaxed pace. But Im not used to this easy rhythm. Im used to striding
along crowded pavements, fighting my way, pushing and elbowing.

So, did you grow up here? I ask.

Yup. He swings into a little cobbled lane. I came back when my dad got ill. Then he died
and I had to sort things out. Take care of Mum. Its been tough on her. The finances were
in a messeverything was in a mess.

Im... sorry, I say awkwardly. Do you have any other family?

My brother, Jake. He came back for a week. Nathaniel hesitates. He runs his own computer
business. Very successful.

Didnt you mind? I say. That he only stayed a week?

Jakes a busy man. He has other priorities.

Nathaniels voice is as easy as ever, but I can detect a thread of... something. Maybe I
wont ask any more about his family.

Well, Id live here, I say with enthusiasm. You do live here, he reminds me. I feel a tweak of
surprise. I suppose hes right. Technically, I do.

I try to process this new thought. Ive never lived anywhere exceptLondon before, apart
from my three years atCambridge and those six months inNew York when I was eight. Im a
city person. Thats who I am. Thats who I... was.

But already the old me is feeling more distant. When I think back to myself even last
week, its as if Im seeing myself through tracing paper. Everything I once prized has been
destroyed. Im still feeling sore and bruised. But at the same time... my rib cage expands
widely as I breathe in the country air, and I suddenly feel a wave of optimism. On
impulse, I stop by a huge tree and gaze up into the green-laden branches. As I do so, a
memory from English A Level suddenly comes into my mind.

Theres a wonderful Walt Whitman poem about an oak tree. I lift a hand and tenderly stroke
the cool, rough bark . I saw inLouisiana a live-oak growing. AW alone stood it,

and the moss hung down from the branches . I glance over at Nathaniel, half-expecting him to look impressed. Thats a beech, he
says, nodding at the tree. Oh. Right. I dont know any poems about beeches.

Here we are. Nathaniel pushes open an old iron gate and gestures me to go up a stone path
toward a little cottage with blue flowered curtains at the windows. Come and meet your
cooking teacher.

Nathaniels mother is nothing like I expected. I was picturing some cozy Mrs. Tiggywinkle
character with gray hair in a bun and half-moon spectacles. Instead, Im looking at a wiry
woman with a vivid, pretty face. Her eyes are bright blue, and her graying hair is in
plaits on either side of her face. Shes wearing an apron over jeans, T- shirt, and
espadrilles, and is vigorously kneading some kind of dough on the kitchen table.

Mum. Nathaniel grins and pushes me forward into the kitchen. Here she is. This is
Samantha. Samanthamy mum. Iris.

Samantha. Welcome. Iris looks up, and I can see her taking me in, head to foot. Just let
me finish this.

Nathaniel gestures to me to sit down, and I cautiously take a seat on a wooden chair. The
kitchen is at the back of the house and is filled with light and sun. Flowers in
earthenware jugs are everywhere. Theres an old-fashioned range and a scrubbed wooden table
and a stable door open to the outside. As Im wondering whether I should be making
conversation, a chicken wanders in and starts scratching at the ground.

Oh, a chicken! I exclaim before I can stop myself.

Yes, a chicken. I can see Iris looking at me with wry amusement. Never seen a chicken
before?

Only in the supermarket chill counter. The chicken comes pecking toward my open-toe-
sandaled feet and I quickly tuck them under my chair, trying to look as though I meant to
do that anyway.

There. Iris picks up the dough, shapes it efficiently into a round shape on a tray, opens
the heavy oven door, and pops it in. She washes her floury hands at the sink, then turns
to face me.

So. You want to learn how to cook. Her tone is friendly but businesslike. I sense this is
a woman who doesnt waste words.

Yes. I smile. Please.

Cordon Bleu fancy stuff, chimes in Nathaniel, whos leaning against the range.

And how much cooking have you done before? Iris dries her hands on a red-checked towel.
Nathaniel said none. That cant be right. She folds the towel and smiles at me for the
first time. What can you make? What are your basics?

Her intent blue gaze is making me feel a little nervous. I rack my brains, trying to think
of something I can make.

Well... I can... I can make... um... toast, I say. Toast would be my basic.

Toast ? She looks taken aback. Just toast?

And crumpets, I add quickly. Tea cakes... anything that goes in a toaster, really.

But what about cooking ? She drapes the towel over a steel bar on the range and looks at me more carefully. What
about... an omelet? Surely you can cook an omelet.

I swallow. Not really.

Iriss expression is so incredulous I feel my cheeks flame. I never really did home
economics at school, I explain. I never really learned how to make meals.

But your mother, surely... or your grandmother She breaks off as I shake my head. Anyone ?

I bite my lip. Iris exhales sharply as though taking in the situation for the first time.

So you cant cook anything at all. And what have you promised to make for the Geigers?

Oh, God.

Trish wanted a weeks worth of menus. So I... um... gave her one based on this. Sheepishly,
I get the crumpled Maxims menu out of my bag and hand it to her.

Braised lamb and baby onion assemble with a fondant potato and goats cheese crust,
accompanied by cardamom spinach puree, she reads out, in tones of disbelief.

I hear a snort and look up to see Nathaniel in fits of laughter.

It was all I had! I exclaim defensively. What was I going to say, fish fingers and chips?

Assemble is just flannel. Iris is still perusing the sheet. Thats souped-up shepherds pie. We can
teach you that. And the braised trout with almonds is straightforward enough... She runs
her finger further down the page, then at last looks up, frowning. I can teach you these
dishes, Samantha. But it isnt going to be easy. If youve really never cooked before. She
glances at Nathaniel. Im really not sure...

I feel a flicker of alarm. Please dont say shes going to back out.

Im a quick learner. I lean forward. And Ill work hard. I really, really want to do this.

Please. I need this.

All right, says Iris at last. Lets get you cooking.

She reaches into a cupboard for a set of weighing scales, and I take the opportunity to
reach into my bag for a pad of paper and a pen.

Whats that for? She raises her chin toward the paper.

So I can take notes, I explain. I write down the date and Cooking lesson no. 1 , underline it, then stand at the ready. Iris is slowly shaking her head.

Samantha, cooking isnt about writing down. Its about tasting. Feeling. Touching. Smelling.

Right. I nod.

I must remember that. I quickly uncap my pen and scribble down Cooking all about tasting, smelling, feeling, etc . I cap my pen again, only to see Iris regarding me with incredulity.

Tasting, she says, removing my pen and paper from my hands. Not writing. You need to use
your senses. Your instincts.

She lifts the lid off a pot gently steaming on the cooker and dips a spoon into it. Taste
this.

Gingerly I take the spoon in my mouth. Gravy, I say at once. Delicious! I add politely.
Iris shakes her head.

Dont tell me what you think it is. Tell me what you can taste.

This is a trick question, surely.

I can taste... gravy.

Her expression doesnt change. Shes waiting for something else.

Er... meat? I hazard.

What else?

My mind is blank. I cant think of anything else. I mean, its gravy. What else can you say
about gravy?

Taste it again. Iris is relentless. You need to try harder.

My face is growing hot as I struggle for words. I feel like the dumb kid at the back of
the class who cant do the two-times table.

Meat... water... I try desperately to think what else is in gravy. Flour! I say in sudden
inspiration.

You cant taste flour. Theres none in there. Samantha, dont think about identifying the
taste. Just tell me what the sensation is. Iris holds the spoon out a third time. Taste it
againand this time close your eyes.

Close my eyes?

OK. I take a mouthful and close my eyes obediently.

Now. What can you taste? Iriss voice is in my ear. Concentrate on the flavors. Nothing
else.

Eyes shut tight, I block out everything and focus all my attention on my mouth. All Im
aware of is the warm salty liquid on my tongue. Salt . Thats one flavor. And sweet... and... theres another taste as I swallow it down...

Its almost like colors appearing. First the bright, obvious ones, and then the gentler
ones youd almost miss.

Its salty and meaty... I say slowly, without opening my eyes. And sweet... and... and
almost fruity? Like cherries?

I open my eyes, feeling a bit disoriented. There is Iris, smiling. Behind her I suddenly
notice Nathaniel, scrutinizing me intently. I feel a tad flustered. Tasting gravy with
your eyes closed is a fairly intimate thing to do, it turns out. Im not sure I want anyone
watching me.

Iris seems to understand. Nathaniel, she says briskly. Were going to need ingredients for
all these dishes. She scribbles a long list and hands it to him. Run down and get these
for us, love.

As he leaves the room, she looks at me with kindness. That was much better.

By George, shes got it? I say hopefully, and Iris throws back her head in laughter.

Not yet, sweetie, by a long chalk. Here, get a pinny on. She hands me a red-and-white
striped apron and I tie it around my waist, feeling self-conscious.

Its so good of you to help me, I venture. Iris is pulling onions and some orange vegetable
I dont recognize out from a bin by the door. Im really grateful.

I like a challenge. She takes a knife from a block on the counter. I get bored. Nathaniel
does everything for me. Too much sometimes.

But still. Youd never even met me

I liked the sound of you. Iris draws down a heavy wooden chopping board from a shelf
above. Nathaniel told me how you got yourself out of your mess the other night. That took
some spirit.

I had to do something, I say ruefully.

And they offered you a pay rise as a result. Wonderful. As she smiles, fine lines appear
round her eyes like starbursts. Trish Geiger is a very foolish woman.

I like Trish, I say, feeling a stab of loyalty.

So do I. Iris nods. Shes been very supportive to Nathaniel. But I do sometimes wonder She
pauses, her hand resting on an onion.

What? I say tentatively.

Whyshe needs quite so much help. Why the full-time housekeeper? What does she do with her time? She looks genuinely interested.

I dont know, I say truthfully. I havent quite worked it out.

Intriguing. Iris seems lost in thought for a moment. Then she focuses on me again. So
youve taken the Geigers in completely.

Yes. I smile. They have no idea who I am.

And who are you? Her question takes me completely by surprise. Is your name really
Samantha? Yes! I say in shock.

That was a little blunt, Iris acknowledges. But a girl arrives in the middle of the
countryside out of nowhere and takes a job she cant do... She pauses, clearly choosing her
words with care. Nathaniel tells me youve just got out of a bad relationship?

Yes, I mumble, my head bowed, hoping she wont start probing for details. You dont want to
talk about it, do you? Not really. No. I dont. As I look up theres a thread of
understanding in her eyes.

Thats fine by me. She picks up a knife. Now lets start. Roll up your sleeves, tie back
your hair, and wash your hands. Im going to teach you to chop an onion.

We spend all weekend cooking.

I learn to slice an onion finely, turn it the other way, and produce tiny dice. As I first
watch Iris wielding her knife I cant imagine doing the same without chopping off a
fingerbut after two ruined onions I just about crack it. I learn to chop herbs with a
rounded blade. I learn how to rub flour and ground ginger into chunks of meat, then drop
them into a spitting hot, cast-iron pan. I learn that pastry has to be made with quick,
cold hands, by an open window. I learn the trick of blanching French beans in boiling
water before sauteing them in butter.

A week ago I didnt know what blanching even meant.

In between cooking I sit on the back step with Iris. We watch the chickens scratch in the
dirt, and sip freshly brewed coffee accompanied by a pumpkin muffin or salty, crumbly
cheese sandwiched with lettuce in homemade bread.