Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [272]
At length, we had the produce of our sample vine laid in a basket; perhaps ten good-sized potatoes, twenty-five or so fist-size specimens, and a number of small things the size of golf balls.
“What d’ye think?” Jamie scrutinized our collection quizzically. “Ought we to leave the rest, so the little ones will grow more? Or take them now, before the cold comes?”
Ian groped absently for his spectacles, then remembered that Sir Walter was over by the fence, and abandoned the effort. He shook his head.
“No, I think this is right,” he said. “The book says ye keep the bittie ones for the seed potatoes for next year. We’ll want a lot of those.” He gave me a grin of relieved delight, his hank of thick, straight brown hair dropping across his forehead. There was a smudge of dirt down the side of his face.
One of the cottars’ wives was bending over the basket, peering at its contents. She reached out a tentative finger and prodded one of the potatoes.
“Ye eat them, ye say?” Her brow creased skeptically. “I dinna see how ye’d ever grind them in a quern for bread or parritch.”
“Well, I dinna believe ye grind them, Mistress Murray,” Jamie explained courteously.
“Och, aye?” The woman squinted censoriously at the basket. “Well, what d’ye do wi’ them, then?”
“Well, you…” Jamie started, and then stopped. It occurred to me, as it no doubt had to him, that while he had eaten potatoes in France, he had never seen one prepared for eating. I hid a smile as he stared helplessly at the dirt-crusted potato in his hand. Ian also stared at it; apparently Sir Walter was mute on the subject of potato cooking.
“You roast them.” Fergus came to the rescue once more, bobbing up under Jamie’s arm. He smacked his lips at the sight of the potatoes. “Put them in the coals of the fire. You eat them with salt. Butter’s good, if you have it.”
“We have it,” said Jamie, with an air of relief. He thrust the potato at Mrs. Murray, as though anxious to be rid of it. “You roast them,” he informed her firmly.
“You can boil them, too,” I contributed. “Or mash them with milk. Or fry them. Or chop them up and put them in soup. A very versatile vegetable, the potato.”
“That’s what the book says,” Ian murmured, with satisfaction.
Jamie looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling in a smile.
“Ye never told me you could cook, Sassenach.”
“I wouldn’t call it cooking, exactly,” I said, “but I probably can boil a potato.”
“Good.” Jamie cast an eye at the group of tenants and their wives, who were passing the potatoes from hand to hand, looking them over rather dubiously. He clapped his hands loudly to attract attention.
“We’ll be having supper here by the field,” he told them. “Let’s be fetching a bit of wood for a fire, Tom and Willie, and Mrs. Willie, if ye’d be so kind as to bring your big kettle? Aye, that’s good, one of the men will help ye to bring it down. You, Kincaid—” He turned to one of the younger men, and waved off in the direction of the small cluster of cottages under the trees. “Go and tell everyone—it’s potatoes for supper!”
And so, with the assistance of Jenny, ten pails of milk from the dairy shed, three chickens caught from the coop, and four dozen large leeks from the kailyard, I presided over the preparation of cock-a-leekie soup and roasted potatoes for the laird and tenants of Lallybroch.
The sun was below the horizon by the time the food was ready, but the sky was still alight, with streaks of red and gold that lanced through the dark branches of the pine grove on the hill. There was a little hesitation when the tenants came face-to-face with the proposed addition to their diet, but the party-like atmosphere—helped along by a judicious keg of home-brewed whisky—overcame any misgivings, and soon the ground near the potato field was littered with the forms of impromptu diners, hunched over bowls held on their knees.
“What d’ye think, Dorcas?” I overheard one woman say to her neighbor. “It’s a wee bit queer-tasting, no?”
Dorcas, so addressed, nodded and swallowed before replying.
“Aye, it is. But the laird’s eaten six o’ the things