Zelda

Zelda Dupont was not given to worry, but she found herself with a growing problem: Her pregnancy was becoming more visible. Even though she planned to have the baby adopted, and even though there was nothing in the rules per se, she couldn’t imagine the BBC being thrilled should their contest winner prove to be pregnant.

Therefore, when she dressed for the second round of the cooking contest, she chose a simple summer frock borrowed from Audrey. It consisted of long, flowing panels that rendered one shapeless. Over the top, she wore a lightweight jacket, left open to conceal the bump from the side, and a long, rayon scarf jauntily covered any remaining indication of her condition.

No one needed to know anything about it.

As usual, she made sure she was last to arrive, pushing her way through the vestibule into the hall, ignoring the array of government propaganda posters on the noticeboard—Zelda couldn’t care less about Dr. Carrot or Potato Pete, and she was already Digging for Victory at Audrey’s house whether she liked it or not, thank you very much.

As she carried the silver-domed platter in front of the bump to the stage, she couldn’t help feeling a buzz of anticipation, walking regally up the steps to take her place at the end beside Lady Gwendoline.

    Ambrose Hart put on his notorious smile. This time the hall was more packed, half of Middleton coming after hearing the first round on the BBC. A larger team of journalists and photographers sat at the front, notepads and cameras at the ready.

“Welcome, one and all, to the second round of our cooking contest,” Ambrose began after the lead technician counted him in. “Perhaps the most difficult round, our main courses have been under threat since the very beginning of the war, especially when it comes to meat. Half of our land has been taken away from herds and given over to grain,” he added with an audible sigh of loss.

“Let’s have a look at what the contestants have for us today.” Ambrose turned to the competitors. “First, we have Mrs. Audrey Landon, winner of our last round. What have you cooked for us today?”

Audrey had shadows under her eyes. If anyone needed a long bath and a good night’s sleep, it was her. As she lifted off the silver dome, the audience craned their necks, half standing to get a better look.

Zelda let out an involuntary gasp. There on Audrey’s platter was a roast chicken.

“Gertrude?” she murmured, aghast.

“Today I have mock roast chicken.” Audrey glanced majestically at Zelda, who heaved a sigh of relief. “Instead of killing my own dear hen, I decided to create a mock recipe, like others have done with mock duck and mock goose.”

On closer inspection, Zelda could see that it was indeed something molded into the shape of a roast chicken, not an actual chicken. The golden skin wasn’t smooth, but more of a breadcrumb crust browned crisp and golden in the oven.

“Oh, this looks delightful,” Ambrose said, his eyes widening with craving. “How did you make it?”

“I created a chicken shape with a mixture of beans, lentils, chopped vegetables, and a grated apple, and then I filled it with a sage and leek stuffing, leeks being easier to find than onions.” Audrey carved a portion for Ambrose to try. “I coated it with breadcrumbs and laid a few rashers of bacon over the top to add that meaty flavor, and then popped it into a hot oven to crisp up the outside.”

    “Ah, yes, bacon.” He tucked his fork in. “How delicious, Audrey. Not really like roast chicken, but a lovely dish in its own right.”

He moved on to the next contestant.

“Ah, now we have Miss Nell Brown, who appears to be on her own today.”

The little kitchen maid was frozen with terror, her eyeballs darting from Ambrose to the audience like a petrified deer. Ambrose waited for a moment for something from her, and eventually Lady Gwendoline decided to explain, with her lofty, lady-of-the-manor smile.

“Mrs. Quince had a fall and has had to go to hospital for a short time. Nell here has decided bravely”—the word was said with emphasis since the girl was clearly dumbfounded with shyness—“to press on without her mentor. What do you have for us today, Nell?” She addressed the poor girl in a proprietary way, as if to remind everyone that she was her maid.

Zelda wondered what had happened to make her civil to the poor girl for once.

Nell, urged on by Audrey’s gentle hand behind her elbow, swallowed hard and began quietly, “It’s a rabbit c-cacciatore, which is a type of stew or casserole from Italy.”

The audience remained unmoved. None of them had even heard of cacciatore.

As Nell clumsily slipped off the silver dome, the scent of the rich, ripe tomatoes bathed in the freshest of herbs came across the stage. It was a rich, warming concoction, making one feel sensual and alive.

“Now, where has she got that one from?” Zelda murmured.

Nell spooned some onto a plate, the meat slipping effortlessly off the bone, piled onto mounds of partially dissolved onions, fennel, mushrooms, and fresh herbs, all surrounded by chunks of the juiciest, ripest cooked tomatoes.

    With an animal passion, Ambrose dove into the stew, taking a massive forkful of rabbit piled high with the thick tomatoey sauce, ladling it hungrily into his waiting mouth. The look on his face said it all as his eyes rolled backward, his jaw slowly working up and down, while his mouth moved in an almost rapturous rhythm. His eyes then closing, a deep furrow of true awe came across his brow, as if this was not just a mere dish: This was an emotional experience.

When he had truly taken everything he possibly could out of that one mouthful, he swallowed, took a few deep breaths as if he’d run a race or made frantic love beneath the stars, and then looked over at Nell, a new admiration in his eyes.

“You cooked this yourself?”

“Y-yes,” said the little voice.

“Where did you get the recipe?”

“One of the Italian POWs gave me the idea, but I enhanced it, made it my own, and added a few cuts to suit the war, exchanging chicken for rabbit and using heartier vegetables, like broad beans, wild mushrooms, and fennel.”

That’s probably not the only thing he showed her how to do! Zelda thought with a smile.

“But you cooked this one, on your own without Mrs. Quince?” Ambrose was evidently sizing her up for a job as his cook.

“I-I was always meant to be the one cooking the dishes for the contest, with Mrs. Quince’s supervision. But now she’s in hospital so she couldn’t help me anyway.” A sob escaped the girl, and she whisked a hand to her mouth to swallow it back, pull herself together.

Zelda frowned. Surely such a setback should be destroying the girl’s chance of winning the contest, and yet her emotions seemed to be enhancing her cooking—was she somehow transposing her turmoil into the cacciatore?

Reluctantly peeling himself away from the cacciatore, Ambrose turned to the next contestant, Lady Gwendoline.

    As she stood before her silver dome, Lady Gwendoline pulled herself together. But her usual smug smile wavered, and her eyes shifted anxiously across the audience. Putting on her best voice, she adopted her usual haughtiness. “Today I wanted to demonstrate my dexterity with this lovely steak and mushroom pie.”

Beneath the dome was a deep pie dish with a beautiful pastry top, traces of deep brown gravy oozing lusciously out. Lady Gwendoline cut a slice of the pie and scooped it onto a plate, Ambrose at the ready to taste it.

A murmur went through the audience. Where did she get steak?

As Ambrose took the plate, an unfamiliar scent made its way to Zelda’s nostrils. It smelled like a heavy, gamey meat, stronger than horsemeat or venison. Had Lady Gwendoline sought access to zoo animals? Some of the zoos had been forced to close, and the gruesome reality was that some of the meat had made its way onto the black market. Zelda grimaced with horror.

Ambrose seemed to have missed the smell, and he tucked in eagerly. “Delicious! What a magnificent gravy! I have to ask, though, how did you get hold of so much steak?”

A smug smile covered Lady Gwendoline’s face, and she suddenly seemed more her usual self as she declared, “It’s whale meat. I disguised it with a heavy gravy using a good beef stock and an arrangement of the right herbs and spices. I topped it with a potato pastry that uses less fat, too.”

Oohs came from the audience, a ripple of applause.

Blast! Zelda thought. It was a cunning move. The Ministry of Food had been trying to create recipes to make whale meat palatable for months now. Trust Lady Gwendoline to come up with something clever.

Yet, wasn’t it rather odd for her, too? Lady Gwendoline wasn’t a chef, after all, nor was she a cook with any amount of ingenuity.

Ambrose was letting the meaty sauce linger in his mouth. “How did you make the beef stock? What spices did you add?”