Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel

Thumbnail art by  shuffle99

Part Twenty-five



Winterbough

Things were quiet in the Vale that night; at least, they were quiet in the part of it that held the Master's Lodge, which is where I was, instead of [The Sheaf of Arrows].

What Sixth was up to was a matter of conjecture. I thought, sourly, that he was probably spending the evening with Tessie. I'd taken the joys of being with the raccoon sow for granted, I now realized, and it was a slightly bitter loneliness I felt that night.

Anastasia was off somewhere, since I saw that the Annexe was dark, and the curtains open, where her office was. The most logical place for her to be, I mused, was the Jam Works in Greytor-village, since that was a place off-limits to all but the [Doe-Moot], and what's more, had cooking facilities (how else would you make sweet persimmon jam?).

Since night had fallen, and the sun had gone down, Aedith was sleepy, and she was curled up in a tight ball on the window-seat in my study, ear to tail-tip. Where her mothers were, I hadn’t a clue, and didn’t want to know what they might be up to.

Estvan himself was abroad somewhere. I had a feeling he might be seeking out some kind of Elf-ly revenge on Sawyer's ram for giving him a chomp on his tail-fur. A check of the level of pipe-weed in the jar on my desk showed it was nearly empty, which confirmed that the old tod was Out, and had fortified himself with supplies.

The drinks cabinet was significantly empty as well, save for Third's Skull, which was put back in its usual spot, where it was supposed to be; i.e., the box of Jane scrolls. How it kept getting loose, I knew not.

I was grumpily considering what book I should read -- after all, I had a stack of unread manuscripts that in theory would keep me going until the next century -- when I heard a clattering of toe-claws on floor outside the double-doors to my study. Shooting out a paw, I bade the doors to slide open.

This revealed the pleasant and welcome sight of my foster-daughter Stormy, bearing a covered tray in both paws. Right behind her was Dotto, my natural son. As if the small snow fox could possibly obscure his rotund bulk.

The young tod fixed his monocle in his eye, and beamed. "We haff the dinner for hyu, Papa!"

Well he would beam, for that was welcome news, and had them come in. I set up a stand for the tray, while Dotto energetically claimed the second seat before the fireplace (the spot Estvan was usually relegated to, when I was actually in my own lair).

With a great deal of care, Stormy lowered the tray onto the stand, and then stood, wagging her brush. I let her do the honors, and when the cover was whisked off, there stood revealed two bowls with rich smells coming from them. The contents proved to be, upon inspection, some kind of potato-carrot-pea stew in an herbed cream sauce, along with a flagon of white wine.

One bowl was significantly larger than the other. Any thoughts and wonderings as to who it was for were dispelled when Dotto happily took seisen of it, and began to attack the contents thereof with vim.

I could appreciate his actions, at that; the stew was hot and delicious. Little wonder the small snow-fox was now, more or less, the cook for the meetings of the [Doe-Moot] that took place in the Annexe.

"Tell me a question, little one," I said to her, as I mopped up some of the sauce with some flatbread.

Stormy seated herself in the small bit of open space on the window-seat, and began to stroke the ears of her sleeping foster-sister, who in turn began to wriggle one of her legs.

"What is it you would like to know, Papa?"

"What think you regarding the Challenge for tomorrow?"

"You mean, the trial of cookery?"

"That is so, little one."

"Dotto and I have been talking about it most of the afternoon," Stormy noted, smiling. Elf-ly considerations of truth-telling aside, I could well believe my natural son would be thinking often and deeply on the subject of food. I had to move my dessert out of temptation's reach. He was as bad as Sixth when it came to persimmon-cake.

"Did you reach any conclusions?"

Stormy looked over, with a smile, at Dotto. The two of them got along very well, and the few times I actually saw my son do any sort of heavy manual labor was when he was fetching wood or water for Stormy's Stove, or when he was actually cleaning it. Amazing to think, but on the other paw, the round little vulp knew where the pastries came from.

"Hy thinks," Dotto said, "dot dere's gonna be some kind hoff dessert from der Sumac."

"What makes you think that? That they're at the Jam Works?"

"Nein, Papa. BOT! Mama asks me vhen voss der last time dot Sixth have der persimmon-cake. Und hy answers it voss von veek yestereve."

Which was a fairly long time, in fact, an unusually long time, for the Household to go without persimmon cake. A suspicion built in my mind.

"Little one," I said, addressing Stormy, "did Mama set the menu for the last week for our meals?"

She didn't answer me, at least explicitly. I got an amused, sidelong glance and a swish of her brush by way of response.

I gave a shallow sigh. This was all, of course, perfectly legal and above-board; indeed, even Elf-ly. Anastasia was ensuring that Sixth's appetite for his favorite dessert was going to be not only whetted, but razor-sharp. From vast experience, I knew that Sixth's views on the confection bordered on poetry.

Of course, Dotto's views on persimmon cake were the subject of poetry. He had an entire notebook full of elaborately structured jottings on food. Preparation of, serving of, consumption of.

More to the point, I realized that Belladona Sumac was going to be up first in the Second Challenge. If she served a decent-sized persimmon cake, that was going to take a chunk of Sixth's appetite. The ancient strictures against having dessert first notwithstanding.

"Did young Sawyer approach you, Stormy, for any advice or tactics?"

Stormy shook her head. "No, Papa. I think she has a mind of her own on many things, cooking included. She didn't even ask to look at my library, or Dotto's."

"Dotto's?" This was a first.

The tod took out his monocle, polished it, and re-inserted it, before thrusting out his chest with such pride it almost matched his stomach. "Hy spends mein allowance on RESEARCH, Papa!"

"Research?"

"Ja! Der cookink manuscripts!" So saying, he reached into his Elfintory, and pulled out a bulky notebook, which proved to be his catalogue. He had, apparently through Stormy, been in communication with the Literary & Historical Society of Faerie, and had been the recipient of a number of works. Many, but by no means all, were familiar to me.

In a way, I was proud. He was showing that he was his father's son, at that, and I resolved to take up the matter with Zonya Wetcheeks (his mother), who had obviously been encouraging him.

"So, what approach would you take in this Challenge?"

Dotto composed himself, becoming quite serious, and he raised a sooty black finger by way of indicating Didactic Analysis was about to begin. "Hiff ve azzume dot der schweets vill be zerved furst, hit his apparent dot it vould not meet to serve more schveets. Yass? No?"

That was logical, and I swiveled my ears by way of encouragement to continue.

"TZO! Vott iss contrast? Hit fall under two of der possible category." He lowered his paw, and ticked off things on two fingers. "Dere is der zour, und dere is der zavory. Both of doze approaches har possible, but von most consider der fact dot Sixth is der vegetarian ztrict."

Which Dotto wasn't, although from what I could see, he ate far more vegetable and fruit matter than most foxes did. Well. He ate far more than most foxes did, period, but you get the idea. "For mein own zelf, hiff hy plans der menu, hy go mit der voods dot be spicy, yass?"

I thought about that. "But Elfhamian cookery isn't really known for spiciness, Dotto. Mean to say, we use a lot of herbs, to be sure, but nothing like, say, South Country or Lower East Country cuisine."

Dotto nodded vigorously in agreement, and for the next half-hour, I got a lecture on the vegetarian dishes of those realms. For a youngish Elf, he was certainly widely and deeply read on the subject, and it made me wonder what the Marshal would think of the matter. That is, if I chose to reveal that I had a Vulpitanian natural son. "Bot! Und TZO! Hy haff der inzight, ho yoss. Hy does RESEARCH about what her fadder do in der Licksburg."

Una Sawyer's father, you might recall, was an immigrant to the Vale from Anastasia's former realm; she herself was Licksburg-born, though largely Vale-raised.
"What's that, Dotto?"

I got a very sneaky and sly look from my son. "Hy finds out he haff der rights to zell der Herbalist Herbie in Licksburg."

This made me blink, sit up, and swivel my ears. "Herbalist Herbie, you say?"

"HO, yass!" Dotto sat back in his chair, his paws laced over his tummy. "Votchu dink of DOT, mein Papa?"

Herbalist Herbie, of course, was the drink of that part of the West Country known as Wolfess Butte. Home to my friend (I don't use the term ironically) Dannel Bark, Junior. I thought back to the meal I'd shared with him at Bonzo's Roadhouse. Inclusive of, among other things, hot roasted corn that made my tongue tingle.

Dotto was thinking, and not without good reason, that there might be some Wolfess Butte influence in Sawyer family cooking.

"Dotto, please give me your catalogue, for a moment, if you would."

It was gladly handed over, with a smirk. I flipped it open, and began running my finger down the columns of the index, looking for something in particular that I bet existed.

And yes, it did exist, if Dotto's catalogue was accurate. And I had a high degree of confidence it was accurate.

"Hyu vonts to borrow sometink, yass? No?"

"Leave it on my desk, Dotto." I paused. "You can have my wedge of persimmon cake, tonight."

"Hy already has it."

The sneaky little bounder had filched it, likely when I was distracted by either his lecture or his catalogue.

For her part, Stormy giggled, and grinned at Dotto.




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