As I flipped through Obedience’s quirky recipes, the thought of spending the afternoon cooking began to appeal to me. I wasn’t sure why since I was such a failure in the kitchen. But maybe all this time I’d spent with the chefs lately had caused some of their magic cooking powers to rub off on me.
I had tried to make the syllabub five times now, with increasingly disastrous results. So why was I tempted to try it again? Because, darn it, I wanted to succeed at this. And because I just liked the idea of making a syllabub. Maybe it was the silly name that appealed to me. It was so old-fashioned and English and fun. Much more interesting than a mere pudding.
It reminded me of another silly-sounding dessert I’d had in Scotland, Spotted Dick. I had searched the old cookbook for a recipe by that name, but couldn’t find it and finally Googled the name. It turned out that Spotted Dick hadn’t come into fashion until the 1840s, long after Obedience Green wrote her cookbook. That was too bad, because it would be a special treat to be renowned for my Spotted Dick.
Did I dare give the syllabub another try?
“Oh, why not?” I muttered. I made up my shopping list, grabbed my purse, and headed for the grocery store.
*
“This is delicious,” Derek said, running his spoon around the small dessert bowl in order to scoop up every last drop of the syllabub I’d made. “Where did you buy it?”
I smiled serenely, although I was quivering with excitement inside. “I didn’t buy it. I made it.”
“That’s very funny,” he said, licking his spoon. “God, it’s fantastic. Thick, creamy, not overly sweet. A touch of espresso. And highly alcoholic.”
“Is it too much?”
“Are you serious?” He abandoned his spoon in favor of running his finger around the inside of the bowl. I’d never seen him do that before. “It’s perfect.”
“Really? Thanks.” I was ridiculously pleased with his praise. “There’s no espresso in there, but I did add a dash of coffee liqueur for flavor.” Along with two other types of alcohol, I thought, but didn’t mention it. “You can still taste the alcohol because it’s not cooked. That’s the difference with a syllabub. You whip it up and put it in the refrigerator to set it.”
“Fine by me,” he said absently, scraping up one last bit of it from the bowl. “Seriously, darling, where did you find this?”
I sighed. “Derek, I made it.”
“All right, don’t tell me. I just hope you bought enough for a second helping.”
I pushed away from the table and walked over to the bar, where I retrieved the copied pages of the various syllabub recipes. Waving them in front of him, I said, “Look, I made it. I really, really made it. The recipe’s right here.”
He stared at the recipe, then gazed up at me. “You made this all by yourself?”
“I did.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.
“Oh, my God,” I said indignantly. “Look at yourself. You’re stunned. Speechless. You don’t believe I could possibly make something this good.”
He paused to consider his words, then said, “I’m pleasantly surprised.”
“Oh, come on. You’re gobsmacked.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Dumbfounded, perhaps.”
With a laugh of outrage, I smacked his arm. “Admit it. You’re staggered. Stupefied. Shocked beyond all reason.”
He was biting his cheeks to keep from grinning. “I’m merely taken aback. But very, very proud of you and happy as a man can be.”
“Aww, sweet. Thank you.” I wrapped my arms around his neck to hug him. He took the opportunity to pull me onto his lap and held on.
“My little chef,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck. “What’s next then? Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding?”
“Hmm…” The only thing that flashed through my mind was a recipe requiring that a dozen garden snails be stuffed into a flannel bag and dropped into a pan of hot bacon drippings. Obedience recommended that the resulting ointment be rubbed on aching joints. “Maybe we should take this cooking thing one day at a time.”
“Probably wise,” he said, with a grin that told me he’d be around long enough for me to improve my cooking skills. Good to know, since that might take, oh, forever.
After a minute, he took the pages from my hand and started to set them aside, but something caught his eye. He examined the top page, then flipped through the others. “Why didn’t you show these to me before?”
“I did.”
He stopped to think. “I suppose you did, but I should’ve studied them more carefully.”
I turned to see what he was looking at. “Oh, you mean those little notations? They’re all through the book. They look like hieroglyphics, don’t they?”
“Yes,” he said, frowning.
“Do you think they mean something?”
“I don’t know.” He turned to another page that had similar symbols drawn up and down the margins.
“I wonder if it’s something that cooks have always done,” I mused. “You know? Like, maybe they mean something specific in cooking terms.”
“Maybe,” he murmured, still staring at the pages.