Is Canadian Thanksgiving approaching by any chance? I thought it was in November, but then I also remember that it’s at a different time to the American one, so I’m not sure. Anyway, while I probably could get this prompt to work with Lord Derby’s tale, I felt that (http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/2018/05/sunday-may-27th-2018.html) this gentleman might be preferred. [Blogger won’t let me link to it for some reason... odd.]
Stuffing Richard de Griefny, a tall, somewhat haggard man with prematurely grey hair and wrinkles that seemed to be developing wrinkles of their own, walked into the cavernous kitchens and sighed. The cook, a fiery Italian woman that had joined the staff after a trek through Spain, Italy and Sardinia, drew herself up to her full 5’0” height and folded her arms. “Sir Norris says it’s still too cold,” said Richard. His voice trembled as he said it, though he maintained a noble hauteur and his eyes betrayed his real thoughts. “Monsieur,” said the cook, who had troubles with any languages other than her own. “It is ice cream. It is freezed. If I ‘eat it up it will not be ice cream any more, it will be custard.” “Sir Norris says it’s too hot,” said Richard, his voice staying firm this time, while his eyes begged for surcease for his soul. “If that means you have to... to... to boil it, then please do so.” The cook stared at him, unfolding and folding her arms rapidly while she tried to express how offended she was at this wanton bastardisation of her art. When she finished one arm was folded across her body, and the other was somehow folded behind her back, and her brunette curls had slipped free of her chef’s hat. “Boil it?” Her voice was already a shriek. Richard stood his ground, desperately wishing it was noble to take a step back. “BOIL IT?” “Please?” There was a feeling like the calm that falls inside the eye of the storm, and the cook turned away from him to the freezer. “Boiled ice-cream,” she said, her voice suddenly pleasant and lovely. “Certo. And ‘ow would Sir Norris like the fromage platter is presented?” The silence that greeted this question caused her to set the ice-cream carefully down on the long table before she glared at Richard. “Stuffed,” he squeaked. “Stuffed with what?” The cook’s temper was marvellously settled. “Um.” “Con che?” “With... fish,” said Richard. He looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, carrying him away to the circle of hell reserved for those people to cowardly to refuse Sir Norris’s service. “Raw fish. Um. Sushi.” “I shall get the gorgonzola,” said the cook placidly. “And I shall stuff it with catfish for ‘is lordship. And I shall boil the ice-cream. And perhaps he will wake with a stomach-ache the size of Torino.” Richard wilted again. “Oh,” he said. “Sir Norris isn’t eating. He’s feeding this to his guests.” “His guests?” “The Pope and some Cardinals, I think.” “Il Papa?!?!”
Greg - Canada is the October one, America has theirs in November. This year it fell on the 8th :)
Hah, didn't need the link to figure out who this was about, just the first mention of his name :D
This is delightfully awful. I do feel sorry for Richard getting stuck between the cook and Norris, but I must admit to rather quite enjoying the whole thing.
2 comments:
Is Canadian Thanksgiving approaching by any chance? I thought it was in November, but then I also remember that it’s at a different time to the American one, so I’m not sure. Anyway, while I probably could get this prompt to work with Lord Derby’s tale, I felt that (http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/2018/05/sunday-may-27th-2018.html) this gentleman might be preferred. [Blogger won’t let me link to it for some reason... odd.]
Stuffing
Richard de Griefny, a tall, somewhat haggard man with prematurely grey hair and wrinkles that seemed to be developing wrinkles of their own, walked into the cavernous kitchens and sighed. The cook, a fiery Italian woman that had joined the staff after a trek through Spain, Italy and Sardinia, drew herself up to her full 5’0” height and folded her arms.
“Sir Norris says it’s still too cold,” said Richard. His voice trembled as he said it, though he maintained a noble hauteur and his eyes betrayed his real thoughts.
“Monsieur,” said the cook, who had troubles with any languages other than her own. “It is ice cream. It is freezed. If I ‘eat it up it will not be ice cream any more, it will be custard.”
“Sir Norris says it’s too hot,” said Richard, his voice staying firm this time, while his eyes begged for surcease for his soul. “If that means you have to... to... to boil it, then please do so.”
The cook stared at him, unfolding and folding her arms rapidly while she tried to express how offended she was at this wanton bastardisation of her art. When she finished one arm was folded across her body, and the other was somehow folded behind her back, and her brunette curls had slipped free of her chef’s hat.
“Boil it?” Her voice was already a shriek. Richard stood his ground, desperately wishing it was noble to take a step back. “BOIL IT?”
“Please?”
There was a feeling like the calm that falls inside the eye of the storm, and the cook turned away from him to the freezer. “Boiled ice-cream,” she said, her voice suddenly pleasant and lovely. “Certo. And ‘ow would Sir Norris like the fromage platter is presented?”
The silence that greeted this question caused her to set the ice-cream carefully down on the long table before she glared at Richard.
“Stuffed,” he squeaked.
“Stuffed with what?” The cook’s temper was marvellously settled.
“Um.”
“Con che?”
“With... fish,” said Richard. He looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, carrying him away to the circle of hell reserved for those people to cowardly to refuse Sir Norris’s service. “Raw fish. Um. Sushi.”
“I shall get the gorgonzola,” said the cook placidly. “And I shall stuff it with catfish for ‘is lordship. And I shall boil the ice-cream. And perhaps he will wake with a stomach-ache the size of Torino.”
Richard wilted again. “Oh,” he said. “Sir Norris isn’t eating. He’s feeding this to his guests.”
“His guests?”
“The Pope and some Cardinals, I think.”
“Il Papa?!?!”
Greg - Canada is the October one, America has theirs in November. This year it fell on the 8th :)
Hah, didn't need the link to figure out who this was about, just the first mention of his name :D
This is delightfully awful. I do feel sorry for Richard getting stuck between the cook and Norris, but I must admit to rather quite enjoying the whole thing.
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