Outlander fans! What are you doing here?
Head on over to OutlanderKitchen.com to find my latest food from fiction recipe for Fergus’s Chestnut Tarts from Dragonfly in Amber. They’re seasonal, fictional, historical and delicious– all at the same time…
You may have seen my Food from Fiction posts before. I’ve made dishes described in The Host and The Time Traveller’s Wife, but my most popular FFF posts are the Rolls with Pigeon & Truffle and Brianna’s Bridies, both inspired by the stories of Diana Gabaldon. There’s a reason Diana has a cadre of fiercely loyal fans — Jamie & Claire Fraser’s world is rich with adventure, history, deep love and food.
Yup, there’s a lot of food spread across those 7 volumes! Just thinking about Mrs. Bug’s apple fritters makes my mouth water…
So if you’ve ever asked yourself W.W.J.E. (What would Jamie eat?), then you need to come over to Outlander Kitchen for a visit right now! Pull a stool up to the table and have a seat — are you hungry? There’s a batch of Mrs. Fitz’s parritch on the stove and a bowl & spoon with your name on them.
We’re waiting…stop by for a chat, won’t you?
“Yon fellow wi’ the cast in one eye,” he said in a subdued bellow, indicating the gentleman in question by pointing with his chin. “What d’ye say to him, Brianna?”
“I’d say he looks like the Boston Strangler,” she muttered, then louder, shouting into her cousin’s ear, “He looks like an ox! No!”
“He’s strong, and he looks honest!”
Brianna thought the gentleman in question looked too stupid to be dishonest, but refrained from saying so, merely shaking her head emphatically.
Young Jamie shrugged philosophically and resumed his scrutiny of the would-be bondsmen, walking around those who took his particular interest and peering at them closely, in a way she might have thought exceedingly rude had a number of other potential employers not been doing likewise.
“Bridies! Hot bridies!” A high-pitched screech cut through the rumble and racket of the hall, and Brianna turned to see an old woman elbowing her way robustly through the crowd, a steaming tray hung round her neck and a wooden spatula in hand.
The heavenly scent of fresh hot dough and spiced meat cut through the other pungencies in the hall, noticeable as the old woman’s calling. It had been a long time since breakfast, and Brianna dug in her pocket, feeling saliva fill her mouth.
Diana Gabaldon, Drums of Autumn, (Seal Books, 1997) … Continue Reading
I waited for the question, staring across the dark hall at the rice bag – last night’s pillow. In my peripheral vision, I saw his hand come up, and I cringed into the wall.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, impatient, and cupped my chin in his rough hand, pulling my face around so I had to look at him.
My heart stuttered when he touched me, and there was suddenly too much moisture in my eyes. I blinked, trying to clear them.
“Wanda.” He said my name slowly – unwillingly, I could tell, though his voice was even and toneless. “Is Melanie still alive – still part of you? Tell me the truth.”
Melanie attached with the brute strength of a wrecking ball. It was physically painful, like the sudden stab of a migraine headache, where she tried to force her way out.
Stop it! Can’t you see?
It was so obvious in the set of his lips, the tight lines under his eyes. It didn’t matter what I said or what she said.
I’m already a liar to him, I told her. He doesn’t want the truth – he’s just looking for evidence, some way to prove me a liar, a Seeker, to Jeb and Jamie so that he’ll be allowed to kill me.
Melanie refused to answer or believe me; it was a struggle to keep her silent.
Jared watched the sweat bead on my forehead, the strange shiver that shook down my spine, and his eyes narrowed. He held on to my chin, refusing to let me hide my face.
Jared, I love you, she tried to scream. I’m right here.
My lips didn’t quiver, but I was surprised that he couldn’t read the words spelled out plainly in my eyes.
Stephenie Meyer, The Host, (Little, Brown & Company, 2008) … Continue Reading
“Tell me,” I demand.
“What?”
“Everything. I mean, do you understand why I don’t know you? I’m terribly sorry about that – “
“Oh, no, you shouldn’t be. I mean, I know….why that is.” Clare lowers her voice. “It’s because for you none of it has happened yet, but for me, well, I’ve known you for a long time.”
“How long?”
“About fourteen years. I first saw you when I was six.”
“Jesus. Have you seen me very often? Or just a few times?”
“The last time I saw you, you told me to bring this to dinner when we met again,” Clare shows me a pale blue child’s diary, “so here,” – she hands it to me – “you can have this.” I open it to the place marked with a piece of newspaper. The page, which has two cocker spaniel puppies lurking in the upper right-hand corner, is a list of dates. It begins with September 23, 1977, and ends sixteen small, blue, puppied pages later on May 24, 1989. I count. There are 152 dates, written with great care in the large open Palmer Method blue ball point pen of a six-year-old.
“You made the list? These are all accurate?”
“Actually, you dictated this to me. You told me a few years ago that you memorized the dates from this list. So I don’t know how exactly this exists; I mean, it seems sort of like a Mobius strip. But they are accurate. I used them to know when to go down to the Meadow to meet you.” The waitress reappears and we order: Tom Kha Kai for me and Gang Mussaman for Clare. A waiter brings tea and I pour us each a cup.
Audrey Niffenegger, The Time Traveler’s Wife, (Vintage Canada, 2003) … Continue Reading
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