“After your rest,” Lucas was soft and pointed and correct, “what are your plans for the day?”
“Start something for dinner,” Robin answered instantly. “Something to slow cook because I am probably going to fall asleep. I’m going to try to finish the last of my coven obligations. And I worked on another list while I sat here,” he added.“Nothing necessary, especially with the stores being how they will be this close to the Christmas holiday. But if either of us happen to go to town….”
“Have you thought about your Yule?”
“I haven’t thought about anything.” The scones were close to perfect, but not as his grandmother would have made them. Something was missing. Maybe Robin should have sworn at the dough. “I’ll probably just eat leftovers and fall asleep early again.”
The attempt to dismiss the subject didn’t work on Lucas. He was too sincere for that. “Did you want something else from that recipe tin? Something special to you?”
Robin shook his head, then sighed. “Yes. Orange shortbread.”
It wasn’t a meal. But it was the sort of treat only made once a year.
“And the extra figs,” he added, pleased when Lucas went for another scone. “If I really wanted to be even more old-fashioned, I could make a pudding. But it seems like a lot for just me.”
“My mother would say to do it if you want to do it, no other reason required.” Lucas gave another quick smile. “But I’ve always found it more fun to cook for others, especially when it’s something complicated.”
“Well, I could have figs and cheese, instead,” Robin reasoned, watching closely for signs of more smiles. “If it’s just me. Get some wine and bread and honey, please my ancestors.”
“A day of rest and indulgence for youwouldplease them, at least, this bunch.” Lucas gestured with the scone toward the rest of the house. “They worry, you know. They worried even when you were younger, hovering over you like a fussy cloud. You’re their baby.”
Robin’s throat tightened.
He looked at the bits of crumbs on his plate. He could try the recipe for scones somewhere in that tin next, maybe with jam and cream. His ancestors would like that too.
“Did you ever have the plum jam your mother mentioned?” Robin changed the subject completely and didn’t care. “Maybe when you were here before? I should make some this summer.” He would have no time and truly didn’t know much about it.
“Will you need help harvesting them?” Lucas asked. “There are always cousins and other kids around with too much time and energy during the summer break. My mother would be happy to send them over here to help you.”
Robin felt himself staring, wide-eyed at the offer and the idea of a bunch of children running around the place. The spirits would like that. He didn’t know how he felt about it, however.
He ignored this question for now as well. “It’s probably too much for me to maintain the garden, useful though it was, but the trees should be okay.”
Lucas went back for a third scone. He had dirt or dust on his clothing and mud on his shoes although he hadn’t tracked it into the house. Robin really ought to plan larger breakfasts for him. All this work in the cold would leave anyone famished.
“Gardening is not really my family’s area of expertise,” Lucas said around a bite. “But I spent some time at Strega Rossa when I was younger, and the wineries all do some grafting of fruit trees and things like that for some of the other products they sell. I could ask one of my old coworkers to come look at the trees for you, see if they’re still good.”
It was easy to think romantically of making jam. It was another to be practical and remember what the kitchen had been like on canning days.
“I was never actually a part of the canning,” Robin admitted. “They booted me out of the kitchen. I just brought in baskets of plums and worked on other things while they all did that.”
“There’s danger involved. They must not have wanted a child around for that,” Lucas told him kindly. “So many people assume that because it’s an older skill that people were not aware of the dangers, or that they don’t need to be now. But plenty of old newspaper stories and letters and things talked about people looking over jars for signs of damage or discoloration before they opened them. So they knew, even before sanitation was a real concept or refrigeration existed, that foods had to be preserved properly or the consequences were horrible. Yet from what I see in videos and on cooking shows, modern canners take sanitation for granted and won’t boil their jars, or date them, or will put them on display against clear glass windows, almost guaranteeing they will get too hot and…” Lucas stopped abruptly. “That’s not interesting.”
Robin shifted forward in his chair. “No, no. Go on. I’m sure you know all kinds of history about bad canning incidents and what to do. All I know is that the stove and the kitchen and eventually the whole house would end up hot and steamy with the boiling going on. To do all that boiling and yet still preserve the flavor? Definitely a skill. And if you know what you’re doing and understand the chemical reactions, you can experiment too, right? What would you like to make if you could? Your apple butter?”
Lucas leaned forward, almost frowning. “I never thought of it. I’d have to look up how to do it. And find the right apples.”
“What kind do you like?” Robin asked, not innocently, thinking of the places around town that hosted apple-picking events in autumn and beaming when Lucas’ frown slipped away and he started talking about softer apple varieties like Mcintosh and Golden Delicious.
Lucas really did know almost everything. At least, if it interested him. People should let him talk more.
Robin felt like he should take notes, as if it would matter by next fall.
But maybe it would.
So he smiled and did his best to mentally note which apples were likely best for making apple butter and how scrubbed down the kitchen would have to be, and spent another half an hour listening before he had to get up to deal with the bread.
He didn’t consider it time wasted. It was certainly better than knitting boring scarves for an unappreciative audience.
