For Ghervil, learning to cook was both a dreamlike and fascinating endeavor.
Due to her illness, she had never even touched a knife, and the only methods she knew for preparing food were the simplest: stir-frying, steaming, and boiling.
Her familiarity with seasonings was so limited that she couldn’t distinguish salt from sugar by sight alone.
The prospect of preparing delicious food held significant meaning for her, satisfying both her current desire to learn and her ‘obsession’ with culinary delights.
In this world, most people still relied on traditional hearth cooking; while gas and electric stoves had emerged, they had yet to become widespread, as people often required a transitional period to embrace new innovations.
Having resided in more prosperous cities, Mrs. Keith was familiar with these modern conveniences, and she spent over an hour imparting a wealth of knowledge on the subject.
Ghervil listened as if to a captivating story, absorbing these previously known facts with rapt attention.
Though she had spent most of her previous life in slumber, she would read and study during her occasional periods of wakefulness; in the early stages of her illness, when her sleeping spells weren’t as prolonged, her parents had even hired a private tutor for her.
She understood some basic modern common sense, but as for this era… that remained uncertain.
“Excellent. Few possess the patience to listen so attentively from start to finish. Interest is, after all, the finest teacher. I have a premonition that you will prove to be a remarkably gifted apprentice.”
Even before they began, Mrs. Keith offered this assessment.
With such praise bestowed upon her, Ghervil resolved to display a corresponding level of enthusiasm.
Just as she was rolling up her sleeves, eager to dive into the task, Mrs. Keith chuckled, tied an apron around her, and promptly poured a bucket of cold water on her ambitions.
“I’m unsure if you are truly a novice, or perhaps you were once skilled in cooking and simply forgot along with your other memories. Regardless, your tasks this afternoon will be limited to chopping vegetables, observing, memorizing, and, most importantly, ensuring your safety.”
Ghervil understood the adage that haste makes waste, and she was acutely aware that she was a true novice, as new as one could possibly be.
Nevertheless, the thought of merely chopping vegetables all afternoon seemed incredibly dull.
“If it’s possible, I’d like to begin formal cooking lessons as soon as possible. You see, I live alone now, and if I don’t master these skills quickly, this entire basket of vegetables might spoil before I’ve even slowly learned the basics.”
Ghervil gazed at the basket on the table as if it held a long-lost dear friend.
These vegetables, though costing only about 3 Denarii, were purchased with her own money, and she genuinely hoped they wouldn’t spoil and go to waste.
It was summer, and she had confirmed her home lacked an icebox.
The cellar, dug beneath the small garden in the backyard, lay near a small stream.
She had opened the entrance and peered inside; it was utterly dark, and the echoes suggested a considerable space, emanating a chill that felt out of place with its surroundings.
Her entire perception of cellars stemmed from the cold, damp, secret-passage-connected, and perpetually dangerous dark spaces depicted in films and television.
She truly had no desire to store food in such a place.
“And that,” Mrs. Keith said, opening a hanging cabinet to retrieve a small chef’s knife, then selecting a large potato from a vegetable basket and handing it to Ghervil, “is precisely why I asked you to bring them here.”
Mrs. Keith’s tone was unhurried.
“First, try to cut this potato into strips with this knife. I will assess your proficiency and then formulate a specific teaching plan based on that.”
“Remember to peel it first.”
“I understand,” Ghervil replied, a hint of bewilderment in her voice, feeling as though Mrs. Keith was treating her like a child.
Such a simple task as cutting a potato…
She was, after all, an adult.
Well, compared to someone in their fifties or sixties, eighteen was indeed quite young.
She quickly dismissed her unease, focusing instead on how to wield the cold weapon in her right hand against a formidable foe larger than her left palm.
When it came to peeling, her immediate memory recalled lying in a white hospital bed, watching someone peel an apple.
She had wondered then when the apple skin would break, only for it to remain unbroken even after the entire fruit was peeled.
Peeling a potato would be easier with a peeler, and there was one in the hanging cabinet.
However, Mrs. Keith seemed intent on gauging her proficiency with a knife, and the main objective was to cut the potato into strips.
Pondering this, she realized apples and potatoes were somewhat similar.
Could she, then, replicate that feat and peel the potato in one continuous strip?
As the blade bit into the potato’s skin, a feeling of resistance met her.
Instinctively, she applied more force, but before she could continue cutting downwards, Mrs. Keith’s slightly anxious voice, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath, rang out.
“Wait, little Ghervil, are you intending to peel the entire thing while holding it directly in your hand?”
“Yes, I believe it would be faster this way.”
“Oh, absolutely not. I understand you’re holding the handle this way because of your limited strength, but this will make your movements stiff and prone to losing control.”
“Most kitchen knives are sharper than typical fruit knives, and if you were to cut your finger, I wouldn’t know how to explain it to Director Anthea.”
Mrs. Keith said playfully, taking the knife from Ghervil’s hand.
“I think I have a fair idea of your skill level, my dear. Let me take over for now, otherwise, we might not have dinner by nightfall.”
“We?”
“Of course. The table etiquette lessons must continue, and you have more important matters to attend to this evening. You shouldn’t waste your time on cooking.”
“I understand…”
Ghervil knew the “more important matters” referred to studying Finterian.
After returning from the morning market at noon, she had hastily eaten some bread and milk before dedicating herself to laundry and chores, leaving no time for books all day.
Mrs. Keith had observed all this and even lent a hand.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to learn; rather, until the potion’s effects wore off, she couldn’t comprehend any textual information.
Even her own writing, including Arabic numerals, Roman numerals, and Chinese characters, was illegible to her.
When she attempted to write in this ‘idiotic’ state, the visual result was as if someone had deliberately guided her hand to scrawl a messy tangle of lines.
Even when she wrote the same character multiple times, each rendition was inexplicably different.
She had kept one thing in mind: once the potion’s effects subsided, she would check if the diary she had written by feel was accurate.
However, all of these considerations paled in comparison to one even more crucial matter!
‘Regardless, learning to cook was her absolute top priority right now… it was intrinsically linked to her quality of life and happiness for the rest of her days.’
Noticing the young girl’s expression shift from excitement to a touch of disappointment, Mrs. Keith found her even more endearing.
With a kind smile gracing her lips, she leaned forward, reaching towards the large potato Ghervil was now clutching tightly with both hands, having abandoned her single-handed grip.
“Hand it over to me,” she said, “and I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“Alright.”
‘It’s just one cooking opportunity, isn’t it?’
‘Worst case, I’ll just try it secretly at home.’
Reluctantly, Ghervil surrendered the potato, and her first foray into culinary arts ended before it had even truly begun.
****
It had to be said, watching Mrs. Keith cook was a genuine pleasure.
She demonstrated the correct way to peel a large potato, showing how easily it could be peeled after being cut into four pieces.
This method could also be applied to other ingredients, though peeling after boiling in water was a bit more time-consuming.
For every dish, she meticulously explained the entire preparation process: the heat control, the use of seasonings, time management, and nutritional value… it was as if she were teaching hand-in-hand.
Ghervil admitted that Mrs. Keith hadn’t deceived her; simply observing from the side had taught her a great deal.
Another benefit was that she had transformed into a relentless taste-testing machine.
The first bite of every dish passed through her lips to verify its quality, and, of course, under Mrs. Keith’s ‘benevolent’ gaze, she slowly savored each mouthful, declaring the results to be perfect or even more perfect.
This was no exaggeration; from her own experience, if a bakery’s roasted bread earned a deliciousness score of 5, then Mrs. Keith’s cooking merited at least a 10.
“Until you can prepare a dish that I deem acceptable, I won’t mind if this house cooks double portions every day.”
After tidying away the unused ingredients—the very vegetables Ghervil had bought that morning—Mrs. Keith returned to the table, her gaze falling earnestly upon the girl opposite her, who was now slumped on the stool, rubbing her overfull stomach.
Throughout the short afternoon, she had been immensely satisfied with the girl’s unwavering focus and dedication to learning.
Ghervil watched Mrs. Keith’s actions, powerless to intervene, recognizing them as a subtle command.
She knew her plan to secretly try cooking at home had now fallen through.
Indeed, causing her neighbor worry wouldn’t be ideal.
After what she had ‘witnessed’ that afternoon, Ghervil lacked the confidence to operate in a kitchen without turning it into utter chaos.
She needed a clear understanding of her own capabilities.
“Has your family resided here for a long time, Madam?” Ghervil asked, nodding in agreement and sitting up a little straighter, a keen curiosity sparked within her for the knowledgeable Mrs. Keith.
“Nearly thirty years, yes. My son, Kite, is a native-born local of Mistfall City. Hmm… back then, it wasn’t even called Mistfall City, just a small town where you could see the sun in the summer and winter skies, unburdened by the shrouding mist…”
“Is this phenomenon truly so ominous?” Ghervil tilted her head. “Director Anthea mentioned it to me as well, speaking of patients afflicted by the mist and such.”
“I may not know more about this subject than you did before your memory loss. Most people only know to remain indoors and enter a dream state when the mist fully descends; this is one of the Church’s crucial tenets.”
Mrs. Keith’s tone grew solemn—a gravity even deeper than when she had insisted Ghervil dine at her house daily from then on.
“Perhaps you already know this, but I must reiterate: the mist is far more perilous than it appears.”