With a well practiced toss, Will let sail his
cap back toward the pegs by the kitchen door just after he’d entered. He glanced back, and there it was hanging precariously from the edge of a peg. He held his breath as it teetered, threatening to fall. And grinned widely when at last it settled into place.
‘Well, that champion toss should earn me a second pint tonight,’ he announced to no one in particular as he ambled toward the kitchen’s table intending to sit down and have something to eat and drink.
His intentions were cut short in their accomplishment as a much harried Prim approached him with a pile of scrubbed taters in a small basket and plopped them down on the table’s top. These were quickly followed by a largish pot, a paring knife, and the instructions to “deal with them”. Will looked toward Cook, hoping for some sort of rescue. But she was doing battle with a number of chickens, her cleaver flying up and down in a determined manner as she chopped them.
Recognizing the inevitable Will picked up the knife and began his assigned task. He smiled at Prim, who nodded hurriedly as she began ministering to a pot of peas.
‘I don’t suppose a thirsty fellow could get a mug of ale, could he?’ His words fell upon deaf ears. Well, not all deaf – one of the ladies had given a snort at his suggestion.
‘Right, then,’ he sighed. Picking up a tater, he attacked it with the paring knife at a quick pace. The faster these were done, he thought, the faster he’d have his mug.
What on earth’s got into these two? he wondered. Supper was going to be late. An unusual state of affairs for Miz Cela’s kitchen, he pondered further. With another sigh he settled fully into his assignment. His stomach grumbled in protest at being put off.
Sooner as these are done, sooner you get fed, my pushy friend...