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[ToL] First Recipe
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tales_ficathon, but I was lazy and didn't finish this until now. DX I'm really sorry about the lateness.
Title: First Recipe
Fandom: Tales of Legendia [pre-game]
Summary: Harriet learns how to cook soup from her mother... with less than good results.
Disclaimer: Tales of Legendia belongs to Namco. You guys know that by now, right...?
Spoilers?: Honestly, no. Harriet's introduced in Chapter 2 (MQ), but her backstory (here) isn't really mentioned until later. If you haven't played past Chapter 2, then you might have spoilers? But it's not big.
The kitchen always managed to smell like cinnamon. I'm not sure how Mom managed it, since we used to have servants running around there. They always cleaned up our messes for us (some were small, some... not so much). But they never managed to cleanse the area of cinnamon.
Grandma would joke that it was Mom's comfort food. Whenever she was down, she would put a stick in her hot chocolate. Cinnamon went everywhere: from her cakes to her cookies to even her tea. We knew Mom was sick when it wasn't scattered everywhere.
When I was old enough to cook, I asked Mom to teach me how to make cinnamon cake.
She kinda stared at me for a while and then smiled all-knowingly. I even remember her nervous tone as she suggested that "it might be better to start off small. How about making some sandwiches? Or soup! Don't you like soup, Harriet?"
Of course, I frowned. I wanted a challenge. I wanted to be the best. That way, if I ever met the criminal that was my father, I would wow him with my amazing cooking skills. I could see the tears in his eyes as he begged me back because he just couldn't do without me.
... I always imagined him looking different every time. Sometimes he was tall, thin, and blonde like Mom. Other times, he was a little shorter, a little more muscular, and a brunet. There weren't pictures of the criminal in the house. (I don't think Grandma and Grandpa cared much for him either.)
Obviously Mom liked him. And I had to change the subject every time I mentioned him, for she'd go off into space and wistfully sigh his name. "Will." Kinda like now.
"Mom? ... I guess I could start off with soup. But you have to promise! You'll teach me how to make cinnamon cake!"
She smiled - a real, genuine smile - and ushered me into the kitchen. She helped me tie on an old apron ("Mom, this thing's swimming on me!") and showed me where everything in the kitchen went. I eagerly nodded, sitting on a barstool as she finished with the spice racks.
"If you need help, just holler for the chef or me," She finished. "Now... what kind of soup do you want to make?"
I grinned. "Chicken Noodle. Isn't Grandpa sick?"
"That works," She beamed, taking out a pot and putting cold water in it. "Can you get the noodles for me?"
The pantry wasn't too far. I nodded, hopping off the stool and walking over to the pantry. Ignoring the chef's advice, I made my way to the noodles and studied them. Okay, the normal noodles weren't there. What were we gonna use?
Ooh. There were some thin white noodles over there. What were they called? Soba? They'd work. I seized them off the shelf and hurried back to my mother.
"These good?"
"They'll have to," She replied in her usual tone, dumping them into the now-boiling water. "... What kind did you get? Soba?"
"Uh-huh. We didn't have the usual kind."
She raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything as we added the other ingredients together: pieces of shredded chicken, carrots, peas, black pepper for taste, green beans, lima beans... and a pinch of salt.
Turning the stove off, Mom looked at me as she went to go fetch the bowls on the other side. "Now, remember, Harriet - don't touch the pot. It's really warm."
"Yes, Mom." I stared into the pot. Hm. Something was missing - like Mom's cinnamon! I climbed up to the spice rack and got ground cinnamon out. How much would she want? I figured... maybe a teaspoon. She really liked it, you know?
I stirred the cinnamon in, and beamed as Mom came back and poured a bowl for herself. She smiled, saying, "Now, see? You can cook after all!"
And then she tried the soup. Her eyes bulged; her face turned this... interesting shade of green. Within minutes, my mother had immediately ran to the sink and... well, interesting sounds were made.
I pouted. "How could you say this soup's horrible? We helped make it together!"
She glared dagger eyes at me. "Harriet! I may like cinnamon more than the next person, but. It. Does. Not. Mean. I. Like. It. In. My. Soup."
I stuck my tongue out. Hmph. Maybe Mom had bad taste after all. I knew how to cook now! Look out, criminal father. You'll be blinded by my awesome cooking skills for the rest of your life.
tales_ficathon, but I was lazy and didn't finish this until now. DX I'm really sorry about the lateness. Title: First Recipe
Fandom: Tales of Legendia [pre-game]
Summary: Harriet learns how to cook soup from her mother... with less than good results.
Disclaimer: Tales of Legendia belongs to Namco. You guys know that by now, right...?
Spoilers?: Honestly, no. Harriet's introduced in Chapter 2 (MQ), but her backstory (here) isn't really mentioned until later. If you haven't played past Chapter 2, then you might have spoilers? But it's not big.
The kitchen always managed to smell like cinnamon. I'm not sure how Mom managed it, since we used to have servants running around there. They always cleaned up our messes for us (some were small, some... not so much). But they never managed to cleanse the area of cinnamon.
Grandma would joke that it was Mom's comfort food. Whenever she was down, she would put a stick in her hot chocolate. Cinnamon went everywhere: from her cakes to her cookies to even her tea. We knew Mom was sick when it wasn't scattered everywhere.
When I was old enough to cook, I asked Mom to teach me how to make cinnamon cake.
She kinda stared at me for a while and then smiled all-knowingly. I even remember her nervous tone as she suggested that "it might be better to start off small. How about making some sandwiches? Or soup! Don't you like soup, Harriet?"
Of course, I frowned. I wanted a challenge. I wanted to be the best. That way, if I ever met the criminal that was my father, I would wow him with my amazing cooking skills. I could see the tears in his eyes as he begged me back because he just couldn't do without me.
... I always imagined him looking different every time. Sometimes he was tall, thin, and blonde like Mom. Other times, he was a little shorter, a little more muscular, and a brunet. There weren't pictures of the criminal in the house. (I don't think Grandma and Grandpa cared much for him either.)
Obviously Mom liked him. And I had to change the subject every time I mentioned him, for she'd go off into space and wistfully sigh his name. "Will." Kinda like now.
"Mom? ... I guess I could start off with soup. But you have to promise! You'll teach me how to make cinnamon cake!"
She smiled - a real, genuine smile - and ushered me into the kitchen. She helped me tie on an old apron ("Mom, this thing's swimming on me!") and showed me where everything in the kitchen went. I eagerly nodded, sitting on a barstool as she finished with the spice racks.
"If you need help, just holler for the chef or me," She finished. "Now... what kind of soup do you want to make?"
I grinned. "Chicken Noodle. Isn't Grandpa sick?"
"That works," She beamed, taking out a pot and putting cold water in it. "Can you get the noodles for me?"
The pantry wasn't too far. I nodded, hopping off the stool and walking over to the pantry. Ignoring the chef's advice, I made my way to the noodles and studied them. Okay, the normal noodles weren't there. What were we gonna use?
Ooh. There were some thin white noodles over there. What were they called? Soba? They'd work. I seized them off the shelf and hurried back to my mother.
"These good?"
"They'll have to," She replied in her usual tone, dumping them into the now-boiling water. "... What kind did you get? Soba?"
"Uh-huh. We didn't have the usual kind."
She raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything as we added the other ingredients together: pieces of shredded chicken, carrots, peas, black pepper for taste, green beans, lima beans... and a pinch of salt.
Turning the stove off, Mom looked at me as she went to go fetch the bowls on the other side. "Now, remember, Harriet - don't touch the pot. It's really warm."
"Yes, Mom." I stared into the pot. Hm. Something was missing - like Mom's cinnamon! I climbed up to the spice rack and got ground cinnamon out. How much would she want? I figured... maybe a teaspoon. She really liked it, you know?
I stirred the cinnamon in, and beamed as Mom came back and poured a bowl for herself. She smiled, saying, "Now, see? You can cook after all!"
And then she tried the soup. Her eyes bulged; her face turned this... interesting shade of green. Within minutes, my mother had immediately ran to the sink and... well, interesting sounds were made.
I pouted. "How could you say this soup's horrible? We helped make it together!"
She glared dagger eyes at me. "Harriet! I may like cinnamon more than the next person, but. It. Does. Not. Mean. I. Like. It. In. My. Soup."
I stuck my tongue out. Hmph. Maybe Mom had bad taste after all. I knew how to cook now! Look out, criminal father. You'll be blinded by my awesome cooking skills for the rest of your life.