5, 3,
#05 - Potatoes
"It's called aloo mutter," Caroline explains as the manservant ladles something thick, lumpy and yellow-brown into their bowls.
"Hello mother?" Linette pokes dubiously at hers. The sauce is too heavy to make sense of whatever's swimming in it, but it smells all right. Sweet, almost.
Matthew snickers into his wineglass, earning a conspiratorial smirk from Lynn and a cool glance from his mother. By the time he sets the glass down, there's nothing but polite interest on his face. "It's curried potatoes and peas," he explains. "Mother's partial to it."
"What, like Chinee food?" Linette almost drops her fork at the thought. If she eats that shit, won't she turn yellow as a Chinaman?
"No," Tobias has none of his brother's good humor. Linette thinks he must have lost the ability to smile in a game of darts. "It's from the Indian colonies."
"My mother used to make it," Caroline spoons the curry over a scoop of rice, innocuous as cream. "Meat isn't wasn't always readily available in her village. The women learned to make do with vegetables and spices. I've always been impressed with the transformative power of a good curry over plain rice."
The boys murmur appreciatively, but Lynn has gone cold. The edges of her spoon dig into her clenched fingers, and she dares not look up from her plate, dares not look at Caroline. She's not stupid (not hopelessly stupid, anyway), and she's learned her new found genealogy by heart: the Kahn most commonly hail from Asia and India, with only a small percentage descended from the Sumatran and Siberian stock. She'd just thought...what? What had she thought? She's spent hours and hours studying her kuasha, her perfect poise, faultless manners and devastating grace. She's wondered about the odd contrast of honey-dark skin and amber-gold hair a hundred times, but not once has she realized the obvious: they share a tribe, not a subspecies.
And she's just been unforgivably rude.
The suppertime silence is broken only by the soft clink of silver on china. Linette lines her mouth with a spoonful of rice and digs up a bite of curry. She's not sure what she expects of it, but the spicy/sweet tang catches her off guard. Hastily, she helps herself to another mouthful, smushing a savory potato morsel against the roof of her mouth.
"S'good."
Linette wonders if all Bengals look so self-satisfied when they smile, or if it's a Caroline thing.
#03 - Soft
The jar turns up on her nightstand, unannounced and without so much as a note. It is short, squat, green glass with a hinged bronze lid and little bronze feet. The contents are as much a mystery, whorls of white with the consistency of whipped butter. She recognizes the scent before she comprehends its purpose: tuberose and honey, the very signature left on everything Caroline touches.
She runs her thumbs over her knuckles, knowing them for a lost cause.
When she takes her place at the table that night, she unfolds her napkin with rough hands and pale, perfumed wrists.
"It's called aloo mutter," Caroline explains as the manservant ladles something thick, lumpy and yellow-brown into their bowls.
"Hello mother?" Linette pokes dubiously at hers. The sauce is too heavy to make sense of whatever's swimming in it, but it smells all right. Sweet, almost.
Matthew snickers into his wineglass, earning a conspiratorial smirk from Lynn and a cool glance from his mother. By the time he sets the glass down, there's nothing but polite interest on his face. "It's curried potatoes and peas," he explains. "Mother's partial to it."
"What, like Chinee food?" Linette almost drops her fork at the thought. If she eats that shit, won't she turn yellow as a Chinaman?
"No," Tobias has none of his brother's good humor. Linette thinks he must have lost the ability to smile in a game of darts. "It's from the Indian colonies."
"My mother used to make it," Caroline spoons the curry over a scoop of rice, innocuous as cream. "Meat isn't wasn't always readily available in her village. The women learned to make do with vegetables and spices. I've always been impressed with the transformative power of a good curry over plain rice."
The boys murmur appreciatively, but Lynn has gone cold. The edges of her spoon dig into her clenched fingers, and she dares not look up from her plate, dares not look at Caroline. She's not stupid (not hopelessly stupid, anyway), and she's learned her new found genealogy by heart: the Kahn most commonly hail from Asia and India, with only a small percentage descended from the Sumatran and Siberian stock. She'd just thought...what? What had she thought? She's spent hours and hours studying her kuasha, her perfect poise, faultless manners and devastating grace. She's wondered about the odd contrast of honey-dark skin and amber-gold hair a hundred times, but not once has she realized the obvious: they share a tribe, not a subspecies.
And she's just been unforgivably rude.
The suppertime silence is broken only by the soft clink of silver on china. Linette lines her mouth with a spoonful of rice and digs up a bite of curry. She's not sure what she expects of it, but the spicy/sweet tang catches her off guard. Hastily, she helps herself to another mouthful, smushing a savory potato morsel against the roof of her mouth.
"S'good."
Linette wonders if all Bengals look so self-satisfied when they smile, or if it's a Caroline thing.
#03 - Soft
The jar turns up on her nightstand, unannounced and without so much as a note. It is short, squat, green glass with a hinged bronze lid and little bronze feet. The contents are as much a mystery, whorls of white with the consistency of whipped butter. She recognizes the scent before she comprehends its purpose: tuberose and honey, the very signature left on everything Caroline touches.
She runs her thumbs over her knuckles, knowing them for a lost cause.
When she takes her place at the table that night, she unfolds her napkin with rough hands and pale, perfumed wrists.