Title: Stir-up Sunday
Author: King Wenches-a-lot
Real Author Name:
tazletWritten for:
hafitalCharacters/Pairings: Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod, Methos
Rating: PG
Summary: Surprise Christmas tradition!
Stir-up Sunday
“What took you so long? I had to start without you,” MacLeod said.
“You’re welcome. It took me forty-five minutes to find a parking place within walking distance of the art supply store. God, I hate the weekend after Thanksgiving. Black Friday! Bah! The whole weekend is a mess! I did get the unbleached linen you said you needed.
“Good. Take off your coat, roll up your sleeves, and give me a hand.”
“Your wish is my command.” Dawson tossed the package of linen on the sofa. “I’ll take a glass of that.” He pointed to the bottle of Courvoisier, sitting nearly empty on the counter. “Want to tell me what this is all about. And what is that smell?”
He’d smelled it as soon as he’d opened the elevator downstairs. It was basically a wonderful aroma, compounded of oranges, lemons, toast, cinnamon, mace, allspice, ginger, cloves, nutmeg, pepper, lots of pepper, and-his expert nose had detected it-brandy, a great deal of fine old brandy. There were other things, as well, most of them tangy, sharp and sweet. It was homey, it was festive, it was like your grandmother’s Christmas baking raised to a power of ten. But taken all together it was a little overpowering, and under all that wonderful sweetness and tang it was more than a little disturbing to detect a hint of blood.
It looked like Mac’s entire collection of mixing bowls was lined up on the counter. One was full of fruit and brandy. One had at least a dozen eggs in it. One had a pound of raw chopped beef-that accounted for the blood. There were smaller bowls with almonds, sugar, and raisins. And in the largest was what looked like a pound of bacon fat that Mac was working with his fingers.
“What’s that?”
“Suet.”
“What on earth are doing, feeding birds?”
“It’s traditional. I need you to start beating the eggs.” MacLeod pulled out his greasy hands out of the bowl, scraped his fingers on the edge and then wiped them with a dish cloth. “No froth.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It’s traditional.”
Dawson eyed MacLeod suspiciously but MacLeod refused to meet his gaze. Recognizing a sure sign that the mule wasn’t going to trot, Dawson picked up the whisk and set to work on the eggs.
“Beaten, but no froth. Got it. What are you doing?”
MacLeod had crouched down on the floor and was probing the depths of the depths of the lower cabinet.
“Looking for my spoon.”
His voice seemed to come up through the drain in the sink.
“Wouldn’t that be in a drawer with your other spoons?”
“It’s a special spoon. When you done with the eggs, mix the bread crumbs and sugar in with them.”
Dawson mixed the bread crumbs and sugar into the eggs. Through the steel counter top, he could feel MacLeod rearranging what sounded like a farrier’s whole stock of tools but was probably the set of stock pots and cast iron frying pans acquired over a lifetime by anyone who cooks, and enjoys feeding their friends. In MacLeod’s case it was a long life and many friends.
“Now what?”
“Pour it in the bowl with the fat. Then add the mince and the treacle.”
“Treacle?”
“In the measuring cup.”
“You know what this looks like, don’t you?” Dawson eyed the disgusting mess in the bowl. “This is way too stiff. Do you have another spoon?”
“Hang on. I’ve got it.”
There was a crash of falling pans.
“All right, I surrender!” Dawson said. “What are we making, that requires a special spoon?”
“A pud… Gotcha!”
“A pud-gotcha. Sounds delish.” MacLeod emerged backwards, straightened up on his knees, triumphantly displaying a homely object for Dawson’s edification. “Yes, it’s a spoon. I see.”
It was heavy, about eighteen inches long, of hand-carved wood darkened from much use, an ancient survivor of times long gone-much like the one who came padding barefoot and yawning prodigiously from MacLeod’s bedroom.
“Lord, you two make a racket,” Methos said. “Can’t you let a man sleep?”
“You sneaky bastard!” Dawson yelled. “When did you…?”
“This afternoon,” Methos said.
Dawson shoved the mixing bowl at MacLeod, who’d climbed to his feet, and went to take the old man by the shoulders and give him a shake. “I’m pleased-pleased as punch-but you didn’t say a word about coming over when I talked to you last week.”
“Didn’t have any plans to.”
“Then why?”
“MacLeod.” Methos nodded toward MacLeod who was dumping cups of raisins and almonds into the bowl with the meat, treacle and eggs. “Tempted me.”
“With what?”
“He promised me pudding for Christmas.” He looked pink and drowsy from his nap, as he pointed at the bowls on the counter. “Mmm…” He sniffed. “Smells like paradise.”
“And now,” said MacLeod, who was looking at the contents of the bowl, “that I’ve found my spoon; you’re just in time to stir.”
It was a perfectly innocuous exchange. Yet there was something about the smug smile on MacLeod’s puss that contradicted his downcast eyes. MacLeod wasn’t remotely shy, except when it came to… To a highly trained and naturally cynical watcher who was already on the alert it was highly suspicious.
“Christmas pudding? That’s a month away. Won’t it go bad?”
“Never in this world. Byron sent me one-it was ’18, I think-but I had to get out of London before Christmas, and didn’t get home for three years. When I got back, it was still in the box room. We opened it and I had the cook steam it for five hours.
“Steamed it?”
“In a linen bag in the wash copper. House smelled like a cross between a laundry and a pastry shop, but it was the best pudding I ever ate.”
“You know this is a three man operation.” MacLeod waved the spoon, now sticky with stiff pink dough.
“Is that supposed to be a hint?” Methos smiled at MacLeod.
Dawson, seeing the warmth in his eyes, noticed for the first time that the oversized white fisherman’s sweater that he was wearing looked exactly like the one that MacLeod had been wearing yesterday. Remembering what the bible said about temptation and eating, he found that he was growing warm.
“We all have to stir,” MacLeod said severely.
“We do?”
“Yes, Joe, we do. It’s traditional; stir clockwise, and make a wish.”
FINIS