“Things could have gone disastrously, Teacher!”
When Patrick came to, he saw the children’s faces and the village chief leaning over him.
“Even in spring, you mustn’t underestimate the sun.”
“I got carried away with enthusiasm… Ugh! My head!”
“You’ll probably feel this way all day. If the kids hadn’t found you so quickly, who knows what would’ve happened…”
“Teacher! Did you really not drink a single drop of water all morning?”
“We know that already!”
“Right. They say if you sweat, you have to drink just as much water!”
“Especially someone as stringy and powerless as you!”
“Please don’t get sick, Teacher!”
Somewhere in the middle, a trap card seemed to have been triggered, so Patrick shot a “We’ll see about that” look.
“If your stomach’s empty, you’ll feel even more dizzy.”
“What’s this?”
“You need to eat something. My wife made some potato stew. She used extra milk, so it should be smooth.”
At the mention of potatoes again, Patrick couldn’t help frowning. If the rough-tongued Grandma had seen him, she’d’ve said, “You’re saved from collapsing and all you do is complain about the food,” and smacked him with her spoon. But the chief’s gentle nature wasn’t anything like Patrick’s; he just chuckled.
Slurp—
Patrick couldn’t ignore such kindness, so he took a spoonful.
“…!”
What was this? It looked like thin mashed-potato soup with nothing in it, but it tasted just like something his mother used to make.
Of course, that was an illusion. NEW Patrick’s mother had never made any soup beyond instant convenience-cup varieties.
But illusion or not, Patrick was genuinely moved.
‘What kind of potatoes taste this good?’
The fluffiness of the potatoes remained just right. The savory depth came from frying the potatoes first, mashed after, and that sweetness—what was that?
‘Sugar? No. It’s more of a natural sweetness…’
Patrick couldn’t believe how powerful the caramelized onions’ sweetness was. Even the salty bacon bits that had sunk below the surface combined so that he could almost feel the energy seep into his weak, collapsing body.
‘Good call on making it a little salty. He’s really enjoying it.’
The chief smiled with satisfaction at seeing a wizard from the capital bring the bowl straight to his mouth. There’s nothing that wins over grown-ups faster than seeing someone eat heartily.
In that sense, Patrick was adapting well to island life.
“Next time you work in the field, add a pinch of salt or sugar to your water. Or I can give you some jam—would you like to mix that into your water?”
“Oh, thank you! But what kind of jam…?”
“Ha! My wife has made quite a few varieties. Everyone says the raspberry and fig jams are the best. Come down to the village tomorrow and drop by our house.”
“Thank you, Chief! Lately I’ve really been craving something sweet.”
Without refusing, Patrick bowed his thanks and looked around the bare room, scratching his head.
“I wish I had something to give in return… Oh, that’s right! I meant to give you this. I’ve been so scatterbrained I forgot.”
“Eh? What’s this…?”
Patrick strained to carry in a sack tied tight beside the table. The chief peered inside and his eyes widened.
About a hundred rectangular wooden boards, each a bit larger than a grown-up’s palm.
“You’ve all done so much for me; you know I had to give something back.”
“Teacher!”
The chief opened and closed his mouth several times as if he wanted to say something, then grabbed Patrick’s hand.
“They’ll love these so much!”
“Even if it’s a small thing, I hope they like it.”
The next day.
‘Nice to sleep in since the kids aren’t coming.’
The children had heard the chief ask them not to trouble Patrick until he fully recovered, so they let him oversleep blissfully. The rooster crowed at dawn as usual, but perhaps fatigue had built up—or he’d adapted in a single day—because it failed to rouse him.
“I’m hungry.”
He could’ve slept longer, but hunger drove him from the bed as midday approached.
“I don’t feel like cooking. Sigh—maybe I’ll just bum a meal in the village?”
After that level-99 potato soup, he could no longer find satisfaction in plain boiled potatoes.
‘Should I go to the Chief’s house?’
Curry, black bean sauce, gomguk stew—what do they have in common? Everyone loves them? You don’t need side dishes or soup with them? True. But more fundamentally—
‘You never make just one bowl!’
How many Koreans have never cooked a whole pot and eaten it day and night for a week? ‘Stew or soup—what’s the difference?’
They both work for a single-pot meal. And mothers’ side-dish dilemmas are universal headaches. So he was certain the Chief’s wife hadn’t made just one bowl of potato soup yesterday afternoon.
“Should I pick some flowers since I can’t go empty-handed?”
He lacked money, but wildflowers bloomed all around; even blindfolded he could assemble a bouquet. Unfortunately, without pruning shears, he used a small knife. Soon he realized:
‘Am I really that clumsy?’
The lively flowers wilted in his hands. “Tch—!” At last he gave up and entered the bamboo grove to harvest a few bamboo shoots as a gift.
“Teacher!”
“Ah! Thank you, Teacher!”
“Thanks so much, Teacher! My dad will love these!”
As he neared the village, residents working the fields or tending livestock called their thanks. Embarrassed, Patrick nodded and hurried on.
‘Why are they so grateful? It’s awkward.’
Wiping his nose, he approached the chief’s house at the village center. The residents’ thanks followed him—especially the older folks, who seemed moved to tears.
“Teacher, welcome! The jams are already prepared. Please come in.”
Their eager gazes pressed on him, and he breathed easier inside the house.
“Teacher! How did you think of this? Is it because you’re from the capital? You’ve got a whole different spirit than the men of this village!”
“Not at all, Madam. Ah, these—bamboo shoots have been plentiful lately.”
“Oh my! I was just thinking of salting and pickling some. Thank you!”
The chief’s wife beamed as she took the shoots.
‘Thank you.’
To the villagers, a few bamboo shoots weren’t huge. Patrick smiled quietly, knowing it showed his hands weren’t idle.
Grrr—
At that moment, his stomach let out a riotous growl. He’d eaten one bowl of potato soup for early dinner and slept until lunch; of course he was hungry. He’d scampered about fetching flowers and bamboo shoots on an empty stomach.
“Would you like lunch before you go? We don’t have much, but adding one more spoon setting is no trouble.”
“May I? Thank you. By the way, do you still have that potato soup from yesterday?”
“Oh my! You liked it that much? Hoho! Of course. I made plenty. I’ll pack you some soup and jam later—take them together.”
“How bold of me, but I’ll gladly take them. It was the best soup I’ve ever eaten! I couldn’t stop thinking about it this morning.”
“Hohoho! Eat up, Teacher. Shall I pack some for you to go?”
The chief puffed out his chest proudly. No husband dislikes hearing, “Your wife’s cooking is extraordinary!” It’s akin to “Your kimchi is amazing.”
Knock knock—!
Just as Patrick devoured his second bowl of soup, a guest arrived.
“Chief, are you there?”
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Luca!”
A neighbor hesitantly tipped his hat and held out a cloth bundle.
“They say the Teacher’s here… this is—”
Luca had an accent uncommon for the island. He bowed to Patrick at the table.
“Ah, hello!”
“Teacher! I don’t know if you’ll like this.”
“Me? You brought this for me?”
“It feels odd to call it an offering, but I wanted to give something. Actually, tomorrow is my mother’s memorial day… Now that we have a proper memorial tablet, she won’t lose her way back home, right?”
His face flickered between sorrow and relief as he continued.
“I’m uneducated—I couldn’t tell if the tablet I made for my mother was done right… But having the wizard from the capital fashion a splendid tablet for her—how can I ever thank you?”
Before he knew it, he’d sat on the doorstep and was weeping uncontrollably.