“What of milk?”
“Milk my king?” The maid blinked.
The other maids muttered and giggled disrespectfully among each other.
“Yes” I continued. “What happens if I combine, milk, cream, sugar and chill it under a heavy stir?” I asked my audience.
Perhaps ice cream was too hard for them.
“That sounds good but we have never made that before!” One of the maids, a tall lanky readhead called out.
Where was De-Phoebe? Not here apparently. Perhaps she didn’t fit in among this demographic.
The maids were all cute, younger than my wife. Why would the queen recommend this?
My achy body needed rest and nutrients yes but…
I sat at my throne with a plate full of mashed potatoes and still moist and chopped up pork chop.
“Someone fetch me some spring water. Oh and when I’m done I’ll show you girls how to make a milkshake.”
They all burst out laughing.
I didn’t get why it until I finished my first few bites.
A few maids fetched the sweet waters and poured me a glass of wine, water and crowded to offer up to me prearranged plates of food.
Very awkward with nobody else eating.
“What are you waiting for? Sit down! Eat with me! If we run out we can make more or visit the kitchen!” I called out.
Was that normal?
There began a dull roar of chatter as a dozen maids sat down dug in and began to eat with me.
I supposed this was a good sign, I was not being poisoned. Or more accurately, they were not in on the conspiracy.
Should I appoint a food tester?
That little Gonzalez mouse got a better job but as a king I suppose I had both jobs.
I examined the maids.
A diverse set of women who reminded me of a college sorority crossed with a Starbucks.
Who was I to say they were not cute? But that was obviously the point?
Gosh I was hungry.
One plate down, two plates down, a tray of cheeses and fruits and nuts cleaned.
I was far from full but I slowed down and finished my glass of wine.
Wine for breakfast?
All of what I had so far was breakfast?
A very shapely girl with a soft face refilled my goblet.
“How many times have you done that?” I gently grabbed her elbow and lifted to stop her from filling my cup.
“Only once before.”
Her sweet little doe eyes were apologetic. But the fact of the matter is she had done so without my noticing.
“Pour yourself one, sit down!” I ordered. She smiled and brushed her long subtending hair away from her cheek.
If she was wearing makeup it was subtle enough I didn’t notice.
“What‘s your favorite food?” I asked her as she sat near me at the head of the table.
“I like Shepard’s pie O Lion.”
“But your favorite?” We already had the pie out.
“My favorite is pound cake, with apple sauce.”
The girl had a soft voice that enchanted me.
“What?” I asked, even though I had heard her.
She didn’t raise her voice and repeated. “Pound cake and apple sauce.”
I raised my voice over the table easily.
“Might we have a pound cake and apple sauce?”
And without ado it was on the table in five minutes and I cut my newfound little companion a slice for breakfast.
“Oh that’s too much.” She complained.
“I’ll eat it if you don’t.”
My new companion was a cutie, if a little on the short and soft side. But nobody else was taking her job of getting the king drunk. So I could relax a little.
Two drinks at breakfast and I hadn’t noticed…
Soon I was full, but the shadows of the stained glass said the day was still morning.
I made an announcement.
“Girls, Girls! you are aware of the vanilla bean?”
Well that was good I could make well on my promise.
“Yes.” That tall redhead was already drunk but liked yelling.
“Have you ever heard of ice cream?”
“That’s disgusting!” Another less drunk girl replied. The rest laughed.
“How do you make it?” I asked.
“You mix ice and cream! Obviously!”
She had no idea.
“Wrong!” I said. “Follow me!”
I stood up and ventured to the kitchen.
Would be assassins would have to deal with the fallout of pretty women and royal kitchens being aware of processed foods.
The kitchen was overflowing with cooks and foods.
I waved over to one.
“I need milk cream, sugar and the vanilla bean extract if possible.”
All were readily available.
“You ever combine all these?” I asked a cook.
“You are baking a cake?” they asked.
“Liquid cake.” I replied.
“Oh the king is an experimental cook?” the smile of someone who expected me to embarrass myself spread across their face. “Show us!”
“A kettle as well.” I asked.
The kettle was also provided me. The girls swarmed into a corner trying to stay out of the way.
I got a sick twisted feeling of a school, no, university, this world wouldn’t differentiate, field trip. I was the Bill Nye of food right now. Some of the cooks stopped to watch me.
Gosh I was old. Bill Nye was from the nineties.
Fortunately the recipe was brain dead simple.
“Mixing glasses?” I asked.
That was too much to ask for… this might be close. I grabbed a few tankards that roughly matched in size.
I put the kettle over heat.
“One part heavy cream.” I announced, as if a salesperson.
Gosh I was going to destroy their teeth and make them fat.
Queen’s problem not mine. She was up to something, and the evils of the future punished sins.
I took a spoon, yea that was proper heavy cream.
“One part milk”
“Vanilla extract and sugar to taste! And vanilla is powerful!” Someone in this world was rendering vanilla extract, I didn’t have to use beans.
I stirred but I had no heat controls, only flame. I didn’t have a good timer.
They already had sugar surely this little invention would have no effect they had not already suffered. But it might offer a key to an enlightened cook the secrets of chemical emulsification.
They probably understood it already at some level.
“This is too sweet!” I announced. “But the way I learned we dilute this ‘concentrate’ at a later step.”
The maids were enthralled and silent. They had never seen a king cook.
The cooks muttered to each other the way interested parties observe a trade show.
I scraped the bottom of the kettle with a spoon feeling for sugar. I lifted the spoon, no sugar… good.
I took the kettle off heat, and tasted.
Yup. That was concentrated milkshake. Which if you have never tried it, is nauseatingly sweet. Very powerful. You can feel it closing your throat.
A luxury unheard of in these dark ages.
It was basically a type hot chocolate without coco right now and I had stirred it into a proper emulsified mix. If I shook it it would become frothy.
I never liked milk froth but suppose the froth made it interesting?
A warm milkshake was traditionally “disgusting” in the modern understanding. But this wasn’t a curdling milkshake, this was hot off the presses and I supposed my audience didn’t know better than to drink warm milkshakes.
I pondered over how best to serve this, did it need chilling? Certainly refrigeration enabled the modern love of ice creams and milk derivatives.
:(
What a disaster! What was I thinking only ten minutes ago? I hadn’t had that much to drink!
The show must go on.
“Now we chill it! I need ice!”
Ice was readily available, we were half way up a snowy mountain.
“I want it warm!” The drunk girl announced.
“Milk and flagon!” I demanded.
“Two parts milk, one part concentrate.“
A few cooks scrambled to get me ice.
The flagon arrived first.
I shook the flagon while I waited for ice. I poured in milk, my concentrate, and shook it to give it the name. I mixed it closer to a ratio of one to one.
The secret to profiting from any kind of information was to corrupt the official record and rent your ability to fix the issue.