‘Don’t,’ he says, shaking his head, trying to suppress his amusement.
‘What?
‘You’re here to cook,’ he says, picking up my arm and thrusting the saucepan back into my hand. ‘Butter,’ he barks, and I bite my lip in delight.
But then I turn to the stove top and remember that I actually want to cook – to learn something here. I pick up the block of butter and look back to the tin of flour and realize I’ve completely forgotten what I just did.
‘Ugh,’ I say turning to him. ‘I don’t remember how much flour. I’m hopeless.’
‘Don’t say that. Once you have the base-rules down, you’ll be able to cook anything. I know a soufflé seems super-stuffy, but you’ll learn a heap of different techniques from it.’
I nod emphatically and start again, and this time when I get to the milk I pause to ask him how to tip it in.
‘A little at a time, until it is completely whisked in. We want a thick, glossy white sauce.’
‘Okay,’ I say, wanting to pretend I can’t do it, so that he has to show me again.
‘Time to focus – it’s turning,’ James says, and I turn my full attention to the pan.
‘Is this nearly right?’ I ask, and I am amazed to see exactly what he described appear in my pan. Thick, glossy white sauce. He dips a dessert spoon into it, and the sauce hugs the back of the spoon. I stick a finger in and lick the sauce off my finger, slowly, trying to figure out what it tastes of – but it doesn’t taste of much, apart perhaps from a mildly cheesy, thick milk drink. I lick my lips.
‘Don’t do that again,’ James says, taking the pan off me.
‘Sorry – unhygienic,’ I say rinsing my finger under the tap.
‘Well, there’s that too,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Congratulations, Heather. The roux is one of the mother-sauces. It’s the basis of béchamel, espagnole and velouté, and will thicken any soup or stew.’
‘A mother-sauce?’ I repeat.
‘Yes.’
‘Ooh, so versatile,’ I swoon. ‘It’s like the Madonna of sauces.’
‘Only far less saucy,’ James says, without missing a beat.
‘Very good bantering, James,’ I say, teasing.
‘I’ll give you some recipes to take back, so you can practise.’
We leave the pan on a granite work surface ‘to cool’, then I am ordered to crack some eggs and beat the yolk into our slightly cooled roux. Some salt and pepper later, and apparently I’m on the home straight.
‘Bit fancier than fish and chips, but easier than I thought,’ I say, washing my hands and drying them on the front of my apron.
Then we are interrupted by Brett, who comes barrelling through the door with two small cocker spaniels; he is dressed in plaid breeks and olive wellingtons. Chaos ensues as the dogs scramble up our legs, looking for treats and ear scratches.
‘Out! Bobby and Jaxon, out!’ James orders, gently kicking away the jet-black dog as the other golden one sniffs at my crotch. I giggle and push him away, but he’s as persistent as hell.
‘What gorgeous dogs!’
‘They’re good boys,’ Brett replies, nodding towards James as the dogs continue to pant and jump and bark in excitement. ‘You learning how to rattle the pans, lass?’ he says, stealing an apple from the basket by the door.
‘Hi, Brett,’ I say, tipping the pan and very nearly spilling its contents. ‘Yes, look! I made a roux!’
‘Good for you, lass,’ Brett says, before turning to James. ‘I’ve cut down the two remaining ash, but they weren’t infected.’
‘Well, better to get rid of them at least.’
‘Aye,’ he nods. ‘I’ll prepare them for the woodshed.’
