My hollandaise started to improve. I realized if I whisked it twice as fast, in a container twice as large, I ended up with twice as much. Even the Count was impressed. “Very nice and lemony,” he remarked.
I actually started to enjoy the daily treks out to the garden, and though I couldn’t find time to make jams as the Countess had requested, I was able to make vats of pumpkin soup for the fall, and introduced them to zucchini bread with the excess squash. I didn’t even panic when I found my first feathered ducks in the refrigerator’s crisper drawer.
Every night, the Count took Lulu and his hunting dog, Olga, on a stroll by the duck pond, bringing with him an antique pistol in case any fur or fowl crossed his path. He’d bagged a rabbit but hadn’t been able to get any ducks for weeks. Finally, he got two, and tucked them into the fridge for supper. I figured they were awaiting the taxidermist, until Najiyah informed me of his expectations.
Since I didn’t know that the wings should be cut off, not plucked, and they take the longest, it took about an hour and a half. But I got all the feathers off in time, and roasted the birds in butter with thyme and turnips from the garden.
Every day, I found myself thinking more with my hands than with my head. Instead of having to write out each meal in 15-minute increments of prep time, I could feel in my fingers what work needed to be done. I still didn’t know to judge doneness by touch, but I could now hear when the roast beef sizzled just so, indicating that it was near medium-rare. I could see what a well-roasted chicken looks like. I started to improve on little things: adding garlic cloves to the french fries, caramelizing the boiled turnips, peeling the baked apples halfway since the skin was so troublesome to eat. No longer in a state of steady panic, I had time to think things through.
My last week, the Count and Countess arrived home from a wedding hungry. I offered to make them an omelet.
“Une omelette baveuse?!” the Count roared, smiling, as he removed his coat.
“But of course!” I teased.
While browning the lardons of bacon, I whisked the eggs vigorously and heated the skillet. I knew to get it plenty hot to keep the omelet from sticking. In went the eggs. Before the inside had a chance to finish cooking, I scattered the bacon over it. Then I ran a fork along the edge, and the omelet’s outside rim peeled off like it wanted to come out on its own. I folded it over and slid it onto a plate. I cleaned up and went to bed, not waiting for their response. After eight weeks of cooking, I knew myself that it was good.
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