I CALLED HIM a murderer.
That was the thought in his mind when he woke an hour later. I called him a murderer, he called me a sodomite…and yet it’s Fraser he called out. Why?
Because Fraser accused him, point-blank and publicly, or treason. He had to challenge that; he couldn’t let the statement stand. An accusation of murder might be mere insult, but not an accusation of treason. And particularly not if there was any truth in it.
Of course. He’d known that, really. What he didn’t know was what had possessed Fraser to make the accusation now, and in such a public manner.
He got up, used the pot, then splashed water from the ewer over his face and, tilting the pitcher, drank most of the rest. It was nearly evening; his room was growing dark, and he could smell the luscious scents of tea preparing downstairs; fried sardines, fresh buttered crumpets, lemon sponge, cucumber sandwiches, sliced ham. He swallowed, suddenly ravenous.
He can’t have done it for me. The thought carried some regret; he wished it were true. But he was a realist enough to know that Fraser wouldn’t have gone to such lengths merely to distract attention from Twelvetree’s accusation of sodomy, no matter what he personally thought of Grey at the moment – and Grey didn’t even know that.
Diana Gabaldon, The Scottish Prisoner (Chapter 30, Particular Friends)
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,” I said, relinquishing it with some reluctance. “Just a taste, now— leave some for your daddy and grandda.”
He nodded, wordless, and licked the spoon with a long, slow swipe of the tongue, closing his eyes in ecstasy.
I found another spoon and set about dropping the cookies onto the tin sheets I used for baking. We ended in a dead heat, the sheets full and the bowl quite empty, just as footsteps came down the hallway toward the
I found another spoon and set about dropping the cookies onto the tin sheets I used for baking. We ended in a dead heat, the sheets full and the bowl quite empty, just as footsteps came down the hallway toward the door. Recognizing Brianna’s tread, I snatched the empty spoon from Jemmy and rubbed a quick towel across his smudgy mouth.
Bree stopped in the doorway, her smile turning to a look of suspicion.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Making molasses cookies,” I said, lifting the sheets in evidence, before sliding them into the brick oven set in the wall of the fireplace. “Jemmy’s been helping me.”
One neat red brow arched upward. She glanced from me to Jemmy, who was wearing a look of sublimely unnatural innocence. I gathered my own expression was no more convincing.
Diana Gabaldon, A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Chapter 71 – Lice)
My thoughts of luxuriant wallowing were interrupted by the emergence from the woods of Ian and Myers, the latter with a brace of squirrels hung from his belt. Ian proudly presented me with an enormous black object, which on closer inspection proved to be a turkey, fat from gorging on the autumn grains.
“Boy’s got a nice eye, Mrs. Claire,” said Myers, nodding approvingly. “Those be wily birds, turkeys. Even the Indians don’t take ’em easy.”
It was early for Thanksgiving, but I was delighted with the bird, which would be the first substantial item in our larder. So was Jamie, though his pleasure lay more in the thing’s tail feathers, which would provide him with a good supply of quills.
Diana Gabaldon, Drums of Autumn (Chapter 12 – Hearth Blessing)
When you’re writing a cookbook, you end up with a lot of leftovers in the fridge. I won’t post photo evidence, as the current state of the interior of our fridge is nothing to be proud of — in fact, the whole kitchen is due for a deep clean of epic proportions after the past few months of recipe development.
Of course, leftovers are the mother of invention in the kitchen, and so, when I found myself feeling a little creative a couple of Saturdays ago, I moseyed over to the fridge to peruse my options. Just as the door alarm was going off I came across the tub of Homemade Crowdie Cheese that I made a few days earlier as well as some crab meat leftover from the previous night’s Fish Pie at the Lillington’s from DOA (a brand new recipe for the cookbook.)
“Crab Rangoon!” I shouted with joy.
I’ve had a few watershed moments along the way on my five-year Outlander Kitchen journey.
The first, at the very beginning, was when Diana Gabaldon generously granted me permission to develop recipes based on her Outlander series.
Another came this spring, when I caught myself holding my breath in surreal disbelief as I sat at my desk in my little office on little Pender Island, BC, Canada and signed a big cookbook contract with Ballantine Books of Random House in New York. Read More