Outlander Kitchen

Historical and Character-Inspired Food from the fictional world of Diana Gabaldon.

Archive for the month “March, 2012”

29 Mar 2012

Jem’s Mickey Mouse Pancakes

“Won’t I — won’t I see Mama again?” Jemmy’s eyes were huge, and he couldn’t keep from looking at the stone.

“I don’t know,” Roger said, and I could see the tears he was fighting himself, and hear them in his thickened voice. He didn’t know whether he would ever see Brianna again himself, or baby Mandy. Probably…probably not.”

Jamie looked down at Jem, who was clinging to his hand, looking back and forth between father and grandfather, confusion, fright, and longing in his face.

“If one day, a bhailach,”Jamie said conversationally, “ye should meet a verra large mouse named Michael — ye’ll tell him your grandsire sends his regards.” He opened his hand, then letting go, and nodded toward Roger.

Jem stood staring for a moment, then dug in his feet and sprinted toward Roger, sand spurting from under his shoes. He leaped into his father’s arms, clutching him around the neck, and with a final glance backward, Roger turned and stepped behind the stone, and the inside of my head exploded in fire.

Diana Gabaldon, A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Chapter 120 – If Only For Myself)

27 Mar 2012

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Quail Wrapped in Clay from The Fiery Cross

Dirty fighting is the only kind there is, Fraser had told him, panting, as they knelt at the stream and splashed cold water over sweating faces. Anything else is no but exhibition.

His head jerked on his neck and he blinked, coming back abruptly from the grate and crash of wooden swords to the dim warmth of the cabin. The platter was gone; Brianna was cursing softly under her breath at the sideboard, banging the hilt of his dirk against the blackened lumps of clay-baked quail to crack them open.

Watch your footing. Back, back — aye, now, come back at me! No, dinna reach so far…keep your guard up!

And the stinging whap! of the springy “blade” across arms and thighs and shoulders, the solid thunk of it driven bruising home between his ribs, sunk deep and breathless in his belly. Had it been cold steel, he would have been dead in minutes, cut to bleeding ribbons.

Don’t catch the blade on yours — throw it off. Beat, beat it off! Come at me, thrust! Keep it close, keep it close…aye, good…ha!

His elbow slipped and his head fell. He jerked upright, barely keeping hold of the sleeping child, and blinked, vision swimming with firelight.

Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 87 – En Garde)

Posted in The Fiery Cross and tagged baked, brianna, clay, coals, dinner, embers, fire, jamie, quail, roger

22 Mar 2012

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A Coddled Egg for Duncan’s Breakfast from The Fiery Cross

“Phaedre! Have you seen Mr. Innes this morning?” Jocasta’s body servant was flying past, her arms full of table cloths, but came abruptly to a halt at my call.

“Ain’t seen Mister Duncan since breakfast, ma’am,” she said, with a shake of her neatly capped head.

“How did he seem then? Did he eat well?” Breakfast was an ongoing affair of several hours, the resident guests serving themselves from the sideboard and eating as they chose. It was more likely nerves than food poisoning that was troubling Duncan’s bowels, but some of the sausage I had seen on the sideboard struck me as highly suspect.

“No, ma’am, nary a bite.” Phaedre’s smooth brow puckered; she was fond of Duncan. “Cook tried to tempt him with a nice coddled egg, but he just shook his head and looked peaked. He did take a cup of rum punch, though,” she said, seeming somewhat cheered at the thought.

“Aye, that’ll settle him,” Ninian remareked, overhearing. “Dinna trouble yourself, Mrs. Claire; Duncan will be well enough.”

Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross (Chapter 39 – In Cupid’s Grove)

Posted in The Fiery Cross and tagged breakfast, coddled, diana gabaldon, duncan, egg, outlander, the fiery cross

19 Mar 2012

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Claire’s Nettle-Kissed Buns

“The peasants of Gascony beat a faithless wife wi’ nettles,” he said. He lowered the spiky bunch of leaves and rushed the flower heads lightly across one breast. I gasped from the sudden sting, and a faint red blotch appeared as though by magic on my skin.

“Will ye have me do so?” he asked. “Shall I punish you that way?”

“If you…if you like.” My lips were trembling so hard I could barely get out the words. A few crumbs of earth from the nettles’ roots had fallen between my breasts; one rolled down the slope of my ribs, dislodged by my pounding heart, I imagined. The welt on my breast burned like fire. I closed my eyes, imagining in vivid detail exactly what being thrashed with a bunch of nettles would feel like.

Suddenly the viselike grip on my wrist relaxed. I opened my eyes to find Jamie sitting cross-legged by me, the plants thrown aside and scattered on the ground. He had a faint, rueful smile on his lips.

“I beat you once in justice, Sassenach, and ye threatened to disembowel me with my own dirk. Now you’ll ask me to whip ye wi’ nettles?” He shook his head slowly, wondering, and his hand reached as though by its own volition to cup my cheek. “Is my pride worth so much to you , then?”

“Yes! Yes, it bloody is!” I sat up myself, and grasped him by the shoulders, taking both of us by surprise as I kissed him hard and awkwardly.

Diana Gabaldon, Dragonfly in Amber (Chapter 29)

Posted in Beyond the Books, Dragonfly in Amber and tagged buns, claire, diana gabaldon, dinner, dragonfly in amber, foraged, jamie, lemon, nettles, parmesan cheese, pine nuts, rolls, stinging

15 Mar 2012

21 Comments

Introducing The OK Recipe Index!

I took a sheet of paper, pristine and creamy, placed it just so, and dipped my quill, excitement thrumming in my fingers.

I closed my eyes in reflex, then opened them again. Where ought I to begin?

Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end: then stop. The line from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland drifted through my mind, and I smiled. Good advice, I supposed – but only if you happened to know where the beginning was, and I didn’t quite.

I twiddled the quill a bit, thinking.

Perhaps I should have an outline? That seemed sensible — and a little less daunting than starting straight in to write. I lowered the quill and held it poised above the paper for a moment, then picked it up again. An outline would have a beginning, too, wouldn’t it?

The ink was beginning to dry on the point. Rather crossly, I wiped it and was just about to dip it again, when the maid scratched discreetly at the door.

Diana Gabaldon, An Echo in the Bone, Chapter 74