indian pickle

Mrs. Bug’s Piccalilli from The Fiery Cross

Mrs. Bug’s Piccalilli from The Fiery Cross

He laughed, handing her a biscuit filled with ham and Mrs. Bug’s piccalilli.

“How Pizza Came to the Colonies,” he said, and lifted the cider bottle in brief salute.  “Folk always wonder where humanity’s great inventions come from; now we know!” 

He spoke lightly, but there was an odd tone in his voice, and his glance held hers.

“Maybe we do know,” she said softly, after a moment.  “You ever think about it — why?  Why we’re here?”

“Of course.”  the green of his eyes was darker now, but still clear.  “So do you, aye?”

She nodded, and took a bite of biscuit and ham, the piccalilli sweet with onion and pungent in her mouth.  Of course they thought of it.  She and Roger and her mother.  For surely it had meaning, that passage through the stones.  It must.  And yet…her parents seldom spoke of war and battle, but from the little they said — and the much greater quantity she had read — she knew just how random and how pointless such things could sometimes be.  Sometimes a shadow rises, and death lies nameless in the dark.

Roger crumbled the last of his bread between his fingers, and tossed the crumbs a few feet away.  A chickadee flew down, pecked once, and was joined within seconds by a flock that swooped down out of the trees, vacuuming up the crumbs with chattering efficiency.  He stretched, sighing, and lay back on the quilt.

“Well,” he said, “if you ever figure it out, ye’ll be sure to tell me, won’t you?”

Diana Gabaldon, The Fiery Cross, Chap 20

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