@canadianrenegade's challenge that you can find here.They spend the night in the cellar. The boy wouldn’t go into the house, because he’s frightened of the half people. That’s what he calls them, anyway, and they are close enough to an accurate description than she’s heard in the two years since the collapse. Last time they’d entered a shack they’d been attacked, and she hasn’t seen Jack since. She tries not to think about it, because she has the boy to care for. They've been on their own for weeks now, but she won't give up hope. And now, the food they've found seems like a sign they're to persist.
It was hard to coax him down into the dark of the cellar. He was scared of the scurrying there, but the noises quieted soon enough, so perhaps it was possums grown shy since they’d become meat again. They were too tired to eat, but now that it was light, she felt desperate to cook the few ingredients they’d found. He didn’t wake when she carried him into the house, just feebly whimpered. He needed a break. They both did.
She’d scouted the house for days now and had seen no comings or goings, nor had she seen fires in the distance, so she figured that maybe she had a few hours to gather what she could, including her strength. The weather was wet and wild, the gums whipping about in the forest as if to shake off all that haunted them. In the lower forest the tree ferns rained down water on the rich ground beneath, as if crying for the men who'd past by here and were no more. As they had pushed through in the late evening the entire forest seemed to fold behind them as if protecting the two travellers from the hunters and the killers behind them.
In the house was a fire-oven, and she felt blessed for that at least. It was far too wild out there to start a fire. In the lean to there were scraps of redgum, stringybark, messmate. The shack’s position off the road and deep in the forest made them lucky – although it was clear people had been this way before, for some reason, they’d not stayed. She wondered how far the half people were behind them. Perhaps too they'd hunkered down somewhere. Even the men who had lost their humanity in this chaos of survival needed to rest.
She put a saucepan onto boil, added two handfuls of oats from the bag and, rummaging through the spices, found cinnamon, star anise, and nutmeg which she threw in for good measure. She remembered her student days and being able to afford beer and tobacco but not tea bags, and the tealess chai poured into cleaned vegemite glasses or stolen pint glasses from the pub. Missing tea bags didn’t seem so bad today, though she could do with the caffeine. A splash of coconut cream and some rice syrup sweetened it, and she gently nudge the boy awake, placing the cup into his cold hands. He looked around warily, but the chai seemed a much better focus for him than panicking that he was inside the house.
With warm mouthfuls of tea inside her, she added oats to the spiced water on the stovetop and let them come to a good simmer. She began to grind the rest of the oats into a fine flour, her thoughts travelling to better times. It felt good to be occupied in this small and simple way. Working through a problem like providing a meal was far preferable to being hunted in the forest or worrying about Jack. She pushed those thoughts away and stirred the oats, added coconut milk and a drizzle of rice syrup, and the two of them ate hungrily whilst they stared at the licking flames. Outside, the wind grew to a frenzy, and in the distance thunder rumbled. The boy seemed happy, as he knew as well as her that the storm would keep them safe for most of the day. By the evening, though, they’d have to run again. It just wasn’t worth being lulled into this false sense of security.
As the morning crept onto midday she sorted through her supplies. She couldn’t carry the jars, but she shook small amounts of the spices into folds of newspaper like tiny treasures, and packed them together into a plastic bag. She scrubbed the potatoes and added them to her bag and ground more oats, knowing that flour made just as good porridge as whole oats did. It was a bonus getting a full bag, unopened, and it would do them for days. Worrying the wet weather would last, she considered what she could cook to take with them. The reminder of the coconut milk she poured into a jar, knowing it would last a few good days yet and could be watered down for milk.
Next, she turned to soup – four potatoes, water, stock, garlic powder and dried chives. How she longed for tomatoes or spinach, a spicey chilli fresh sprinkled with coriander. But the soup was hot and welcoming for the boy, who was ravenous, and the sprinkle of smokey paprika gave colour and depth at least. They ate half now and the rest went into a jar in the backpack. They could eat it cold or hot if they found a sheltered place to warm it. Even a tiny fire would heat it, and they wouldn’t worry about the energy spent boiling and cooking the potatoes.
In the late afternoon, she made potato cakes. Her grandmother used to make them with tons of parsley and eggs, huge stacks of golden pancakes, salty and herby and crunchy around the edges from the hot oil. Now, she had to make do – two grated potatoes, a tablespoon of tapioca starch and two tablespoons of the oat flour, a handful of chives and some garlic powder. She’d squeezed all the liquid from the potatoes and added it to the soup jar, knowing the liquid would contain vitamins they both needed. The potato cakes were cooked slowly in the small drizzle of olive oil she found at the bottom of a tin, and their golden brown surface seemed cheerful. It sure beat boiled potatoes. She smiled for a moment, remembering Jack would tell her not to bother, that he’d just have his cooked with salt, but then eat every last morsel and smile at her and tell her that he was glad that it was her he’d chosen to be on this survival trip with. Like it was a choice.
Whilst the potato cakes were frying, she melted some ghee she’d found on the shelf and added it to the oat flour, mixed in some fennel seeds and some tapioca starch and pressed into onto a tray, placing it in the oven to cook. Later, when she’d hurriedly packed it into a ziplock bag, it had crumbled, but its buttery and salty tang would sustain them well enough and was better than raw oats by a long shot. She also let the leftover porridge dry out by the oven, cut it into squares and wrapped it in paper. Cold porridge once made her gag. Now, she’d pretty much eat anything.
Whilst she had six potato cakes, she forced her and the boy to eat only two. They’d need the others on their journey, and in her heart she hoped she’d find Jack and surprise him with them. As she was serving them up there was a cry of delight from the boy, who’d found a small jar of chutney on the back shelf. By some miracle the cakes didn’t crumble, and were by far the most delicious of dishes she’d managed to make today. The boy smiled at her, looking for a moment like he’d forgotten the half people. Even his hands were steady and didn’t shake as he helped her pack the last of the food into bags and he drank the last of the chai.
Today was a good day. Tomorrow would be different.
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