CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DINNER
“What is the soup today Cook?” Defoe inquired to the fat Scottish lady who had proudly brought the steaming tureen to the lady of the house to ladle out.
“Split green pea soup, Milord, with bacon bits just the way thon English like it.”
Defoe replied, “Well, it smells just delicious Cook. And the main course today, in the center of the table, that looks very good too.”
Cook was bursting at the seams, “Ah Milord I have slaved and slaved all day to get it right. That be yer Yorkshirepuddin as what it is with roast beef and taters.” She beamed at him.
Defoe pulled the platter toward himself and speared a limp, green lump on the side of the roast beef. “And this Cook?”
“Ah, Sir, that be your asparagrass what we just got in, imported!”
Defoe released the green vegetable from his fork with an “Ah.” Maybe he would have a green apple later on. The rest of it did look good.
“Soup Angela?” Mrs. Defoe asked.
“S’il vous plait, Maman.”
“There you go my dear,” her mother handed over the bowl.
“Merci, Maman,” the girl answered.
“Silver vos plate, silver vos plate,” her younger brother chanted next to her.
“Vous ete une idiot!” the girl said angrily and hit her brother on top of the head with her silver soup spoon.
“Angela!” her mother cried.
“Merde!” the girl said sullenly.
Defoe was shocked; he didn’t know the girl knew that much French.