Odiferous Hands

Feast 18 is going to require masses of stock. The oxtail is simmered in it, the potatoes fondantes are braised in it, and any self-respecting cook knows the importance of good stock. It is akin to rich earth for the gardener or a well primed canvas for the painter; it is vital as foundation to a successful dish.

So after returning from work today, and before slipping out for an afternoon run, I grabbed the remains of a roast chicken and hurriedly prepared it for the pot, tearing off the useful flesh for sandwiches and breaking the carcass into chunks. Peering into the fridge I realized I had nothing in the way of stock veggies. Swearing unceremoniously, I grabbed my keys and headed to the grocery store. As I stood at the cash register, veggies in hand, I began smelling a distinctly chicken-like aroma wafting upwards to my nostrils. It was then I realized, sheepishly, that my hands smelt potently of chicken. I handed over the money apologetically, hoping that the poor girl at the checkout wasn’t suffocating from this powerful perfume. I was sure I’d washed my hands. Apparently, however, I’d been a bit too wholehearted in my ministrations towards the roasted bird.

Home again; I washed my hands furiously before chopping the vegetables and setting the pot on to simmer. The scraggly chicken bones were in, along with a couple carrots and celery stalks, an onion, leek, peppercorns, and bay leaf. Thyme, I thought, dashing out to the garden to see if anything was alive. I wasn’t expecting much, as we’d had a few hard frosts in early winter. Yet scrounging under a tangle of dead grasses and twigs, I glimpsed a couple delicate green sprigs still holding out against the cold under their makeshift blanket of withered foliage. I yanked them out and returned to the kitchen. With this addition to the pot I was satisfied, and left the flame to work its magic with the stock mixture.

Pausing before heading of for a run, I sniffed my hands, checking to make sure they no longer reeked of roast chicken. Thankfully they didn’t. Instead my palms smelt sweetly of thyme. The scent washed across my brain—flooding it with sun-baked fields and calloused bare feet. I sighed, speculating on the wonderful variety of olfactory surprises in the life of a cook. One thing is for sure: you never smell of soap for long.