Finding the barrel he was looking for only took a few minutes. Getting it out of the stack was another matter entirely. It was buried under several years worth of brewing projects. Forty-five minutes later he had the barrel of peppers free and several dozen other barrels and demijohns sorted into several groups. The "Finished" stack was the largest, followed by the "Still Aging" stack, the "I-don't-know-what-it-is" stack, and finally the "Oh-my-god-I-think-it's-evolving" stack. He would definitely have to wander back up here soon to finish sorting it all out. And possibly come armed, judging by the looks of some of the murkier mystery containers. He loaded up the peppers and two other barrels, and locked up. No point in leaving that much alcohol lying around unattended. Or possibly unleashing some fermented creature loose on the unsuspecting countryside. There was a lull in the rain, so the trip back down the hill was both uneventful and drier. But only slightly.
* * *
Daphne smiled at her drenched, muddy husband. "I was beginning to think we needed to send out a rescue party." "No, no, dear, I'm fine. I was just going through what's still up there. You'd be amazed. I brought down a few other things I thought we might enjoy," he said, while standing in the entryway dripping.
"Like what?"
"Oh, I don't know . . . I found that pear mead we made a few years back. And some mulling spices. I figured some hot spiced mead might help you warm up after you finished drying off."
Daphne looked at her husband quizzically "Drying off? You're the only one who's soaked."
"Not for long!" He lunged at her. She squealed and tried to jump out of his reach, to no avail. He caught her up in a bear hug. Shaking his head like a dog drying off, he sent water and mud flying everywhere. In a matter of moments, she was nearly as wet as he was.
"Brat!" She swatted him as she broke free. "Look at this." She spread her arms to display her now dampened clothing. "I just washed all of this, and you got mud everywhere. What am I supposed to do now?"
"I don't know." He grinned "Take a hot shower?"
"Oh . . ." She paused for a moment. There was nobody else in the house for a change. "Race you!" And with that, she ran down the hall, stripping as she went. Ikey followed on her heels, shedding clothes almost as fast as she was.
* * *
Several hours later, they lay in front of the fireplace in their bedroom, sipping hot mead from mugs. Outside the wind howled and drove the rain against the windows.
"I have enough distilled vinegar to make a gallon or two. After that I'll have to hit one of the stores in town. Last time I was there I think I saw some stuff that should be pretty close. I'm not sure how concentrated it will be though."
"Well, honey," He rolled on his side to face her. "I guess we'll just have to play it by ear. We just have to get it in large batches and mix it to taste. I don't think people will care if it ain't exact. Close enough will work. And we will have to start aging more peppers if you plan on making more than a few gallons."
"That's a good thing. I have tons of them growing. I was expecting to sell a lot more of them, but I just couldn't get that many people here to eat them. We could probably get several bushels of them by the end of summer, and still have enough for seeds for next year. I could also make a batch with the habaneros and ornamental peppers."
"What? Why? I thought that chemical weapons had been banned from production."
Daphne calmly transferred her mug from one hand to the other and then proceeded to slap the back of his head. "Wuss. I'm sure we can find people who'd want it."
"Aside from the Inquisition, you mean?"
She didn't even bother to dignify that comment. "You know how it is. I like venison and pork as much as anybody, but the spices here leave a lot to be desired. And when some of these people get their hands on them, well, you remember the dinner party at the Metzgers' place?"
Ikey shuddered. How could he forget? One of their first business dinners outside of Grantville had been at the house of an affluent brewer in Badenburg. Just about everything served that night had been liberally doused in ground black pepper or nutmeg. Even the wine had pepper in it. They found out later that it was a way of displaying how wealthy the Metzgers were. Black pepper was expensive. So was nutmeg. Both of them had to be imported from Asia. Having lots of both to put in everything meant that you had cash to burn. It also meant one of the worst meals either of the Pridmores had ever been to.
"Okay, granted. We'll see if anybody wants it. I'll see if I can dig up some little bottles and labels. I think there are some glass blowers who set up around here recently. They might be interested in a small contract." He sipped some mead from his mug. "And one of the brewers will probably have the corks. Maybe I'll go ask Herr Metzger.
"Don't you want to wait and see how it tastes?"
"Nah, I gave up trying to second guess you and Evie about business stuff years ago. I got sick of eating my words again and again. Besides, I smelled the mash when I was opening it up to check on it. It was good enough to make me drool."
"How could you tell? You drool all over yourself all of the time . . . ." Daphne quickly rolled out of the way of a playful swat aimed at some of her more well-padded regions. The first one missed. The second one didn't. Things went down hill from there, resulting in several more hours of playful recreation.
* * *
A month and a half later the first batch was finished. The Germans sat around the breakfast table and watched in fascinated horror as Ikey and Daphne splashed the fiery red concoction all over their scrambled eggs.
"Ohhh . . ." Ikey moaned. "God, I missed that."
"Mmmm." Daphne rolled her eyes. "Even if we don't sell a single bottle, it was worth it."
"I don't think I want to sell any of this stuff. I don't want to run out again. And this took years to age."
"We have gallons of it, Honey. We won't run out anytime soon. We also don't have to age it that long. The only reason we did this time was because we forgot about it. We can start picking more peppers today. It's not fair to keep this all to ourselves. Let's rack some of it into the bottles and put it on the shelves down at the market."
"All right. But only because I already have the bottles and labels. If we run out though, you are getting a major I-told-you-so."
* * *
The local market agreed to carry the sauce. Since the Pridmores already had a contract for supplying honey and mead, it was no trouble to add another item to their display area. The debate as to whether or not it would sell was put to rest by the end of the first day. All fifty bottles were gone in just over an hour. People were calling the farm to find out when more would be ready. The next morning Ikey brought the rest of the bottles in and he barely made it through the front door of the store. The biggest buyer was one of the managers from the Thuringen Gardens. He bought forty bottles. And had he not brought two of his larger bouncers with him, it would have been unlikely that he could have gotten out of the store with all of them. Another big buyer was a woman in TacRail coveralls who was accompanied by a trio of men who made the bouncers look like friendly puppies. She said it was a surprise for a friend of theirs. They bought almost twenty bottles, and left the store with significantly fewer dirty looks than the Gardens' manager.
When Ikey went to settle accounts with Jim Garrett, the grocery store manager, he was surprised. His percentage worked out to nearly twice what he had expected. When he asked about it, Jim merely shrugged his shoulders and said "I upped the price after yesterday. You said it would take you a few months to make another batch. After the comments I heard at the Gardens last night, I knew people would be willing to pay more for it." He grinned at Ikey. "It also didn't hurt when I mentioned that it would be awhile before you could make more to my wife. Rather loudly. In the restaurant."
"You doubled the price?!" Ikey blurted, aghast.
"Nah. But I did give you a bit more of a cut than we normally do. All of those extra people in the store waiting for you to get here bought a ton more stuff today. It was the bigge
st Wednesday sales we've had in a long time. Just keep me in mind the next time a batch is ready. If you can give me a few days of lead time, we'll have them lined up around the store by opening time in the morning."
"It's that hot of an item?"
"How many things do we have that remind us of home like that? Sure it's good stuff. But in case you didn't notice, nearly all of the people that bought it today were like you and me. Up-timers. Or they were getting it for up-timer friends. It reminds us of what we left behind. Where we came from. Something that nobody else on this continent would even think of making. It is something that is uniquely ours. By the time your next batch is ready, you'll have plenty of German customers, I'm sure. Especially now that they have it at the Gardens. But for now, it's for us."
"I knew Daphne and I missed it. I just didn't think of it that way. I figured we might get a few of the diehard fire eaters and chili fanatics. And maybe a few others." Ikey paused. "I guess it's just a taste of home."
Federico and Ginger
by Iver P. Cooper
Federico Ballarino stopped his mule and studied the guards at the roadblock. They were too well uniformed to be brigands, but it wasn't unheard of for a local lord to decide to boost his income by imposing a toll. Or even robbing travelers outright. Indeed, it was out of concern of being robbed that he was dressed rather below his rank.
Uh, oh. He was definitely being watched. One of the guardsman waved him to come forward. He reconciled himself to the inevitable and urged his mount into a trot. Hopefully this wouldn't be too expensive. He prudently had his main purse well concealed.
"An' who might ye be, an' wha' be the reason for ye takin' the road to Grantville this fine day," said one of the soldiers.
It was an accent that Federico had heard before, but he had not expected to hear it in Thuringia.
"You're a Scot!"
"Indeed I am, o' one o' his Swedish Majesty's Scots Regiments, on detail t' the SoTF. But what is more t' the point is, who are ye?"
"I am Federico Ballarino."
"From?"
"I was born in Venice. But I have traveled widely in England, France and Germany."
"A papist, no doubt," the Scotsman grumbled. "And wha' is your business?"
"I am here at the invitation of Axel Oxenstierna, his Majesty's chancellor."
The Scotsman looked Federico over, and was not impressed. "And I am the Queen of Sheba."
Federico frowned. "I realize that I am not dressed like a gentleman. The Germanies are not, as well you know, a good place for a traveler to look wealthy. But I have credentials. If you will permit me—" He reached slowly into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope.
The trooper took it reluctantly, opened it, and shook his head. "I don't read Latin. What does it say?"
"I have been invited to be the dancing instructor for the Princess Kristina. I was advised that she is presently residing in Grantville."
"Hmmph. It looks like the chancellor's seal, but . . . no one has told us to expect ye. . . ." He called over another guard.
"Wha' think ye o' this?" He handed over the document.
"I dinna' know," said his companion. "Seems t' me that the princess is a wee bit too young to have a dancin' teacher."
Federico drew himself up stiffly. "I am sure you are very familiar with the customs of the Swedish court," he said drily, "but I beg to differ. She is quite old enough, from what I hear, to start lessons."
The two guards looked at each other. "I know," chortled one, "we'll let him prove himself!" They called over their fellows. "Hey, now, we are about to have ourselves a royal performance."
They turned to Federico. "What will ye do, to show us thy mettle?"
He stared at them. "Would a Scottish sword dance suit you?" Now that took them by surprise. He could see that they were wondering, What have we got ourselves into? Which, Federico thought, was no better than they deserved.
But they realized that they were committed. "Aye, that'll do."
"Then lay down the crossed swords." Federico leaped onto the first quadrant, capered in place, and then moved onto the next. He traversed all four squares without looking down, and without disturbing either blade. Then he jumped away, into a final pose. "Satisfied?" he asked.
They nodded vigorously. "Sorry, sir, we meant no harm. An' who'd have thought a Venetian papist would know one of the great Scottish dances? Would some wine and food help make us even?" Federico was agreeable. Just as well they don't know that the Scots got that dance from the French, he mused.
After they finished carousing, the trooper who had given him the most difficulty offered to escort him not only into town, but directly to the princess' lodging.
"That would be very kind of you," said Federico. "But give me a few moments to change into more gentlemanly dress, so I don't give pause to anyone else we meet."
* * *
Federico surveyed Princess Kristina. The princess was not what he expected of a girl who was destined to be, upon the death of Gustav II Adolf, the Queen of the Swedes, Goths and Vandals, Great Princess of Finland, Duchess of Esthonia and Carelia, Lady of Ingria, Empress of the United States of Europe, and Captain General of the State of Thuringia-Franconia. Her hair was untidy, with a piece of ribbon slipped into it, looking like red flotsam on a storm-tossed sea. Her blouse and skirt were simple, and marred with scholarly ink stains. Her shoes had low heels, like those of a man.
Somewhat uneasily, he realized that he was under equally close scrutiny. He decided it best to begin the lesson. "Principessa. I am privileged to have the opportunity to instruct you. May I ask what instruction you have received already?"
"My governess has taught me a few steps. But Lady Ulrike is not an enthusiastic dancer; she just does the minimum required for social acceptability." Lady Ulrike, at that moment, was sitting in the corner, knitting, and pretending to ignore the conversation.
Perhaps feeling that she had been too critical, Kristina added, "But she is a wonderful rider and an excellent riding instructor. I ride a few hours each day, and I owe much to her tutelage."
Federico pondered this intelligence. It was vital that he make a good first impression on the princess. He doubted that he would do so by spending an hour having her practice her reverences, or a stately pavane. And it appeared likely, given her equestrian activity, that she was in robust condition. Her skirt would not restrict her leg movements much, and she probably chose it for that very reason.
"Perhaps we can spend a little time on the cinque passe first, Your Highness. It was a great favorite of the young Queen Elizabeth of England. And, for that matter, of the old Queen Elizabeth. It is the basic step of the galliard, or as the Italians say, the gagliarda.
"Let us begin in the posture gauche, like so. Yes, the left foot in front, but weight evenly divided. We begin with a pied en l'air droit." He had leaped onto his left foot, extending his right leg low and forward. "Now we reverse." She copied him. "We repeat this pair of movements.
"Now the difficult part, the cadenza. We will make a little jump, so both feet are in the air, and bring the left foot behind, landing in the opposite pose, with right in front. Like so." He demonstrated what he meant.
"A few points. First, the timing. The music is in six counts, but there are only five steps. They are syncopated; one two three four, and five. Also, note how I complete the cadence. I land on the foot behind an instant before I bring down the one in front. If you land on both feet simultaneously, it looks as if you are a sack of grain that has been dumped on the ground. That is not considered courtly.
"So, now it is your turn."
* * *
He returned the next day. It was evident, as soon as he saw her, that she was anxious to tell him something. "Have you seen the American ballet?" she asked. "Bad, Bad Brillo? Or The Nutcracker?"
"No, Principessa, I have not. Where do they hold these ballets?"
"Different places. At the high school. Or at one of the castles. But I can show you Bad, Bad Brillo.
I have it on video." She turned to Lady Ulrike. "Please, may I show Signor Ballarino my video?"
Lady Ulrike sighed. He wondered at her reluctance, but she obviously knew where her duty lay. "Yes, of course. But I will expect you to be prepared to discuss the dancing, not just watch it for pleasure this time. This is a lesson, you know."
The governess took a black object out of a locked cabinet. It was the size of a sextodecimo, a book made of sheets folded in half four times, then cut. Lady Ulrike inserted it into the flapped slot of a strange, cubelike metal and glass device, and pressed a button.
Much to Federico's amazement, the words "Bad, Bad Brillo" filled a small area of the device then, "Performed by the Grantville Ballet Company." The letters faded away and were replaced by images that moved in a dance that told the story of the ram Brillo and his four ewes.
Federico quickly put aside his curiosity regarding the technology, and concentrated on the dancing.
When it was over, he said slowly, "Thank you very much for sharing that with me, Principessa."
"You liked it? I knew you would," she bubbled.
"This is the ballet of the twentieth century?" She nodded. "It is both like, and unlike, the ballet of our own day." He took a moment to decide how best to express his reactions.