Havune is in the kitchen again.
Havune has no great choice in the matter. Thery and Yarwain are making good use of that bedroom -- trying to be quiet, though Havune is muttering that the whole apartment reeks of Rassimel affection.
But Havune has a good nature, and Havune has just received a box of spices and condiments from home, and, as we have just noted, Havune is in the kitchen and will be for another hour or two, depending on Yarwain's stamina and speed of grooming.
So Havune is cooking. Havune is a gentle sort of Cani cook, which is to say, he is only making:
1. A soup of boiled baby eels in a sauce of fermented
serpents and chili peppers.
2. A plate of lozen-sized pancakes, as thin as wing-skin, of
hosh grain and lentil flour and garlic and more garlic.
3. Raisins stir-fried with powdered tea and powdered
scorpions and powdered cassowary and powdered
4. Porridge of oats and clams and butter.
5. Salad of slivered leeks and greens, sort of like a
leekish tarrissy, except with shredded hot peppers and
mustard-seed and shredded stag-radish and celery seed and
shredded something long and frondy and blue-green that I
don't know what it is.
6. A grilled parrot. A plain grilled parrot. A
plain, unadorned, unspiced, unsalted, untormented grilled
parrot. I cowered in fear!
The plan was, originally, that Dustweed and Havune and I would devour this food noisily before Thery and Yarwain got out. Dustweed can only eat 2 and 5 just because of meat, though, and the salad was rather ferociously spiced. I sampled everything. 1, 4, and 6 were worthy of taking a second bite of. Dustweed made herself a new bowl of porridge, with almonds instead of clams. I ate the parrot's left wing and much of the entrails. Havune finished everything else.