Page 294 of Coach
Patrick grinned. Dane folded his arms over naughty Santa’s very happy candy cane.
Mrs. H returned a moment later.
And the room fell silent.
On a massive serving platter sat what could only be described as a jellied loaf. It was some color of mottled gray, possibly gunmetal or smeared snot, quivering slightly and dotted with . . . raisins? No—currants, maybe? Slices of hard-boiled egg were layered inside like geological strata.
“This,” Mrs. H declared proudly, “is a meat terrine, my great aunt’s recipe. If we were in Scotland right now—”
“We’d be headed to a pub!” Matty squawked.
Mrs. H slapped his shoulder.
Noone else moved.
Omar blinked. “Is it . . . meant to be that color? Or that, um, lack of color?”
“Aye!” Mrs. H beamed. “Proper dish for keeping a brood alive through a long winter.”
Sisi leaned toward Jeremiah, stage-whispering, “Translation: no one’s eaten this since the plague.”
Jeremiah failed to stifle a laugh.
Mrs. H’s raptor’s gaze snapped to him. “You, new boy. I don’t care how hot ya are or how big your tits may be, you eat my cookin’ or I’ll make more. Got it?”
Jeremiah looked like a Catholic school kid, head bowed before a ruthless nun whose ruler twitched in her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. H cackled. “Hear that, boys? He called me ma’am. Right gentlemanly of the lad. Ya’ll should learn from that one, tits and all.”
Shane remained stoic—but I felt his thigh press against mine under the table, a subtle squeeze, our silent communication.
That’s when I remembered we’d brought backup food, thank God.
Mike broke the silence. “So, um, what’s this beautiful dish called?”
Mrs. H straightened. “Fitchy-meat.”
Omar let out a strangled noise. “You’re joking.”
“Not a bit,” she said proudly. “It’s an old dish withlayers of seasoned meats in aspic.”
Shane leaned in and whispered, “Is it an old recipe, or is that actual dish old?”
I had to cover my mouth.
Dane called from the kids’ table, “Can confirm—the meat’s still moving.”
“I think it just flicked me the bird,” Matty added.
“It’s flopping more than Dane in his fireman outfit.” Sisi beamed.
Laughter erupted.
Jeremiah mouthed, “Help me,” his eyes wide.
And with that, Mrs. H raised her spoon like a battle cry. “Dig in, loves. No one leaves hungry.”
“This isn’t . . . terrible,” I heard Dane mutter to Patrick. “Once you get past the wiggly gel around the meat, the actual stuff inside is kind of good.”
