A Recipe Without Measures

The Stormwind soldier cut bread as though the city’s safety depended on it. The men from the next table peeled onions. One began talking about his farm. This time, no one interrupted him. Under the table, a chick chased a leaf of some herb. I pretended not to see it.

We thinned the stew, then thickened it again. Someone found oats. Someone brought cheese. A gnome explained at length how to improve the distribution of heat, then, at my request, simply held the pot steady. His contribution was essential. I told him so.

Twelve guests finally sat so close together that no one could lift a tankard without making eye contact first. Rain battered the windows. The woman with the basket counted her chicks. I had stopped counting guests.

The man with the hammer put down his bowl. ‘My mother used to cook like this,’ he said. His voice had changed. I didn’t know whether he meant the soup or the way everyone had brought something to it. I didn’t ask. Some words should be left on the table like a gift.

After midnight, Mira wrote the recipe on the back of her ruined map: One pot. Whatever you have. Someone to open the door. The innkeeper nailed it beside the stove. Underneath, he added in his own hand: Still no fire spells. For the first time, a kitchen without magic seemed entirely sufficient.