SMW C15 A Feast of Astonishment

The aromas wafting from the kitchen had been tantalizing, but nothing could have prepared them for what arrived at their table.

A procession of mess boys entered the Great Hall, their faces flushed with excitement as they carried wooden trenchers and ceramic bowls. Fritz followed behind them, personally bearing the most elaborate dishes on silver platters—one of the few remaining luxuries the castle possessed.

"Careful with that one, lad," Fritz murmured to a young servant carrying a steaming bowl. "The young lord worked especially hard on these preparations."

As each dish was placed before the assembled nobles and retainers, the hall filled with an almost reverent silence. The mess boys stepped back respectfully, their eyes darting between the food and their betters' faces, eager to witness the reactions.

For a long moment, no one spoke. They simply stared.

Aldric gripped the table's edge, studying the dishes with scholarly intensity. Is this still the same grayish, dirt-covered root I know as cursed pig fodder?

The potato stew sat steaming in its iron pot, rich brown broth glistening with tender chunks floating alongside herbs and onions. The smell was deep and comforting—like the heartiest winter feast, but somehow more substantial.

Ermelinde's gaze fixed on a white mound dotted with cheese curds and herbs. The mashed potatoes formed an elegant dome, their buttery surface scattered with green herbs that seemed to glow with warmth.

Blessed saints, she thought, inhaling despite herself. It smells like fresh bread and warm milk, with hints of our finest cheese. How could something from cursed earth produce such heavenly aromas?

In this world, like Alexander's previous world during its medieval era, people believed that bad smells brought sickness while pleasant aromas indicated God's blessing. This contradiction left her genuinely bewildered.

Father Hensfried appeared most shaken, staring slack-jawed at golden-brown strips on a wooden trencher. The fried potato strips glistened with rendered fat, their crispy surfaces seasoned with salt and herbs.

By all that is holy, the priest thought frantically, these cannot be the same devil's apples I have condemned! The smell is like freshly baked bread, like roasted meat, like everything wholesome in God's creation!

The aroma was intoxicating—savory and rich, reminding him of feast days and blessed meals shared in fellowship. His theological worldview trembled as violently as his hands.

The fourth dish—whole potatoes boiled with wild herbs—sat modestly in a ceramic bowl, their golden skins clinging to sprigs of thyme, rosemary, and garlic. The smell was that of a perfect garden after spring rain combined with hearth-warmth.

Alexander's clear voice cut through the tension. "Now, everyone, let me introduce the dishes we have prepared from the so-called 'pig fodder.'" He settled into his chair with unmistakable authority despite his six years.

He gestured toward the golden strips with a master chef's confidence. "This dish is called 'potato fries.'"

"Potato fries?" Aldric repeated slowly, his amber eyes fixed on the crispy strips.

"Yes, Father," Alexander smiled. "I named this 'potato fries' because I have given the cursed root a proper name—I call it 'potato.' When prepared correctly, these potatoes transform into something quite wonderful."

He picked up one golden strip. "We slice the potato into strips, then cook them in clean rendered fat until they achieve this color and texture. The result is far removed from the gray, unappetizing root you remember."

Ermelinde leaned forward. "My son, are you certain these are safe? The transformation seems impossible."

"More than safe, Mother—they are delicious and nourishing," Alexander replied confidently. "But don't take my word for it. The proof is in the tasting."

Father Hensfried gripped his crucifix, staring at the aromatic dishes. Every instinct screamed deception, yet the blessed aromas and appetizing appearances contradicted his understanding of cursed food.

Perhaps, a small voice whispered, perhaps I have been wrong about these roots all along...

Father Hensfried was not alone in his doubt. Reinhard, the veteran knight, felt his own convictions wavering as he stared at the transformed dishes.

As a retired warrior who had served God and king with unwavering faith, Reinhard had always believed deeply in the Church's teachings. The cursed roots—these "potatoes" as Alexander called them—had been branded as devil's food for as long as he could remember.

A bitter memory surfaced from his campaigning days. During a particularly brutal winter march, when supplies had run dangerously low and his company wandered lost in enemy territory, one of his closest friends had suggested foraging for the evil roots they'd spotted growing wild near a frozen stream.

"We're starving, Reinhard," his friend had pleaded, clutching the dirt-covered tubers. "Surely God would forgive us if it means survival?"

Reinhard had struck him across the jaw without hesitation. "I'd rather die with my soul intact than live as a cursed wretch," he'd snarled, forcing his friend to throw the roots away.

Now, looking at the elegant dishes before him—the same roots transformed into something that resembled a lord's feast—he began to feel the crushing weight of doubt. What if I was wrong all along? What if I condemned my friend to hunger for nothing?

The silence stretched until Ermelinde's gentle voice broke through their collective uncertainty.

"Well, I trust my son," she declared with maternal conviction. "As it is written in the Holy Scriptures: 'And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good.'" Her eyes met each person at the table meaningfully. "If these roots grow from God's own earth, then perhaps we have been too quick to judge His creation."

With that, she reached for the mashed potatoes, her silver hair catching the morning light as she lifted a generous spoonful to her lips.

Every eye in the Great Hall fixed upon her as she tasted Alexander's creation. The moment the creamy mixture touched her tongue, her face transformed. Her eyes widened in genuine shock, and for a heartbeat, everyone feared the worst.

Aldric tensed, half-rising from his seat. Has she been poisoned? Is this some delayed curse manifesting?

But then Ermelinde took another spoonful. And another.

"This is extremely delicious!" she exclaimed after her third taste, her voice filled with wonder. "It's like... like eating a cloud made of the finest cream and cheese, but with substance that satisfies the soul. The texture is smoother than silk, yet hearty as fresh bread!"

Her words struck the assembled group like a physical blow. Stomachs rumbled audibly throughout the hall as hunger warred with lingering superstition.

Aldric could resist no longer. He reached for the mashed potatoes with the determination of a man accepting his fate. As the creamy mixture filled his mouth, his weathered features softened with amazement.

One by one, the others followed—Father Hensfried with trembling hands, Reinhard with grim resolve, and the retainers with barely contained eagerness. Each face registered the same progression: fear, surprise, then pure delight.

Alexander smiled serenely as he sampled his own creations, his young face radiating quiet satisfaction at their reactions.

Then Father Hensfried reached for a golden potato fry with the reverence one might reserve for sacred relics.

The moment his teeth bit through the crispy exterior to the fluffy interior, his eyes went wide as dinner plates. Without a word, he grabbed another fry. Then another. Soon he was devouring them with an almost manic intensity, his proper clerical composure abandoned entirely.

Sweet merciful Lord, he thought frantically as he chewed, this cannot be the devil's work! The exterior is crisp as the finest pastry, crackling between my teeth, while the inside melts like butter infused with the essence of hearth and home. There's a richness here that speaks not of corruption, but of abundance—God's own abundance! The salt brings out flavors I never knew existed, and each bite fills me with warmth and satisfaction that reaches my very bones.

Still chewing, he reached for the potato stew with shaking hands. The first spoonful nearly undid him completely. The rich broth carried flavors that seemed to encompass every comfort he'd ever known—his mother's cooking, harvest celebrations, the simple joy of breaking bread with fellow believers. The potato chunks were tender and substantial, absorbing the savory essence while maintaining their own gentle, nourishing character.

How could I have been so blind? he wondered, tears threatening to spill. How could something that brings such obvious blessing, such clear nourishment, be anything but a gift from the Almighty Himself?

Around the table, similar scenes of culinary revelation played out as each person discovered that everything they'd believed about the cursed roots had been utterly, completely wrong.