The kitchen was hers now—not just in name, but in heartbeat.
Noura stood in the center of the old Hawthorne kitchen, inhaling the mixture of smoke, morning dew, and faint whiffs of lemongrass still clinging to the hearthstones. A chorus of birds outside welcomed the new day, but Elderwood remained weary. The blight had passed, yet its hunger lingered. The villagers were still pale, thinner than they ought to be, and some walked with a sluggishness that came not from age, but from malnutrition. They needed more than a meal; they needed renewal.
She opened her grandmother's cookbook and turned to a blank page. With a small piece of charcoal, she scribbled:
"Begin with warmth. Feed with memory. Heal with spice."
Then she closed the book gently, setting it beside the divine satchel, which buzzed faintly, as if eager to begin. Today, she would not just cook. Today, she would restore.
The pantry was small but blessedly full—thanks to the generosity of the villagers. Elsa had brought more of the purple-skinned tubers. Lira had traded herbs with a nearby settlement and returned with two bundles of fragrant leaves. Garrick had given her a sack of dried mushrooms and some oddly shaped eggs that shimmered faintly under firelight. Even Alder, grumbling all the way, had contributed a jar of fermented root paste he swore his mother once used for strength.
Noura sorted everything carefully. She needed to make food that didn't just taste good. It needed to revitalize, energize, awaken. Her mind drifted back to meals from her childhood—not the rushed ones at work, but the ones from rainy days when her mother prepared sayur lodeh, perkedel, and nasi uduk with teh jahe. Comfort food. The kind that settled in your bones.
Sayur lodeh first, she thought.
She would use the creamy milk from the korma-palm, a local fruit with flesh that, when blended and strained, became rich and fragrant. Into it she would add sliced tubers, long green beans, chopped mushrooms, and leafy greens that smelled like mustard and mint. A few spoonfuls of the fermented root paste would add depth, while a smashed stalk of lemongrass and handful of sour berries would provide brightness.
She placed the ingredients into the divine pan. At her thought, the pan heated evenly, a soft blue light flickering beneath it. As the ingredients simmered, the kitchen filled with a scent that made her eyes sting. Not from smoke, but from memory.
Nasi uduk was next. She rinsed the cracked barley until the water ran clear, then soaked it in a broth of lemongrass, forest lime peel, and sweetgrass—a native herb whose aroma was strikingly similar to pandan. She let the divine pot do its work, whispering her intention to the vessel: make this grain fluffy, soft, and full of joy.
While it steamed, she prepared the perkedel. She roasted the tubers until their flesh turned golden, mashed them with softened forest peas, minced wild onion, and a pinch of nut-pepper. She shaped them into patties and slid them into the divine wok, which responded instantly with a controlled sizzle.
The crust turned perfectly golden. The smell—a mix of savory root and aromatic spice—drew attention.
By the time she plated the first meal, the door creaked open.
Elsa entered, eyes wide. "Miss Noura? That smell… is it ready?"
Noura smiled and handed her a bowl. "Tell me what you think."
Moments later, Elsa was sitting at the rough-hewn table, her feet swinging beneath her chair.
"It tastes like... like hugs," she said with a grin.
The word hit Noura right in the heart.
Soon after, Garrick arrived. Then Lira. Bram followed, pretending he just happened to be nearby. Even Alder Hawthorne stepped in, ducking slightly through the doorway.
"You feeding the whole village again?" he asked.
"If they're hungry," Noura replied.
One by one, she served them. Bowls of lodeh, plates of fragrant barley, and golden perkedel stacked high. Cups of tea brewed with ginger-like roots and forest mint completed the meal.
They ate. And something changed.
Lira's tired shoulders straightened. Garrick's laugh came easier. Bram, normally gruff, asked for seconds. Even Alder, spoon halfway to his mouth, paused and muttered, "Damn. This… this is real food."
Word spread.
By midafternoon, villagers began to trickle in. Not just for food, but to help. Maren, a quiet young woman from the edge of the village, offered to wash dishes. Rowan brought extra firewood. Children arrived carrying herbs, roots, and whatever they could forage. It became a dance: Noura at the center, the kitchen alive with movement, purpose, joy.
Some brought new ingredients Noura had never seen before—a soft red root that smelled of cinnamon, a cluster of golden berries with sweet juice that fizzed on the tongue, and a dried seed that released a savory aroma when crushed. She experimented as she went, blending familiar methods with unfamiliar materials. From the new ingredients, she created sambal-like relishes and a broth that revitalized even the oldest elders.
That evening, as dusk painted the sky with lavender and gold, Noura stepped outside to breathe. Her apron was stained. Her arms ached. But her spirit felt light.
Lira joined her with two cups of tea. "You're doing more than feeding people, you know."
"Am I?"
"You're giving us pieces of ourselves back."
Noura looked at the sky. "It doesn't feel like magic."
"That's because it's real."
Later, she took inventory of the ingredients they had left. It wasn't much, but enough for the next day. The villagers had started calling the kitchen "Noura's Hearth," and someone had even painted a sign using crushed berries for ink.
That night, Noura opened her grandmother's cookbook. A new page had appeared, shimmering faintly:
"Food that remembers, heals. Flavor that lingers, speaks. Cook with your hands, serve with your soul."
Beneath it was a new recipe: "Curry of Returning Strength" with ingredients native to this world, and a note:
"When memory and magic meet, nourishment becomes sacred."
Noura traced the words, heart full.
She spent the next few hours preparing spice pastes for the curry, drying leaves for tea, and organizing the new foraged goods. The divine tools cooperated without needing prompting. The mortar ground spice with rhythmic precision, the knives responded with delicate pressure for mincing herbs. It was like dancing with a partner who never missed a step.
She paused to write in the cookbook:
"Today I fed more than stomachs. I saw shoulders lift. Eyes brighten. Old men rise with energy. This is what food can do."
Tomorrow, she would cook again.
Not just to feed.
But to restore, to honor, to connect.
Because in this world of twin suns and strange fruits, food was more than survival.
It was home.
It was healing.
It was hope.
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