Made from Scratch Read online

Made from Scratch

  Shawn McDaniel

  Copyright © 2011 Shawn McDaniel

  Published by Shawn McDaniel

  Made from Scratch

  Shawn McDaniel

  Percival knew that people considered him a cold bastard.

  If he spared it any thought, it was only to mark that fact with a faint pride. It was because he was a cold bastard that so many clients brought their grievances to Ratham, Crowe, and Mulligan. Cold bastards won cases and huge settlements. It was because he was a cold bastard that his family pretended to admire and respect him. Cold bastards amassed quite a bit of money for themselves, and the lazy magpies gathered, fluttering and flattering, hoping to win consideration, if not now, then in his will.

  Percival felt no love or loyalty for his family. His parents had done him the great favor of dying while he was young, but the rest of the family was not so considerate. He was constantly surrounded by brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins, and each with a sad story to share with him. Percival usually murmured some vague reassurance that left the poor beggar optimistic of future fortune.

  Lately, he had been considering gathering the family for a pre-death reading of the will. He rather thought the transformation of so much hope into despair and bitter anger would add another twenty years to his life. And maybe add a little character to the cawing fucks.

  As for friends, Percival--never Percy, though a few brave souls called him Purse behind his back--did not have any. Colleagues he had, and associates, and contacts, and resources, but no friends. Friendship would require a depth of emotion that Percival neither possessed, nor cared to possess. Encouraging friendship could blunt his killer instinct, something neither he nor his clients could afford. Encouraging friendship would also take away from his singular passion outside work, and he would not have that.

  Cold bastard he may be, but Percival did have a love in his life. He considered himself a gourmand, and had spent years refining his palate with the most expensive and exotic foods the world had to offer.

  Others of his station may have been satisfied merely eating other people’s creations, but it wouldn’t satisfy Percival to merely consume the food. Oh, no, while he may be fastidious, he wasn’t some spoiled, pretentious little snob who criticized the grand efforts of others. Percival attacked the art of cooking with the same intensity and energy that he had attacked the practice of law. Though his teachers and fellow culinary students never warmed to him, they all had a grudging admiration for Percival’s ability and creativity in the kitchen.

  His daring creations, all of them envelope-pushing and decadent, earned him the title Kitchen Devil. Each dish he created was a sinful temptation, and students and teachers alike gladly gave in, smiling and complimenting even as they tried to reverse engineer the dish in their minds. Percival, cold bastard that he was, never shared how he put the dishes together. He felt that if they were true students of food, they should be able to figure it out on their own, as he had.

  For a few shining moments, Percival was truly happy.

  That was almost a decade ago, though, and the glow was gone. Percival, master of law and cooking, no longer felt any thrill from either craft. He had long ago accepted that his career as a lawyer would become a tedious means to an end, but he had dared to hope that cooking would be different. And for a while, it had. But it was rote, now. He had tried every cuisine, every variation, teased out all the nuances. He was doomed to mere repetition. Unless.

  Blackbirds.

  Unless there was an avenue of cooking he hadn’t tried yet. Hadn’t considered at all, so rarified it was that only a few, unique souls even had the capacity to appreciate it.

  Twelve and twenty blackbirds.

  A species of game, perhaps, that due to difficulty of procurement or social taboo—Percival scoffed at the pedestrian sentimentality the concept of taboo represented—hadn’t been treated to butcher knife and sizzling pan, dark roux and miriqua, in decades or even centuries.

  Twelve and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.

  Percival sat in his office, staring out the window, not seeing the magnificent sunset that lit the city in riotous colors. He sat and contemplated the magpies in his life. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of magpies; fluttering and flattering, all hoping to get fat on his effort. Contemplated, and smiled. He instructed his secretary to set up a meeting for the next morning.

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