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This is the sternest enemy she’s ever faced. Petra scowls. She refuses to be defeated. She can’t. She’s come this far, and yet. At every turn it seems she faces another blow, another failure. They’re mounting up, and she doesn’t know how long she can hold out.
She breathes, and stares down into the bowl.
A purple-red sludge stares back up at her defiantly. The berries she’s been able to obtain from the marketplace are too tart. And yet every time she adds sugar, it is too sweet.
They’ve been locked in this stalemate for an hour now; Petra adding sugar, then berries, then sugar, and making a face every time she tastes it. She sighs and puts her hands on her hips. At this rate, there will be enough jam for this winter and the next.
If, that is, this miserable bowl of goo would solidify enough to actually become jam. As it is, it’s runny and thin, and even if she gets it to taste right, it would still slop out of a jar and be unusable with a knife.
Suddenly, the combination of the steam from the pot and the smell of the berries cooking, even though it’s wrong, makes her stop and close her eyes with a sharp pang of sadness.
Grandmother would have the perfect solution here-- some herb or ingredient or technique that would save what Petra’s doing. But, as it is, she’s tempted to throw the whole thing away and beg the Professor to skip Petra’s turn providing dessert for the other students.
Still, that thought makes her sad too. It’s not like any of the other students know this, but this weekend is the Welcome Festival: when Brigid towns turn out their best and most flavorful dishes, and welcome visitors from other towns for the express purpose of eating, drinking, dancing, and learning more about each other. Inevitably, the regions borrow from each other and cook each other’s food in new and delicious ways.
Some stay home and perfect their cooking techniques; some travel and sample the creations of others. Petra has been both visitor and host, and she very much wants to do her home and family proud this time of year, even if the reason for it is known to her alone.
She stares down her enemy again, brandishing a wooden spoon and trying to bring a little humor to the situation, hoping it will ease the ache in her chest.
She’s startled out of her intensity by competing voices just outside the door. A lower, derisive tone is followed by a louder, more excited voice. Hubert and Caspar, by the sounds of it. Bickering again.
Petra smiles. Though far from home, it does bring her some comfort to have leaned the quirks and foibles of her fellow classmates. It’s the only familiarity she’s been able to gather around herself, and it is pleasant.
The door flings open.
“I’m telling you, Hubert, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried them together.”
“I don’t know why I’m even entertaining this, Caspar, other that to potentially educate you as to-- Oh. Hello, Petra.”
Hubert is always this strange combination of interested, stiff, and polite around her, Petra thinks. She looks to the bowl and to the two intruding on her battle; it’s too late to tidy it away. They’ve already seen her struggle.
“Ooooh, whatcha making, Petra?” Caspar cranes his neck around, trying to see inside the bowl, and she shields it with her body; its unfitness her shame.
“Clearly it is some sort of...berry, something?”
“Are you not enjoying sweet things, Hubert?” Petra picks up the spoon again, businesslike. They do not need to know of her struggles. She will simply pretend all is going to plan.
Hubert makes a little noise she can’t interpret . Petra wonders if he is as disdainful toward desserts as he is to his classmates.
“I’d eat that on a waffle.” Caspar has taken advantage of her conversation with Hubert to get a peek in. His finger hovers, briefly, before Hubert slaps it away.
“Wash. Your. Hands. No one wants sword oil and horse in their...Petra, what is this meant to be?” Hubert sounds legitimately interested, but Petra is unwilling to admit the soupy mass was intended to be jam. Thinking quickly, she pivots as new forces enter the field.
“Caspar is having the correct idea. It is a type of sauce.”
“Are you gonna put it on waffles?”
Petra thinks quickly and shakes her head. “ Three guesses. ” She actually has absolutely no idea what she’s going to do with this mess, but she’s got two people in front of her who are positively bursting with ideas. Maybe one of them will work .
“Waffle syrup! No, wait, if that was it you’d have already said…”
“A disguise for poison.”
Petra laughs. Hubert’s mouth twitches, and she realizes he’s actually made a joke.
“Berry and pickle sandwich!”
“Disgusting, Caspar, what is wrong with you? A sweetener for tea and coffee.”
“Boooooring.” Caspar mock-yawns dramatically. “Hubert, you’re such an old man. Poured over ice cream!”
Hubert sighs dramatically. “Juvenile. A sauce for meat.”
Caspar leans over the opposite side of the table, his eyes dancing at her.
“So, who’s right?”
Petra taps her chin thoughtfully. She’s already decided, but she wants to prolong the surprise.
“Help me to be placing it into these jars, and I will say.”
There’s a sort of camaraderie that settles over them as they try several different kitchen implements to get the sauce from bowl to jar. Finally they manage, and emerge sticky and victorious. Petra is actually looking forward to dessert tomorrow night.
Edelgard’s smooth voice rolls over the table in the dining hall. “What a delightful sweet, Petra. Is this a Brigid dish?”
It is a complete hit. The Professor has eaten three bowls, Ferdinand has declared that she simply must write down the recipe for his grandmother, Dorothea has paid her an effusive compliment, and Linhardt had stopped staring into space to declare it simply “tasty.” Even Bernadetta has squeaked a quiet compliment Petra’s way.
“More like...it is taking instruction from Brigid. And a little bit from Fodlan as well.” Petra smiles around her next spoonful. It is really quite good, and as it happens, the dish is very much in the spirit of the Welcome Festival after all. Berry-sweet and creamy-cold mingle on her tongue, and Petra feels the glow of a battle won.