The upper crust (feast)
Tis the year of our Lord 1540 and my name is Kit. I’m twelve years old and have been working in the kitchen since I was eight. I’ve always been a spit boy, although since the new spit was fitted my life is much easier. Now I just turn the one handle and all four spits move and at different speeds. Tis a marvel to watch. Course I still have to turn the handle at the same speed for about eight hours. Sometimes it’s less but today there will be a haunch of venison and that takes a long time to cook through. Today isn’t the day for venison but when the king asks for it he gets it, so I’m kicked out of my space near the fire real early.
It’s March and I’m up just as dawn breaks. I don’t get to break the fast, not today; instead I’m pulled from the warm hearth and made to fill buckets of water. Outside the air is cold, and the yard smells fresh, the usual stink of the river less than normal. Although the warm weather will bring the smells I can’t wait for it, the cobbles are too cold on my bare feet. I get back and am then put to sweeping the floors, we are normally busy but today we seem even more than usual. Soon the smell of cooking bread fills the kitchen as the ovens are filled and sealed with clay. They are slightly late and I have to sweep the hot coals away from underfoot after they are pulled out of the oven. I can’t wait for the seal to be broken, already my stomach is growling. As I work I try to keep out-of-the-way. The bread dough that was rising last night is now being kneaded and knocked into shape. Then the bakers put it to one side to rise and work at the new dough. Soon the whole area smells of yeast and dough and I realise just how hungry I am. It reminds me of home, that yeasty smell, mam stood in our one room house kneading the day’s bread, but I haven’t been home in a year now. I’m the middle child of ten and I had to leave as there just wasn’t room in our small cottage and we needed the money. I send back what money I earn but I’m not sure if I’ll ever see mam and home again, if I left I might lose my position. But I am a man now and I willingly accept my responsibilities, there are lots who are not as well off as me.
The cook is yelling my name. I hate not being there when he starts shouting, he will probably clip me one for not being there before I was needed. Sometimes I wonder at the world and just what I’ve got to do to make a good impression. I weave in and out of the people trying to get across the great kitchen as fast as I can. Once when I was small and new here I remember that I knocked some bread to the floor. It had been fresh out of the oven and the dust and grit had immediately stuck to its surface. The whole tray had been ruined and we, the servants, had to eat it, there was nothing else. I had been beaten real bad that day and could barely move the next. I shake myself as I reach the spit trying to get rid of the memories, it’s always better to start the turning thinking of good things than bad. My master just nods in my direction as I turn the spit, he is far too busy to come over and give me a clip. I thank my fortune and settle into a crouch turning the handle steadily. For the moment I am glad of the warmth coming from the fire but soon I know it will be stifling and too hot, but for the moment I smile and enjoy it.
As I turn I let my mind wander. I’ve never been upstairs but I have heard that it is filled with gold and tapestries. That there are pictures in fabric hung on the walls and those fabrics that are plain are heavy velvet. I’ve never even touched velvet but I’m told it is as soft as a kitten’s nose. The room that the king eats in is supposed to be huge.
Someone brings me out of my musings as chicken and lamb are added to the spit. Everyone seems to be moving ever so fast but really it is just me sitting so still. Soon the sweat is falling from me and my thin shirt is soaking wet. One of the kitchen girls kindly hands me a drink of small beer and I quench my thirst. I know I ought to sip it and make it last but I can’t help myself and swallow it whole in a few quick gulps. It will make me sleepy but I do it anyway, I’m just so thirsty. When I first came to the kitchen I would fall asleep only to be woken with a kick and a yell. Now I fight the tiredness by remembering home and visiting in my mind. Mam is always smiling and the kids are always happy and well-fed. I know it’s a dream because they are all there but still I let myself stay, I can wish and hope. I only rise when the pots are put close to the fire; one filled with salted pork and the other a lentil broth. This is our food and just seeing the pots make me feel my hunger, it burns under my ribs. It seems that I’m always hungry, but although I’m skinny at last my bones are covered. In the streets I see kids barely a couple of years old, their ribs standing out like a washboard.
At last the cook comes over and adds the fish to the spit, it means that they will serve in under an hour. I heave a sigh and calmly turn the handle. My arms ache and my back has started to protest and just as the pain gets to the point I can no longer stand it the fish is taken. Next the seals are cracked on the bread oven and suddenly the most delicious smell fills the room. The breads that are prepared to go upstairs are the white and brown, not the rough stuff that we eat but crusty and soft rolls. The bottoms are cut off and left, they are burnt and soot covered, the king only takes the top – the upper crust. Then the next richest get the next bread and so on and so on until you are low in the order. Me? Well I’m at the very bottom and will get the worst, that is until I move up in the kitchen, maybe into bread-making or pastries. I can hope.
Once all the meat is removed I stretch to try to stop my arms and back aching. The table is cleared and laid for supper. As I take my seat I am passed a sooty covered lower crust and I am so hungry it takes all my restraint to not try a piece now. Finally the order is said and we can start. I take a few handfuls from the centre of the bread and eat them fast and then the trencher is filled with broth. On the top is placed a small chunk of salted pork and I begin to eat. I know that the food is nothing compared to that which has gone upstairs but still for me it tastes like a feast. I eat it all, even the soot encrusted bottom, which is soft by the time I get to it and filled with gravy. I know I will never get to eat an upper crust but as I swallow a sooty mouthful and take a swig of small beer I am thankful that I am blessed to work in the king’s kitchen.
Kate Murray - Cleaver 