SCA

Warning: Spoiler alert! There are articles here that have yet to be published elsewhere. All content copyrights belong to “True Thomas the Storyteller” (Robert Seutter) and/or the SCA. If you would like to re-publish these articles in your SCA newsletters, magazines, etc. please feel free to contact THL Thomas Whitehart (True) and he’ll be glad to help you.

• ABC-SCA, The SCA Alphabet Primer
• A Shield Wall of One!
• Bad-Bard, Bad-Bard, Whatcha' Gonna Do?
• Born in the SCA
• Crag's Lyst, (April Foolish!)
• The Medieval Diner
• Sunny Valhalla SCA Retirement Home
• Secret Stratagems
• Siege Towers 101
• The Boke of the Dyseases le SCadyian
• The Fyne Art of Combat Brewing
• True’s Glossary of…EVIL!, Version 3.0!
• Happy Hanu-Kwana-Solsti-rismas!
• The Fyne art of Feast Warfare
• SCA Heraldic Zodiac Bling
• Welcome to the New Middle Aged-ness
• The Fyne Art of Picking a Nemesis
• A Visit From Sir Sven A Claus

• Class Handouts

The Medieval Diner

By: THL Thomas Whitehart

Once again I was on the battlefield. Once again, I was standing behind a thicket of pole-arms and big burly people, waiting for a chance to get a shot off. In bridge battles, combat archers are often left to wait patiently as the various immovable objects (aka Drafn Shield wall) meet irresistible forces, like the Horsemen in “Freight-train” mode.

Like everyone else back behind the mosh pit, we bored fighters normally occupy ourselves with eating cucumber sandwiches, and debating philosophy over tea. But perhaps unbeknownst to some of my fellow fighter- debaters, I am cursed with what can be politely termed as a serious fault. Siege weapons love me. I am target de-jour for CRAC (aka the Caidan Royal Artillery Corps.) I believe Master Quinn and the lads actually have a “Kill Thomas” calibration setting on Widow-maker.

It has been verified by multiple eyewitnesses that ballista bolts will actually bend in flight to come get me. Aten Siege crews actually curse a bit. “Dang it, we hit True. Again.” And so it was at the last Potrero. There I was in the back, relaxing and pondering. And then there was a flash of yellow, an impact, and I was subsequently flying thru the air in slo-motion. And as I flew I was still pondering this very question- “I wonder if Iron Chef Competitions were the same back in the Middle Ages?” (Engaging the “whacked on the noggin” plot device…Now!)

Upon landing, I found myself far from the battlefield, crossbow still in hand. I seem to have landed in exactly the right place in the Middle Ages to answer my questions. I saw before me a vision, to wit: a castle kitchen that was under a long siege by weapons suspiciously matching Master Quinn’s. I looked about and saw someone who looked very much like someone I know (Mistress Moon). She was in her usual mode of tasting, chopping, spicing, and directing traffic all at the same time. ““DING! Order Up!” Rat Tar-tar, Rat onna Stick, with side of curried Sparrow!” I sallied forth to get answers to my questions. “Good day M’Lady! How goes the siege?” “Pretty well,” she answered. “I’ve got a lovely pudding of rotted leeks and sheeps innards going.” “Mmm, smells…um. Scottish. “ I said. “ I was wondering if I might ask a question or two?” She paused to check on what I thought might be a boiling boot. “Sure!”

“In the current SCA”, I began, “ we have these cooking competitions called Iron Chef, where we give folks a variety of period ingredients, and they have to make something tasty out of it.” She smiled and added some thyme to the boot-soup. “Well, what sort of ingredients? What conditions? Under siege, on the march, in battle? Sure anyone can make a comfit of glazed flamingo tongues, or some such. But how many have a good recipe for rats? For my money- a good rat cassoule, now that’s the sign of a good chef!” “Uhm, “ I stammered, “that’s a good question. I don’t know.”

She sighed and wiped her hands in her apron. “Well, I’ve won a few competitions myself.” She pointed to a small trophy. “I got that one while using a deep fat fryer on the back of a war chariot.” She indicated another. “This one was for Lobster Catapult Flambé- it was the sauce, really.”. She said it modestly, but I could tell she was proud. I noticed that her trophies were displayed with great many shields featuring colorful heraldry with stags, wyverns, and sloths rampant. “I see that your trophies are there next to all the nobles shields- they must be very proud of you!” She looked at me oddly. “M’lord, that’s a feast menu!” She then hustled off, so I followed her as she went into the almost empty stock room. She popped the lid on a barrel labeled “Fresh Kraken- Serve mit Sauer Kraut” and several large tentacles slurped out. She used the lid as a buckler and a pair of tongs as deftly as any Rapier Don. I ducked. “Excuse me? Did you say “Menu?” “Of course , silly archer. We’re under siege, but in good times, I can make very nice banquet with good sized Griffin and a side of Manticore.” I watched as she popped the lid back and she eyed a rather scraggly “Questing Beast” chained in the corner with a calculating look.

“But my lady- the beauty, the majesty of a hippogriff in flight, the innocent joy of a dancing vorpal bunny?!” She turned to face me, with a look of concern.. “It’s an ‘eat or be eaten ‘ world out there! Have you tried Hippogriff shish kabob, with blackberry sauce?” “Uhm… no.” “Dragontail soup with dumplings?” “Sorry.” “Amphisbanae pie? “Alas..nope.” She snorted and grabbed the remaining bag of molded rye and headed back into the kitchen. “Sounds like you’ve really missed out.” She climbed up on a box, and continued, as she poured the rye in with the boot. “My dear grandmother could cook the best mammoth stew you ever tasted, in a Roman helmet, while marching uphill in a blizzard!” She sighed and reached for the ladle and continued “But it’s so hard to find good mammoth these days.”

Just then, there was a large “CRUNCH” and part of the kitchen wall gave in. She yelled “ROCK!” and ducked, but not before adding a touch of oregano to the broth. It would seem my curse operates in both worlds for as the wall fell, an incoming cow hit me square on.

A brief ballistic bovine induced fog later, I awoke back on the field at Potrero, with my friends helping me up. I looked out at all the battle shields and heraldry across the way. I wondered if the folks across the field realized that they were actually advertising the equivalent of a now defunct medieval diner. Now I knew why all the mythic heraldic animals were mything. It had been Col. Mustard. In the Kitchen. With a spoon.

In any case, this made me hungry, and I could smell good things wafting up from merchants row. Unbidden, a single thought came to my mind….”Mmmm…Grilled Unicorn…..with mushrooms and onions”. - Bon appetite!