* * *

Even with all of Peyton’s description, nothing could have prepared Scott for the farm. When they pulled into the yard the dogs were set to barking and that brought a woman of around sixty to the porch. She was tall and slim like Peyton, wore jeans and laced boots, a gingham blouse over a tank top, and her long hair was pulled up into a clip. Her hair was dark like Peyton’s, with the slightest bit of gray threaded through it. Her face was rosy with health, and her smile was bright, her lips red. She was drying her hands on a towel, and she began waving at the car.

Scott parked and helped Will out of his seat while Peyton helped Jenny. Their feet had barely touched the ground when Mrs. Lacoumette was swinging her dish towel over her head, yelling, “Hurry, hurry, hurry! We have so much to do!” Then she crouched down to better receive the kids. “Well, now, you must be Will! And you would be Jenny! Are you hungry? Need the bathroom? We can have a snack, take care of business, then it’s time to collect the eggs. Do you know how to collect eggs?”

They just shook their heads in wonder, making Scott laugh.

She extended her hand. “Dr. Grant, we’re so pleased to have you join us.”

“Please, it’s Scott.”

“And I’m Corinne, Peyton’s mother. Come in, everyone.”

Parked between the house and barn was a very large semitrailer surrounded by trucks and cars. The sound of engines of all types could be heard, but they seemed to be far off. Then a pickup truck pulled up next to the trailer, and two men leaped out, grabbing bags of what he assumed to be pears and loading them in the trailer. He watched for a moment, and they were quickly done and off they went.

Scott was the last one inside. He found his children had been swept up in kitchen activity. He counted five women including Corinne, all busy with chores. One was white-haired and at least eighty years old, one was around Peyton’s age and embraced her, three were Corinne’s approximate age, all dark-haired, all working at meal preparations. Pots were steaming, vegetables were being peeled, sliced and diced, meat was searing, bread dough was rising.

Garlic and drying herbs hung from the shelf over a triple wide sink, scoured pans hung over the work island, and extra-large cooking spoons occupied big ceramic pots. The stove was commercial size—three ovens and six burners. There were several wooden knife caddies on the countertops. Jars of all shapes and sizes lined the counters and held ground spices, flour, sugar, grains, pastes and liquids he couldn’t possibly identify. Linens were folded and stacked on several open shelves, dishes and glassware were neatly stored in glass-front cupboards and there were drawers full of eating implements. This wasn’t a kitchen. It was a cooking and eating factory. The pots and pans in use on the stove were very large, large enough to imply an army would be eating here.

Corinne swung the kids up on to stools at the long breakfast bar. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out two already-prepared sandwiches, then she ladled a little soup into two soup cups. She poured milk, shook out napkins, brought out spoons—all done like a woman who knew how to feed eight children in just minutes. Then she smiled at him. “Can I get you something to eat, Dr. Grant?”

“He can always eat, Mama,” Peyton said. “He has an unbelievable appetite. Scott, this is grandmamma Josephina, Aunt Sophia, Aunt Maria, my cousin Maida. Maida only cooks for momentous occasions, like harvest and holidays.”

“Tell him, I’m very good,” Maida insisted with a smile.

“She’s very good,” Peyton agreed with a laugh.

“Do not eat that,” the woman introduced as Sophia said to the kids, pointing at the soup. She reached into the freezer and pulled out two chips of ice. “First, stir this around the bowl, test with your upper lip, this part here,” she said, pointing. “If you need, I’ll give you another ice. Not to burn your tongue. We have much eating to do today!”

Food was being scooped from all kinds of places on to a large plate. Vegetables, salad, meat, more meat, sauce, a bowl of soup, beans and creamy potatoes. It was placed before Scott, a napkin appeared—all the napkins were cloth—utensils came out. A basket, almost big enough to be a laundry basket, was full of bread in many different shapes. Corinne tore off a large chunk of a French loaf and put it on the edge of his plate. “Just a little sampling for you, Dr. Grant.”

“Are you ever going to call me Scott?” he asked.

“Perhaps on your next visit,” she said, but her smile was very mischievous.

“All right, Mrs. Lacoumette,” he said. He picked up his fork and tried some beans. He chewed. His eyes closed. He took a deep breath and said, “Ahhhh.”

All eyes turned to him. Corinne frowned. “It’s not good?”

“It’s amazing!” he said. “Amazing!”

There was a collective sigh and smiles all around. He suspected he’d passed the first test, but it wasn’t much of a challenge as everything he put in his mouth just sent him to heaven. The meat was tenderized with spices he didn’t recognize. The greens were unlike anything he’d ever tasted. He dipped into the soup and grunted, and once again, all the eyes turned to him. “Good,” he said, relaxing their sharp stares. “Very, very good.”

He hadn’t even noticed that Peyton had disappeared, but she was back, her clothing changed. She wore rough, worn jeans, work boots and a sweatshirt with cut-off sleeves. She helped herself to a small bowl of beans and a large chunk of bread and sat down beside him.

“When we’ve eaten, get the suitcases. Jenny’s sandals will have to be replaced with tennis shoes. Will’s good, but it might get chilly in the orchard. They’ll need their sweatshirts. Can you dig out your old jeans?”

He nodded, his mouth full. Was she putting him to work straightaway?

He took a forkful of a tender fish or something. “What is this?” he asked.

She leaned close and said, “Txipirones en su tinta. Calamari. Squid. Cooked with Mama’s tomatoes, onions and garlic.”

“So tender,” he said. “I’m used to calamari being chewy.”

“Pah! Not in this house!” Corinne said. “It is el punto. Cooked the right way, the Basque way.”

He was going to like her. He tasted the soup and murmured his approval. Delicious.

“Potato and chorizo with Mama’s tomatoes,” Peyton said. She pointed to his plate and identified lamb, tenderized beef, the pinto and kidney beans and greens. “There will be lamb stew later—you’ll faint it’s so good. And some things you can try if you like. Oxtail soup, beef tongue, tuna belly.” She grinned. “No obligation.”