#it is said that soldiers found pots of boiling potatoes and carrots and onions

[onlybeeewrites]

A Soothing Touch

Request: If youre taking requests can you write something where the reader is having very bad period cramps all day especially when the reader and Finnick are trying to sleep at night so Finnick rubs her stomach and it feels really good and helps until she falls asleep

Pairing: Finnick Oskar x Fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: period cramps! That’s it, soft!Finnick <3

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You woke before the first call bell.

It was the familiar pain that greeted you—dull, insistent, and already pulsing through your lower abdomen like a warning siren. You lay still, hoping the cramps might pass if you didn’t move, but they only seemed to grow stronger the longer you waited.

With a soft groan, you pushed yourself upright. Every movement felt like dragging your body through quicksand. Your limbs were heavy, sore, and your stomach… gods, your stomach felt like it was being wrung out by invisible fists.

You winced as you bent over to pull on your grey jumpsuit, the fabric stiff and unkind against your already sensitive skin. Even the smallest things—like tugging the zipper up—made you want to cry out. But you didn’t. You never did.

The scent of the kitchens already lingered in the hallway as you stepped outside your compartment—boiled starch, onions, and vaguely metallic meat rations.

It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was familiar. You pressed a hand to your abdomen, steadying yourself. There was no stopping now. Not in District 13. Not with your shift starting soon.

And besides… they were just cramps. You could push through them. You always had.

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The kitchen was already alive when you arrived. The clatter of knives, the hiss of steam, orders being tossed across the room like hot potatoes. It was intense, claustrophobic even, but it was yours. A place where you could keep your hands moving and your mind quiet.

You’d always found some small comfort in kitchens—even back in District 4, when your hands were smaller and your burdens different. 

Cooking, baking, prepping meals for your family or neighbors had always been your way of giving love when you had nothing else. Something about feeding people made the world feel a little softer, a little safer.

But today? Today your body was screaming.

You were assigned to prep for the evening meal: root vegetables, stews thickened with lentils, and trays of hard, rationed bread. 

You peeled potatoes until your fingers felt raw. Chopped carrots until your vision blurred. Stirred massive vats of soup as steam coated your face.

Every few minutes, the pain in your stomach would seize you again—sharp and relentless. You’d pause, pressing a palm to your belly, trying to breathe through it.

“You alright?” Tessa, a tall, sharp-eyed girl from District 10, glanced over from the other end of the table.

“Fine,” you managed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just a bad day. I’ll live.”

She eyed you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t push. Just nodded once and returned to slicing onions.

You soldiered on. You always did.

By the time your shift ended, you were practically dragging your feet through the hallway. Every step sent a pulse of pain through your abdomen.

Your back ached from lifting trays and stirring pots, your legs wobbled beneath you, and your stomach was still twisting in knots.

Your hands trembled as you pressed the door panel to your quarters. The metal hissed open, and you stumbled inside.

Finnick was already there, lounging on the bed with his back against the wall, shirt discarded and pants hanging low on his hips. His sea-green eyes immediately lifted to you, softening as they landed on your face.

“You’re late,” he said gently, sitting up straighter. “Everything okay?”

“Long shift,” you replied, barely able to stand. “Just… feeling awful today.”

He was on his feet in seconds, meeting you halfway. “What kind of awful?” he asked, his tone dipping into that soft, protective place he only used with you.

You shook your head, wincing as another cramp rolled through you. “Period. Bad one. Started this morning and just kept getting worse.”

“Sweetheart…” His voice was nothing but tenderness now. He reached for your arm, guiding you toward the bed. “You should’ve come back earlier.”

“I couldn’t,” you murmured. “They needed help. Besides, they’re just cramps. I can handle it.”

Finnick frowned as you slowly changed into your loose cotton pajamas, trying to hide the way you had to bite your lip to stay quiet when you bent over.

“You don’t have to handle everything alone, you know,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed beside you. “If you weren’t feeling well, you could’ve left. They would have understand.”

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” you whispered. “It’s just… that’s how life works here. You push through.” You insist.

He took your hands, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “That might be how they do it. But when you come home to me, I’m not letting you push through alone.”

You finally met his gaze, your throat tightening with the weight of the day. The pain. The pressure. The exhaustion. “It’s just… really bad,” you whispered, curling your knees to your chest.

Finnick gently moved closer. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his hand hovering near your waist. “Might help. I’ll be gentle, promise.”

You nodded wordlessly.

He slid his hand across your stomach, fingers warm and patient, rubbing slow circles through the fabric. You let out a soft breath, your body slowly starting to unclench under his touch.

“Better?” he asked after a moment.

“A little,” you whispered. “You’re warm. That helps.”

“You should’ve stayed in bed this morning,” he murmured. “I would’ve brought you breakfast. Stolen something sweet from the ration cart. Whatever you needed.”

You laughed quietly, but it ended in a wince. “I didn’t think they’d get this bad. Usually I can handle them. Today was… different.”

Finnick scooted behind you, guiding you to lie down with him, his chest pressed against your back, his arm wrapped around your middle. His hand continued its gentle motion, never stopping.

“You’re not caving for being in pain,” he whispered against your shoulder, “besides it’s not your fault. I know they can get bad..”

You turned your head slightly. “I feel pathetic,”

“You’re anything but,” he said firmly, but amusement lacing his tone. “You’re on your period, my love. You worked all day while your body was waging war on you. That’s not pathetic. Give yourself some credit,”

You were silent for a beat, letting those words settle in your chest. His touch, his warmth, his voice—it all worked together like some kind of magic.

“You always know how to make me feel better,” you said softly.

“I’m glad,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “That’s kind of my job, isn’t it?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Your job?”

“Mmm. Official Finnick Odair role: Protector of You. Keeper of Comfy Pajamas. Slayer of Cramps.”

“Slayer of cramps, huh?” you echoed, smiling into the pillow.

“Well,” he teased, nuzzling the back of your neck, “I like to think I’m pretty heroic.”

“You kind of are,” you admitted sleepily. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

His fingers slowed, his touch becoming softer, almost like a lullaby. Your body, still sore and aching, finally began to let go of the tension it had clung to all day. His presence wrapped around you like a blanket, and for the first time in hours, you could breathe.

Finnick’s voice was the last thing you heard before sleep crept in.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Sleep. I’m right here.”

And you did. Wrapped in warmth and saltwater softness, the pain faded into the background. Not gone, but not winning either.

Because with him, everything was better.

Finnick was gentle and steady and completely yours.

[shabihrizvi]

Biryani

 History of Biryani in India

The Indian subcontinent has a history of foreign rulers, with each ruler introducing the country to various cultures and traditions as well as cuisines. The Turks, Afghans, Persians, and Arabs have left behind a rich culture of foods and feasts, while the Europeans have introduced the country to the popular vegetables such as potatoes and tomatoes. Even the tea we swear by had been growing wild in the northeast until the Britishers started its commercial production.  Traditionally made as mutton and chicken. Biryani is derived from the Persian word Birian, which means ‘fried before cooking’ and  Birinj, the Persian word for rice. While there are multiple theories about how biryani made its way to India, it is generally accepted that it originated in West Asia.One legend has it that the Turk-Mongol conqueror, Timur, brought the precursor to the biryani with him when he arrived at the frontiers of India in 1398. Believed to be the war campaign diet of Timur’s army, an earthen pot full of rice, spices and whatever meats were available would be buried in a hot pit, before being eventually dug up and served to the warriors.

Another legend has it that the dish was brought to the southern Malabar coast of India by Arab traders who were frequent visitors there. There are records of a rice dish known as Oon Soru in Tamil literature as early as the year 2 A.D. Oon Soru was said to be made of rice, ghee, meat, turmeric, coriander, pepper, and bay leaf, and was used to feed military warriors.

the most popular story traces the origins of the dish to Mumtaz Mahal, Shah Jahan’s beautiful queen.

Mumtaz once visited the army barracks and found the Mughal soldiers looking weak and undernourished. She asked the chef to prepare a special dish that combined meat and rice to provide balanced nutrition to the soldiers – and the result was biryani of course! At the time, rice was fried in ghee, without washing, to give it a nutty flavour and prevent it from clumping. Meat, aromatic spices, and saffron were added to it before cooking the mix over a wood fire.

The Nizams of Hyderabad and Nawabs of Lucknow were also famous for their appreciation of the subtle nuances of biryani. Their chefs were renowned the world over for their signature dishes. These rulers too were responsible for popularising their versions of the biryani . 

long grain brown rice was traditionally used to make biryani. It has today been replaced by the fragrant basmati rice. On the other hand, in the south,  biryanis were and are still made using local varieties of rice, like the zeera samba, kaima, jeerakashala and kala bhaat, that lend their distinct taste, texture and aroma to the dish.

there are two types of Biryani – the Kutchi (raw) biryani and the Pukki (cooked) biryani.

In Kutchi biryani, the meat is layered with raw rice in a handi (a thick bottomed pot) and cooked, while in Pukki biryani cooked meat and rice are layered in the handi,

There many varities of biryani;

1. Mughlai Biriyani :( with vegitable)

The Mughal Emperors were very fond of lavish dining experiences and looked upon cooking as an art.. This biryani definitely smells and tastes royal !

How to make Mughlai biryani.

prepping: 

1- Pick and rinse 1.5 cups (300 grams) basmati rice in running water till the water runs clear of starch. Soak the rice in enough water for 30 minutes.

2. After 30 minutes drain the rice and keep aside.

3. Soak 10 to 12 almonds and 1 tbsp melon seeds/magaz in ⅓ cup hot water for 30 minutes.

4. Later strain the almonds and melon seeds. Peel the almonds. Add both the almonds and melon seeds to a small grinder jar. Also, add 1 tbsp desiccated coconut.

5. Add 2 to 3 tbsp water and grind to a smooth paste. Keep aside.

6. When the rice and almonds, melon seeds are soaking prep the other ingredients.

Rinse, peel and chop all the veggies. I have used 3 cups mixed veggies (carrots, french beans, potatoes, mushrooms) including green peas. You can use your choice of mixed vegetables.

Slice 1 large onion thinly. (about 1 cup tightly packed thinly sliced onions). Crush 1 inch ginger and 7 to 8 medium garlic cloves to a paste in mortar-pestle. (gives about 1 tbsp ginger-garlic paste). Chop a few mint leaves. (about 2 tbsp chopped mint leaves).

Cooking rice for Mughlai biryani.

1. Now we need to cook the rice. For cooking rice, you can use any method –

microwave, pressure cooking or cooking in a pot. For cooking rice in a pot, take a deep bottomed pan. Add 5 cups water and bring the water to a boil on a high flame.

2. Add whole spices – 1 inch cinnamon, 1 medium tej patta (Indian bay leaf), 2 to 3 single strands of mace, 3 cloves and 3 green cardamoms.

3. Now add the rice.

4. Next add ½ tsp salt or add as required.

5. Keep the flame on high and cook the rice.

6. The rice has to be 75% or ¾ᵗʰ cooked. The grains should have a slight bite to them when cooked. The rice should not be fully cooked but almost cooked.

7. Next strain the rice in a colander. you can also rinse the rice gently with water so that the grains stop cooking. Keep aside. You can also check.

Preparing vegetable gravy for Mughlai biryani.

1. In a pressure cooker, heat 3 to 4 tbsp ghee. add 10 to 12 almonds.

2. Fry them till they get golden. Remove and keep aside in a plate.

3. Next add 15 to 16 raisins. Fry the raisins till they swell and become plump. remove and keep aside.

4. Then add 10 to 12 cashews and fry them till the cashews turn golden. remove and keep aside.

5. Now add the thinly sliced onions.

6. Begin to stir and sauté them on a low to medium flame. onions take time to cook, so add a pinch of salt to quicken the cooking process. sauté the onions till they turn golden and caramelize. Switch off the flame.

7.  keep the cooker down. Quickly remove ½ of the fried onions from the pressure cooker and keep aside.

8. Keep the cooker back again on the stovetop. Add whole spices – 1 medium sized tej patta (Indian bay leaf), 3 cloves, 1 inch cinnamon, 2 single strands of mace, 3 green cardamoms, 1 black cardamom, 8 to 9 black pepper and 1 tsp shah jeera. (keep all the spices ready in a plate, so that the onions do not burn. Add all the spices in one go. If you remove the jars, add one by one, the onions will get burnt by then. )

9. Next add 1 tbsp ginger-garlic paste. Stir and saute for a few seconds.

10. Add the mixed veggies and ½ tsp Kashmiri red chili powder.

11. Sauté for 2 to 3 minutes.

12. Add the ground white paste.

13. Add ½ cup of fresh curd (yogurt).

14. Add ⅔ cup of water.

15. Mix and stir very well.

16. Season with salt. Stir well and pressure cook the vegetable gravy for 8 to 9 minutes or 1 to 2 whistles.

17. When the pressure settles down on its own, check the gravy. if the gravy looks thin, then do simmer till it becomes slightly thick.

18. Add ½ tsp garam masala powder or biryani masala powder to the gravy. Mix well.

Assembling and layering Mughlai biryani

1. When the veggies are pressure cooking, soak ⅛ tsp saffron strands in 3 tbsp warm milk. Stir and keep aside.

2. Grease a heatproof oven-safe bowl with some ghee or butter.

3. Pour the first layer of half of the vegetable gravy.

4. Add some paneer cubes. Adding paneer is optional and you can skip this step.

5. Layer with the rice. Also sprinkle some of the saffron soaked milk on the rice.

6. Now add half of the fried nuts, fried onions and half of the chopped mint leaves evenly all over.

7. Layer with the remaining vegetable gravy. Also top with the paneer cubes.

8. Layer with half of the rice. Also sprinkle some of the saffron soaked milk on the rice. repeat the rice layer, fried nuts, fried onions, mint leaves and saffron milk. Also sprinkle evenly 2 tsp rose water or kewra water (optional).

9. seal tightly with an aluminum foil.

10.  dum cooking Mughlai biryani on a stovetop, then also you can cover with a foil or with a moist kitchen towel. Place the pan on a hot tava/griddle. On a low to medium flame dum cook the veg biryani for 30 to 35 minutes.

11. Serve veg Mughlai biryani with onion tomato raita or biryani gravy.

[leiascully]

Fic:  An heni a vez e grass ar merc’hed 4/?

Taking a leap here.  WWII AU, PG-13, wartime trauma and injuries, mentions of Nazis.  French puns.  Names changed to reflect the time and place.  The Syndicate are Nazi-adjacent but working for a different new world order. Title is from a Breton proverb, but I just used the part that means “he who has the grace of women”.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

He got up the next morning and hobbled to the kitchen, where Marguerite fed him porridge.  "We nearly always have a few guests," she told him, "and the villagers like to come for lunch.  There is always work to do."  

He had been dimly aware that there were others in the inn, aside from the Scullys, who seemed to live in a small house built onto the main building behind the kitchen.  Monique lived in the inn, as far as he could tell; he heard her sometimes in the middle of the night, settling arguments or quieting concerns.  They were all busy from dawn to dusk and beyond.  He had not lightened that load, with his many needs and his helplessness.  

"I will help as much as I can," he said, and she nodded approvingly.  Maelice brought him potatoes and carrots to peel.  He stretched out his leg under the table and made a game of it, trying to get the longest curls of peel.  Émilie had come into the kitchen and she watched him solemnly.  Her hair was braided around her head.  He wondered if Dana had done it, with the same hands that had cut into his leg, or whether Marguerite or Maelice or Monique had sat the child down and brushed her hair smooth.  He had done the same with Sanne, years ago, before she'd learned to do it herself.  He still remembered the twists and turns of it, his fingers clumsy at first and then nimble as his mother patted his shoulder stiffly and thanked him a rusty voice, drifting through the room on her way to somewhere else, leaving the scent of smoke behind her.

He was tenant in a house full of women who had little use for him; he was grateful that they let him do some work, as much as he was fit for anymore.  He had a sense that Émilie knew it too, how little value he brought with him.  But he had grown up caring for Sanne, and he knew a thing or two about entertaining children.  He carved a face into one of the potatoes and handed it to her.  She looked at him and giggled and scampered into the other room to play.  

Maelice, crushing garlic with a knife, smiled at him.  "She'll adore you now."

"I have a sister," he said, and wondered if he ought to use the past tense, and then hated himself for the thought.  "We had to entertain ourselves."

"You've done well," she said.  "We don't have much time to play these days.  It's nice for her to have something of her own."

They worked in comfortable silence.  Mulder diced the potatoes and sliced the carrots.  Maelice gathered them all and rinsed them while the garlic sizzled in the pot with onions and a bit of lard.  When she tipped the vegetables in, they sizzled and sent up steam that made tendrils of hair curl around her forehead.  She brushed them back.

"Now what?" he asked.

She smiled.  "Now we wait.  It's the most important part of cooking."

She poured out glasses of cider for each of them.  He tasted it tentatively.  It wasn't as strong or as sweet as the chouchen.  It fizzed on his tongue, the flavor of autumn orchards and wet leaves.  He swallowed it and Maelice smiled again.  

"The cider of Bretagne is famous," she said.  "Another thing we fear to lose if your compatriots gain control of our land."

"They're not my compatriots," he told her.  

"Your uniform said otherwise," Maelice said.  "Or else I imagine the price of impersonating a German officer is death?"

"I am an officer," he said, "but I'm not German, and I'm certainly not a Nazi."

"Oh?" Maelice said, the lift of her eyebrow offering an opportunity to explain, but just then Dana walked into the kitchen.

"And which one of you created Monsieur Patatez?" she asked.  "Émilie will coddle it until it's a shriveled husk,  I swear."

Maelice pointed at Mulder, who held up his hands in surrender.  

Dana crooked her eyebrow up in unknowing imitation of her sister.  "I should have suspected."  She sat down next to him.  "Newly healed and already creating chaos among us."

Maelice laughed.  "We won't be divided by any man," she said.  

"No," Dana agreed.  "We won't."  She looked at Mulder, who pushed the potato peels into a heap.  "It might be best if you keep to the kitchen for a while.  The old men yesterday were asking questions."

"They are true Bretons," Maelice murmured, something unidentifiable in her voice.

"Hush," Dana said, but it didn't sound as if she disagreed.  "I told them you were a cousin of Monique's, sent here to recover from your wounds, but they won't accept that forever.  Better if it looks like we're putting you to work."

"A cousin of mine?" Monique asked, coming in from the yard with a bucket of milk in each hand.  "Well, at least we've both got dark hair."  She set the buckets on the counter.  "That's the cow's," she said, touching the right hand bucket.  "And that's the goats'."  

Dana dusted her hands on her skirt and stood up, offering Mulder a hand.  "Come on.  I'll teach you how to make chèvre."  

He followed her to the stove, where she taught him how to pour the goat milk into the pot and heat it not quite to the boil, how to add lemon, how to chop and add the herbs.  The steam curled the wisps of her hair just like Maelice's.  He looked at her through the slightly sour clouds of vapor and something inside him softened.  Her lips curled up at the edges, just slightly, and he softened again.  There was a family here, and he was in some way a part of it, however they held him at arm's length.  He understood.  He deserved to be no closer.  He was grateful for any in they gave him.  He hefted the pot and helped her strain the cheese through cloth.  Together they were making something better, even if it was just cheese out of milk.  

 The hot curds cooled in their hammock of cheesecloth.  Dana twisted the cloth until the whey ran out.  She added salt, herbs, and a little garlic, and then rewrapped it and set it between two stone cutting boards with a heavy pan on top to squeeze out the rest of the whey.  

"There," she said.  "That will be lovely on toast later."

It was such a peace-time thing to say.  He could only look at her for a moment, her face flushed and lovely from the steam.  The curve of her smile turned wry.  

"Even I can't fight every moment, Capitaine Reynard," she said.  "Thank you for the potato.  Émilie likes it very much."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maelice smile and Monique shake her head fondly.  

"You're welcome," he said.

They had goat cheese on toast with the stew for dinner, all of them sitting together at one of the tables in the kitchen.  It was, indeed, delicious.  Émilie held tightly to Monsieur Patatez with one hand as she pushed cheese into her mouth with the other.

"Say thank you for the potato, Émilie," Dana said, that same wry tone in her voice.

"Trugarez," Émilie said through a mouthful of toast, and then hopped down and ran off on her own mysterious errands.  

"You'll learn Breton trying to talk to her," Monique said.  

"As you should," Maelice said.  "Breton is a beautiful language, full of mysticism."

"Breton is a beautiful language which no one will use in a few decades," Dana said.

"I have an optimist and a skeptic," Marguerite said fondly to Mulder, "and an adopted daughter somewhere between."  She patted Monique's hand.  Monique squeezed Marguerite's hand.

"And what language will you share with us?" Monique asked.  "Your native language is certainly not French."

Mulder shook his head.  "It certainly isn't.  I can teach you Dutch in return for Breton."

"Dutch?"  Monique's gaze sharpened.

Dana got up from the table.  "Unravel his mysteries later, Monique," she said.  "It's getting late."

"Oh, I will," Monique said, and winked.  Marguerite laughed.  Dana rolled her eyes. 

He slept peacefully that night, and rose early.  Cooking and cleaning were worthier employments than war, even such work on the outskirts of war as he had been doing.

He worked in the kitchen every day, stirring stews, mixing batter for galettes, chopping and peeling whatever needed to be chopped and peeled.  He paced around the kitchen, back and forth.  His leg still ached, but he could feel himself getting stronger.  Dana watched him walk and pronounced him firmly in recovery.

"I'm afraid you'll always need the cane," she said.  "But keep up the walking and you will get stronger."

"I will," he said.  

"It shouldn't matter if you're seen now," she told him.  "The villagers found it easy enough to accept that Monique would have a cousin come here.  They are skeptical of the city, you see."

"What did you mean when you said the men in the dining room were true Bretons?" he asked.  

"Surely you know about the Breton nationalists," Dana said.

He shrugged.  "However ironic it may seem, I'm not very well-informed when it comes to politics.  Monique said a little, and you mentioned something the other day, but I imagined they were collaborators.  That doesn't seem exactly right."

She sighed.  "There are those who support an independent Bretagne, free from French rule.  They are willing to go so far as to collaborate, even independently of Vichy if they must, because they believe that the Germans will aid them if they support the Reich.  You are correct to say that they are not exactly collaborators.  They have their own ends, beyond just saving their skins.  They imagine a Bretagne free of French influence, whatever that might look like.  They have taken the triskèle as their symbol, and they have let the Germans dictate to them."  

"But the Germans have attacked Bretagne, haven't they?" he asked.

Her gaze made it clear she thought he wasn't much of a soldier, and privately, he agreed.  "There was the bombardment of Rennes in 1940.  There have been others.  That might have changed minds.  However, the Allies have not done much to hold onto this place, either with military or philosophical might."

He nodded.  "And you?  You aren't Breton?"

She lifted one shoulder.  "We are Breton, certainly.  This very inn used to bear the triskèle.  We value our heritage.  But we are French.  Les Gaulois were not limited to this peninsula.  We may be closer here to our Celtic roots and the holy places of our ancestors than the Provençals or the Bourguignons, but we don't believe that the price the Breton nationalists are willing to pay will buy the future they dream of, or redeem the past they have imagined."

"I see," he said.

"My family is passionate about the military," she said.  "I grew up understanding the importance of loyalty.  We sing La Marseillaise, we celebrate le Jour de la Bastille."  She moved to the stove to stir the stew.  "Every region has its own history.  To imagine that we are the only exceptional ones does a disservice to the rest of our countrymen.  If my father and my brothers can't trust the men beside them because they're from Aquitaine or Pas-de-Calais, what's the use?"

He thought of his father and his father's colleagues, a strange and shadowy collection of men from different origins, with their strange and shadowy goals, united by something other than homeland or patriotism.

"I understand," he said.

"We are beset from all sides," she said, and oddly, smiled.  

"You're happy about this?" he asked.

"My father would say that when we stand in opposition to those who would overpower us, we discover who we are," she said.  "Our strength hasn't failed us yet."

"If all the French are as strong as you, I have no doubt you will free yourselves from the Reich," he said.

"Shall we turn you out?" she teased.  

"Mercy," he pretended to beg, as if the pang in his heart weren't real.  

"Maelice and my mother have soft hearts," she told him.  "And Émilie would scream if I told her I was sending away the artist of Monsieur Patatez."  

"So I'm safe for now," he said.

"For now," she agreed.  "As long as there are potatoes."

"I'll make sure your garden thrives," he promised.

"It will be a long summer," she said.  "Your talents might be better suited to other pursuits."

"If I can't kneel to weed the garden, perhaps I can muck out the stables," he offered.  "That still serves to ensure there will be potatoes."

"Ah yes," she said.  "Assuredly you know all there is to know about manure."

"Yes," he said solemnly.  "I've spent my life up to my knees in it."

She laughed, and the bright merriment of the sound startled him.  "We shall all be grateful for your expertise, Monsieur Capitaine," she said.

"I live to serve," he promised.