I put down the bread, folded my hands, and waited for Mrs. Penn to probe my personal convictions about being a vegetarian, but she didn’t. She just said, “First, we’ll need to find out what the boys like, then how to best cook those choices. Variety is good, and so we should rotate their dinners. Don’t you agree?
“You don’t mind my stepping in for a while, do you?” she added. “I love to cook, and doing so for just myself is absolutely no fun at all. Cooking for someone who appreciates good food like these boys do — and that man of yours,” she said with a wink and a big smile, “why that’s the spice of life.”
I ignored her comment about the officer. I think Mrs. Penn was a complete romantic. I supposed since she was widowed and no longer had that kind of expectation for herself, she gained joy by trying to matchmake for others. I’d seen that in the village where some of the elderly women enjoyed trying to push young couples together, as if teens couldn’t figure out such heart and roses stuff on their own.
But as to the other — I’d never known anyone quite like Mrs. Penn. She was goodness incarnate. She wanted to help me out with the cooking? That was great news. I’d felt like I was drowning in all that needed to be done. Thinking about it, I got choked up trying to respond to her kindness.
Tears threatened and my throat closed off from the emotion of it. I guess I had that tendency whenever someone treated me kindly — formerly a situation so rare that I’d had no problem with watery eyes back in the village where I grew up, but since I’d arrived in Tinkle Town, I’d succumbed to tears far too often.
“I don’t eat meat,” I blurted out suddenly worried that she’d hold that against me. “You’re aware of that, right?”
Mrs. Penn nodded and continued to smile at me, like I was one of her favorite people. “But the boys will be getting meat,” she said. “They need it for healthy growing.”
I had no idea if such a thing was true, but I wasn’t one to make choices for other people. Let the boys eat dead animals as long as they wanted, but I wasn’t about to. White witches lost their power taking the lives of animals, unless it was in self-defense, and even then, there were procedures that we must do to compensate for such a loss.
I hadn’t known that essential fact until I’d moved in with Old Mother. She taught me the ways of witches, recognizing that essence in me when I hadn’t even recognized the truth of my heritage. In fact, I’d at first resisted her designation. Only when I found that she was right, that I could control certain things like fire, water, and plant growth, had I finally accepted that I was indeed a witch.
But that hadn’t changed my eating habits. When I was young, I’d discovered that my attempts to swallow meat had made me ill. I’d grown up with a preference for cheese, eggs, and plant products, abstaining from what the families usually ate. At least as long as I could remember. And, of course, none of the families had cared what I ate. I doubt they’d even noticed.