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Just then, Grand-mère came inside, wiping her hands on her apron, fresh from feeding the chickens.
‘Jacques,’ she said, ‘I wondered how long it would be before you came around.’
He consulted a freckle on his wrist, ‘Ah, about a second after Papi told me Elodie was here.’
They all grinned.
‘It was the same with this one, I had to stop her from coming to wake you up at the crack of dawn this morning.’
‘Really?’ he asked; he looked utterly delighted.
Elodie nodded.
Marguerite couldn’t help touching her heart at them.
‘You know,’ Jacques said, ‘Elodie was just telling me about what the English eat – after I told her about our plan to go truffle hunting again – you know they have soldiers for breakfast?’
Elodie snorted as she put the tart into the oven to bake.
Marguerite’s eyes had gone huge. ‘They’re cannibals?’
Elodie laughed. ‘No, Grand-mère. Toast soldiers. They cut their toast into strips, called soldiers, and they dip these into soft-boiled eggs.’
‘Eh, but the English are obsessed with war, no?’ she observed.
‘I mean, no more than the French, I think, from what I could tell. It’s actually very nice, I’ll make it for you,’ said Elodie.
‘All right,’ said Grand-mère, who was always up for a culinary adventure.
‘What else do they make?’ asked Jacques, taking a seat at the table. Huginn, however, knew this was a step too far for him, and flew out the window at Grand-mère’s raised brow – she was not about to have a crow at her dinner table.
‘There’s toad-in-the-hole,’ she said, using the English words, which she translated for Jacques’ benefit.
They both blanched and she had to laugh.
‘A whole toad?’ breathed Jacques.
‘But why do they call us frogs, then?’ asked Grand-mère.
‘Toad in the hole,’ corrected Elodie, laughing. ‘It’s not an actual whole toad.’
Grand-mère started laughing. ‘Oh, well, that’s a relief. Though you know they call us “Frogs” because we eat frogs’ legs.’
Elodie pulled a face. So did Jacques.
‘Children. Pah, you’ve both been spoilt – they’re really nice.’
‘You pull off frogs’ legs?’ asked Jacques, horrified.
‘Not lately, too old to catch them, I’m afraid,’ and they all giggled again.
‘So what is it the English make, if it’s not actual toads?’ asked Marguerite.
‘It’s sausages cooked in a pudding with gravy.’
‘Sounds disgusting.’
‘No, I liked it.’
