as she let go of the hot ladle and stuck her burned fingers in her mouth.

A tear crept down her cheek as she finally grabbed the iron swing rod using a piece toweling to protect her hand. She pulled it toward her, bringing the stewpot away from the hearthfire.

"You'd think having done it once, I wouldn't forget to cover my hand," she muttered to the empty room and blew on her afflicted fingers.

She wiped her eyes on a corner of the mammoth swathe of muslin that now covered her nearly head to toe. Not only did the apron not fit, but she had no idea at all what she was going to do when the giant man found out she knew how to cook only one thing... stew.

She tentatively sniffed at the pot, trying to decide whether she was brave enough to take a taste of the burbling mixture that threatened to overflow the sides.

Taking a deep breath, she dipped a piece of bread into the gravy and looked at it closely. It seemed all right, but that's what she'd thought when she ate that chicken Mam had cooked. She'd been sick for days afterward.

Screwing up her eyes, she carefully bit off the tiniest corner of the gravy soaked bread possible and still call it a morsel.

"Well," she congratulated herself, "that's not bad at all!" She took another larger bite and savoured the taste. "In fact, it's good enough for royalty, I'll venture!"

Her spirits much uplifted, she pulled a stack of trenchers from the cupboard shelves and placed a generous portion of stew in each. Placing four of them on a gigantic tray, she kicked open the kitchen door and backed through it into the common room.

"Get it while it's hot," she called out. "And who wants more ale?"