Everyone dying is the norm? I'm happy to still be alive? I'm lucky to still be alive?
Klein shuddered violently. He quickly strode over to the door, trying to catch up to the policemen and seek their protection. But the moment his hand touched the handle, his movements abruptly stopped.
"That police officer made things sound so terrifying. Why wouldn't they protect me, an important witness or key clue?" "Isn't this too careless?" "A test, or bait?"
Various thoughts fought in Klein's mind, making him suspect the police were still secretly "watching" him from the shadows, observing his reactions. With this thought, he calmed down considerably, no longer feeling so panicked. He slowly opened the door, purposely letting his voice tremble as he called out toward the stairwell: "You will protect me, right?"
*Thump, thump, thump.* The officers didn't respond. The rhythm of their leather shoes against the wooden stairs was completely unchanged.
"I knew it! You would!" Klein shouted again in a tone of feigned conviction, trying his best to act like a normal person encountering danger.
The footsteps gradually faded, disappearing at the bottom of the apartment building. Klein let out a soft snort, sneering inwardly: "This reaction is way too fake! Failing grade in acting!"
He didn't chase after them. Instead, he turned around and went back into his room, casually closing the door behind him.
Over the next few hours, Klein thoroughly displayed the vocabulary of the great nation of epicureans: restless, fidgety, agitated, unable to read with comprehension. He didn't slack off just because no one was around. This is what they call the actor's self-cultivation! he mocked himself internally.
It wasn't until the sun slanted westward and the clouds on the horizon began to "burn" that the apartment residents returned home one after another, allowing Klein to shift his focus elsewhere.
"Melissa should be getting out of school soon..." He cast his gaze towards the stove. In one motion, he lifted the kettle, scooped out the coal, and took out his revolver. Without pause or delay, he reached his hand to the back of the lower wooden plank of the bunk bed, where a dozen or so wooden slats crisscrossed for support.
After wedging the revolver between a slat and the board, Klein straightened up and waited anxiously, fearing the police would suddenly kick down the door, burst in with their guns drawn. If this were a normal steam-powered world, he would have made sure no one saw him do what he just did. But this world had supernatural powers, powers he had personally verified.
He waited for a few minutes. There was no sound from the door. The only noise was the voices of two tenants chatting as they walked past, heading out to the "Wild Heart" bar on Iron Cross Street, their conversation drawing near and then fading away. "Phew." Klein let out a breath, his heart settling back into his chest. He just had to wait for Melissa to come back and make lamb stew with fresh peas!
The moment this thought appeared, Klein's mouth practically overflowed with the aroma of the broth. It also reminded him of how Melissa made lamb stew with fresh peas. She would first boil water and blanch the meat chunks, then add onions, salt, a little pepper, and water, and just stew it directly. After a certain time, she would throw in the peas and potatoes and simmer for forty to fifty minutes.
"It's really such a simple, crude method... It relies purely on the deliciousness of the meat itself to carry the dish!" Klein couldn't help but shake his head. But there was no helping it. How could commoner families have access to various seasonings or complex cooking skills? They could only pursue simplicity, practicality, and economy. As long as the meat wasn't burnt or spoiled, it was considered good to someone who only ate it two or even once a week.
Klein wasn't exactly a culinary expert; he mostly ate out. But cooking three or four times a week, week after week, had given him a passable skill level. He felt he couldn't let that pound of lamb go to waste. "If I wait for Melissa to come back to cook, it'll be half past seven before it's done. She'll be starving by then... It's time she saw some *real* cooking!" Klein made an excuse for himself. He relit the fire, went to the shared bathroom to get water and wash the lamb, then took out his cutting board and knife, chopping the meat into small pieces with steady thuds.
As for how to explain his sudden culinary prowess, he decided to blame it on the late Welch McGovern. This classmate had not only hired a chef specializing in the cuisine of the Inter-Sea region but also often experimented with food on his own and invited people to taste it.
Hmph, dead men can't argue! But, hiss, this is a world with Beyonders. Dead people might not necessarily be unable to talk... Thinking this way, Klein felt a sudden pang of guilt.
He pushed the jumbled thoughts aside and placed the meat chunks into a soup bowl. Then he took out his seasoning box and sprinkled in a spoon and a half of coarse yellowish salt. He also carefully took some black peppercorns from a special small bottle, mixing them evenly with the lamb and salt to let it marinate briefly.
He set the stewpot on the stove. While waiting for it to heat up, Klein rummaged for the leftover carrots from yesterday and the onions he bought today, cutting them into several chunks.
After preparing, he took a small jar out of the cupboard. Inside was the last bit of lard. Klein scooped out a spoonful and put it into the pot. Once it melted and sizzled, he poured in the carrots and onion chunks, stir-frying them for a while.
The aroma began to spread. Klein poured in all the lamb and seared it carefully. In this process, he should have added some cooking wine, or at least replaced it with wine. But the Moretti household didn't have such luxuries. Benson could only afford a glass of beer once a week. Klein had to make do with what he had, pouring in some hot water and hoping for the best.
After stewing for about twenty minutes, he opened the lid, added the peas and the diced potatoes, along with another cup of hot water and two spoons of salt. He closed the lid, lowered the flame, and let out a satisfied sigh, waiting for his sister to return home.
Time ticked by, second by second. The fragrance in the room grew richer and richer—the allure of the meat, the mellow thickness of the potatoes, the 'freshness' of the onions.