The next day, Marron's apartment smelled like frying oil and experimentation.
She'd bought two dozen rootknots from the morning market—the ugly ones, the ones vendors sold cheap because they weren't pretty enough for display. Perfect for crisps, where appearance before cooking didn't matter.
Now her small kitchen was a laboratory. Rootknots sliced paper-thin on her cutting board, some with her regular knives, some—experimentally—with Edmund's grandmother's spoon used as a makeshift slicer. A pot of oil heating to precise temperatures on her stove. Small batches frying, cooling, being tasted and evaluated.
Mokko had wisely retreated to a corner with a book, occasionally offering opinions when Marron asked for input.
Batch 1: Sliced too thick, fried at 175°C. Result: Crispy outside but slightly underdone inside. Needed thinner slicing.
Batch 2: Thinner slices, same temperature. Result: Much better, but some burned while others were perfect. Temperature inconsistency issue.
