Witches Abroad

need to bring religion into it,” sniffed Granny.
    Nanny Ogg looked slyly from Granny to Magrat.
    “We could call it Vir—” she began.
    A gust of wind caught all three sticks and whirled them up. There was a brief panic as the witches brought them under control.
    “Load of nonsense,” muttered Granny.
    “Well, it passes the time,” said Nanny Ogg.
    Granny looked morosely at the greenery below.
    “You’d never get people to do it,” she said. “Load of nonsense.”
Dear Jason en famile ,
Overleaf on the other side please find enclosed a sketch of somewhere some king died and was buried, search me why. It’s in some village wear we stopped last night. We had some stuff it was chewy you’ll never guess it was snails, and not bad and Esme had three helpins before she found out and then had a Row with the cook and Magrat was sick all night just at the thought of it and had the dire rear. Thinking of you your loving MUM. PS the privies here are DESGUSTING, they have them INDORES, so much for HIGEINE .
Several days passed.
    In a quiet little inn in a tiny country Granny Weatherwax sat and regarded the food with deep suspicion. The owner hovered with the frantic expression of one who knows, even before he starts, that he’s not going to come out of this ahead of the game.
    “Good simple home cooking,” said Granny. “That’s all I require. You know me. I’m not the demanding sort. No one could say I’m the demanding sort. I just want simple food. Not all grease and stuff. It comes to something when you complain about something in your lettuce and it turns out to be what you ordered.”
    Nanny Ogg tucked her napkin into the top of her dress and said nothing.
    “Like that place last night,” said Granny. “You’d think you’d be all right with sandwiches, wouldn’t you? I mean…sandwiches? Simplest food there is in the whole world. You’d think even foreigners couldn’t get sandwiches wrong. Hah!”
    “They didn’t call them sandwiches, Granny,” said Magrat, her eyes dwelling on the owner’s frying pan. “They called them…I think they called them smorgy’s board.”
    “They was nice,” said Nanny Ogg. “I’m very partial to a pickled herring.”
    “But they must think we’re daft, not noticing they’d left off the top slice,” said Granny triumphantly. “Well, I told them a thing or two! Another time they’ll think twice before trying to swindle people out of a slice of bread that’s theirs by rights!”
    “I expect they will,” said Magrat darkly.
    “And I don’t hold with all this giving things funny names so people don’t know what they’re eating,” said Granny, determined to explore the drawbacks of international cookery to the full. “I like stuff that tells you plain what it is, like…well…Bubble and Squeak, or…or…”
    “Spotted Dick,” said Nanny absently. She was watching the progress of the pancakes with some anticipation.
    “That’s right. Decent honest food. I mean, take that stuff we had for lunch. I’m not saying it wasn’t nice,” said Granny graciously. “In a foreign sort of way, of course. But they called it Cwuissses dee Grenolly, and who knows what that means?”
    “Frogs’ legs,” translated Nanny, without thinking.
    The silence was filled with Granny Weatherwax taking a deep breath and a pale green color creeping across Magrat’s face. Nanny Ogg now thought quicker than she had done for a very long time.
    “Not actual frogs’ legs,” she said hurriedly. “It’s like Toad-in-the-Hole is really only sausage and batter puddin’. It’s just a joke name.”
    “It doesn’t sound very funny to me,” said Granny. She turned to glare at the pancakes.
    “At least they can’t muck up a decent pancake,” she said. “What’d they call them here?”
    “Crap suzette, I think,” said Nanny.
    Granny forbore to comment. But she watched with grim satisfaction as the owner finished the dish and gave her a hopeful smile.
    “Oh, now he expects us to eat them,” she said. “He only goes and sets fire to them, and then he still expects us to eat them!”

    It might later have been possible to chart the progress of the witches across the continent by some sort of demographic survey. Long afterward, in some quiet, onion-hung kitchens, in sleepy villages nestling among hot hills, you might have found cooks who wouldn’t twitch and try to hide behind the door when a stranger came into the kitchen.
Dear Jason ,
It is defnity more warmer