At the noon hour, Hanna dished up soup she had prepared the day before and put out a plate of biscuit. She called to Papa in the shop, but he was busy painting and said he would eat later. So she and Bess sat down in the kitchen.

Bess looked into her bowl.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s this?” She scooped something into her spoon and held it up.

“That’s a dried mushroom,” Hanna said. “To be honest, it doesn’t taste like much. You pour hot water over them, and it makes really good stock, when you don’t have meat. I put the mushrooms into the soup, but by then they’ve given up almost all their flavor.”

She flicked a glance at Bess’s face.

Hanna had grown up watching folks try Mama’s Chinese cooking. She had learned that you could often tell something about a person by their reaction to unfamiliar foods. Some folks were curious and interested, eager to sample the unknown. Opposite them were those who flatly refused even the tiniest taste. Hanna often wondered about that. As babies and little children, everyone had to eat foods that they had never tried before, or else they’d have starved to death. When did they decide to stop trying things? And why?

Then there were the folks in the middle—who were hesitant to try but didn’t want to be impolite. Hanna could tell from Bess’s expression that she was one of that middle group, but leaning toward being interested.

Bess took a small bite of the mushroom. “You’re right—it doesn’t have much taste,” she said, and Hanna heard the relief in her voice.

Bess ate another spoonful of the soup. “Was that turnip or potato? It tasted like both.”

“Oh! That’s prairie turnip. The Indians call it . . . timpsina. I think that’s right. It’s a Sioux word.” A pause, as Hanna remembered something. “Here’s a funny thing. My papa knew what it was because of your pa. He told me it was Mr. Harris who showed him prairie turnip, years ago in Kansas.”

Bess shook her head. “We never had it at home,” she said. “It’s an Indian thing?”

“Well, it’s a plant. I don’t think plants know if they’re Indian or not,” Hanna said, with a smile. “But I got them from some Sioux women.”

Bess was quiet for a moment, staring into her spoon at a cube of the turnip. “My ma is—she doesn’t care for Indians.” She did not look up. “I think maybe that’s why my pa . . . why we never ate these.”