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She spied a wrinkled calico apron hanging from a nail, grabbed it, and tied it around her waist. She started a fire in the cold stove. First things first. The child and her father needed fresh bread for supper. Fresh bread that would not masquerade as a brick.
Ruth walked into the lean-to to check supplies. She didn’t have time to make a yeast bread. The small pantry housed plenty of saleratus, though, and cornmeal. She’d make a nice fluffy cornbread flavored with some of the maple sugar sitting next to the wheat flour. Sighing, she grabbed the flour as well. She’d put a loaf to rise and make sure Mary Alice knew when to bake it. They’d have fresh bread in the morning for breakfast.
Ruth cleared a space on the table and set to work. Soon her loaf, covered with a cotton rag, sat next to the stove to rise. Next she tackled some of the disorder. She cleaned the skillet of the bean mess, dipped another rag in the tepid water and washed the dishes remaining on the table, and then the table itself.
She piled the soiled linens in the lean-to and replaced them with wrinkled though fresh-smelling ones. A quick sweep of the kitchen floor with the broom, an
d she was ready to cook supper.
Back to the pantry, she surveyed the meager offerings. Dried beans, of course, but they’d need to soak overnight.
“I’m done with the laundry, ma’am.”
“Perfect, Mary Alice.” Ruth turned and regarded the child’s fatigued, yet somehow content, face. Dark circles under her bronze eyes marred their perfection. Mary Alice needed rest. But alas, the front room needed to be swept and dusted. “Now you can dust and sweep the front room.” She handed her the broom she’d used in the kitchen. “Then I don’t want you working any more today.”
“There’s supper, ma’am…”
“I’m taking care of that. Tell me, what do you and your pa like to eat for supper?”
“Whatever we have. Pa left a chicken outside the lean-to. One of the old hens who hasn’t been laying. He plucked it for me, and I’m supposed to fry it.”
“Fried chicken?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you know how to make fried chicken, Mary Alice?”
“Well…no. But there can’t be much to it. You dress it, cut it, and fry it in lard.”
Ruth let out a laugh. “There’s a little more to it than that. Do you know how to dress the chicken?”
“I’m not real good at it. Last time I tried I cut my hand something awful.” She held her hand out to Ruth. A scar sliced through her palm. “Pa usually comes in and does it for me if he has the time.”
“Goodness, child. That must have been a nasty cut.”
“It bled a lot. But Pa wrapped it up for me. Hurt something awful for several days.”
“My goodness.” Be careful, Ruth. Don’t get too involved here. “Not to worry. I can dress the chicken this afternoon so your pa won’t have to. Someday soon, when we have more time, I’ll be happy to come over and teach you how to dress a chicken properly.”
“Yes’m.”
“Now, let’s see.” Chicken. Chicken pie. Had Mary Alice and her father ever eaten chicken pie? “How about if I make you something special out of that chicken? And if you and your pa like it, I’ll write down the recipe for you.”
“I don’t know…”
“It’ll be fine. And you’ll love it. I make the best chicken pie in the whole county.”
“Chicken pie?” The child’s eyes widened into saucers.
“Yes, chicken pie.” Ruth smiled. “Does that sound good to you?”
“It surely does, ma’am. Why, we haven’t had chicken pie since… Well, since my ma passed on.”
“Then it’s high time you had it again. Would you like to watch me make it?”
“Could I?”
“Of course. You do the dusting and sweeping, and I’ll dress the chicken. By the time you’re done, I’ll be ready to make the pie.”
