Read Online 0800722329 by Jane Kirkpatrick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Kirkpatrick
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The very thing that made our work thrive he agreed to throw out, to have my students repeat things in English by rote, words they neither understood nor took into their hearts. I was ready to write a letter of complaint to the Board myself for the foolishness of men!
6
Cookstove Wisdom
Men can be so foolish! Why would my father marry a woman who knew nothing of cooking and couldn’t even boil eggs? It became my duty to teach her. “Dry kindling starts the fire in the fireplace. Then we bring in green wood because dry wood burns too quickly. We need at least an hour to make coals.”
“You just burn it up?”
“Coals. We cook over coals, not open fire. Did you never watch anyone cook?”
“We had coal stoves in Boston.” She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll ask your father to have one shipped here.”
“Can you cook on it? I’d support the expenditure.”
“I can’t cook on it, but you could.” She had a little-girl voice when she was caught in an insufficiency. “Maybe you could teach me.”
“When the coals are just right, died down a bit, we start adding wood, to maintain the temperature we need.” I showed herhow to swing the bar that held the iron S, how to use the tongs to lift the bale on the smaller cast-iron pots to hang them on the S , then swing it back over the coals. “If the stew gets too hot, you can swing it out and stir.” I handed her the tongs so she could try, and to her credit, she did all right. I imagined her getting burned and knew she’d be alarmed at my treatment: layering on the scrapings of a raw potato instead of medicine. “Careful you don’t burn yourself.”
“Oh, honey, let’s not talk about possible problems.” She patted my hand. “That’s what brings them on.”
Her comment was so foreign to how I controlled my world that I stood speechless.
I finished my instruction, cutting pieces of venison into the stew, giving her dried carrots to slip into the water. I don’t remember much of what else I told her that morning. Rachel had handed me a pondering that sent me walking. I spent my days conjuring up concerns, believing that would keep them from happening; poor Rachel seemed to think such thoughts just gave trouble an invitation.
“That woman will kill you. Neither she nor your dad seem capable of seeing how hard you work.” Mr. Warren and I rode our horses side by side up the Territorial Road north of Brownsville in the fall after Rachel’s arrival. I’d removed my shoes that hung on either side of Nellie’s neck, let the air cool my toes. Our rides happened infrequently, as Mr. Warren worked to raise money for his herd.
“No, I shouldn’t complain to you so much. She’s really all right. Just so unlike my mother, from her bulk to her sense of fashion to her lack of skills. My mother could do anything and she did it with a gracious heart.”
“And so can you.” He leaned across the space between us and put his hand over mine.
“I’m not so sure about that gracious heart part,” I said.
I rode bareback on Nellie, my dress pulled up above my calves to reveal bare feet and a touch more skin than was really proper for a young lady. His hand felt like warm butter, quelling the small uncertainty I sometimes felt around him. He would appear out of nowhere while I hung pumpkin slices to dry in the barn rafters, or while I strung beans in the shade at the side of the house. Like a slow sunrise he’d be there, sometimes not even coming near the house, but close enough for me to see him staring. The uneasiness of surprise lessened when we rode together.
“Rachel’s good with the little ones. Martha loves looking at Godey’s with her, and she plays dolls with Millie—”
“While you’re stitching up your father’s pants, I suspect.”
He was right about that.
“They love to have her read to them. She’s reading Washington Irving’s Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus . Millie loves adventures.” I enjoyed the stories
The very thing that made our work thrive he agreed to throw out, to have my students repeat things in English by rote, words they neither understood nor took into their hearts. I was ready to write a letter of complaint to the Board myself for the foolishness of men!
6
Cookstove Wisdom
Men can be so foolish! Why would my father marry a woman who knew nothing of cooking and couldn’t even boil eggs? It became my duty to teach her. “Dry kindling starts the fire in the fireplace. Then we bring in green wood because dry wood burns too quickly. We need at least an hour to make coals.”
“You just burn it up?”
“Coals. We cook over coals, not open fire. Did you never watch anyone cook?”
“We had coal stoves in Boston.” She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll ask your father to have one shipped here.”
“Can you cook on it? I’d support the expenditure.”
“I can’t cook on it, but you could.” She had a little-girl voice when she was caught in an insufficiency. “Maybe you could teach me.”
“When the coals are just right, died down a bit, we start adding wood, to maintain the temperature we need.” I showed herhow to swing the bar that held the iron S, how to use the tongs to lift the bale on the smaller cast-iron pots to hang them on the S , then swing it back over the coals. “If the stew gets too hot, you can swing it out and stir.” I handed her the tongs so she could try, and to her credit, she did all right. I imagined her getting burned and knew she’d be alarmed at my treatment: layering on the scrapings of a raw potato instead of medicine. “Careful you don’t burn yourself.”
“Oh, honey, let’s not talk about possible problems.” She patted my hand. “That’s what brings them on.”
Her comment was so foreign to how I controlled my world that I stood speechless.
I finished my instruction, cutting pieces of venison into the stew, giving her dried carrots to slip into the water. I don’t remember much of what else I told her that morning. Rachel had handed me a pondering that sent me walking. I spent my days conjuring up concerns, believing that would keep them from happening; poor Rachel seemed to think such thoughts just gave trouble an invitation.
“That woman will kill you. Neither she nor your dad seem capable of seeing how hard you work.” Mr. Warren and I rode our horses side by side up the Territorial Road north of Brownsville in the fall after Rachel’s arrival. I’d removed my shoes that hung on either side of Nellie’s neck, let the air cool my toes. Our rides happened infrequently, as Mr. Warren worked to raise money for his herd.
“No, I shouldn’t complain to you so much. She’s really all right. Just so unlike my mother, from her bulk to her sense of fashion to her lack of skills. My mother could do anything and she did it with a gracious heart.”
“And so can you.” He leaned across the space between us and put his hand over mine.
“I’m not so sure about that gracious heart part,” I said.
I rode bareback on Nellie, my dress pulled up above my calves to reveal bare feet and a touch more skin than was really proper for a young lady. His hand felt like warm butter, quelling the small uncertainty I sometimes felt around him. He would appear out of nowhere while I hung pumpkin slices to dry in the barn rafters, or while I strung beans in the shade at the side of the house. Like a slow sunrise he’d be there, sometimes not even coming near the house, but close enough for me to see him staring. The uneasiness of surprise lessened when we rode together.
“Rachel’s good with the little ones. Martha loves looking at Godey’s with her, and she plays dolls with Millie—”
“While you’re stitching up your father’s pants, I suspect.”
He was right about that.
“They love to have her read to them. She’s reading Washington Irving’s Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus . Millie loves adventures.” I enjoyed the stories
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