Read Online The Evening Spider by Emily Arsenault - Free Book Online Page B

on a night when sleep eludes me—when the youngest of my three roommates will not stop weeping, or the eldest won’t stop sitting up and whispering about the proof of the pudding and the devil in the darkness (her two indecipherably favorite topics, poor exasperating thing)—I put my palms to my ears and listen for those birds singing somewhere beyond the room.
    And in that way, in the hollow of night, my mind often still occupies that upstairs room on Miller Avenue. Not because it was a place of comfort, but because it was a time and place whose desolation I survived. That time came to an end. So perhaps this one will yet, as well.
    Of course, we’ll leave aside the question of the wisdom of attempting to maintain one’s sanity with imagined birdsong.

 
    Â 
    Chapter 17
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Mother’s Cider Loaves
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Molasses Biscuits
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Saturday Spice Cake
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Sponge Cake 1
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Sponge Cake 2
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  November 10, 1878
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I believe I’ve solved the problem of my sponge cakes. Clara has given me an education on the subject. This may not be how Harry intended me to use this book when he selected it for my birthday gift, but I’m recording Clara’s recipe here for now and will transcribe it when I have the opportunity, back home. The eggs should be beaten for much longer than I had done on my first attempt, for more air. Sponge cake is something Mother never much cared for, so I’d never tried it before.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  1 cup sugar
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  1 cup flour
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  1 tsp. baking soda
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  3 eggs
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  3 tbs. water—warmed
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  November 13, 1878
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  My sponge cake endeavors have made me reconsider the number and quality of eggs in all of my cakes, particularly the more festive ones. There is a fair amount of variation in size of eggs between hens. I wonder if I weighed the contents of the eggs—if Harry could provide me with a quality scale—I might improve the proportion of egg more precisely?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  November 16, 1878
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  What should a young wife think about when her husband is so engaged?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Surely it isn’t too early to be thinking of the Christmas niceties, if one wishes them to be truly remarkable. Of course there will be plum pudding for Christmas Eve, but Christmas Day allows for a bit more variety. Gingerbread is too common—too simple. Clara has suggested gateau, but I was hoping to try something very different from last year.
    After the first few pages of recipes, the cookbook relaxed into a more personal style—a cooking journal, just as Gerard had promised. Lucy was tired from our outing, which gave me a chance to settle at the kitchen table and read several pages while she napped. All of this baking business was making me hungry for sweets. I started a cup of coffee and rummaged in the cabinets until I found a bag of stale gluten-free ginger snaps.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  December 19, 1878
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Today I attempted a carrot pie, fashioned after Mother’s pumpkin pie, with the same custard. I boiled and mashed the carrots to a similar soft consistency as baked pumpkin. The results were disappointing. I believe that with sweeter carrots—or, more easily,