One more thing, Mrs. Sullivan. The men who work here are good men, but they're cowboys. They curse. They smell like horses, and they haven't seen a woman in months. You'll eat in the kitchen.
Keep to the house after dark and maintain appropriate distance. Clear. Perfectly clear. Good. He was almost to the door when he turned back once more.
You said you were willing to learn. Are you also willing to laugh? The question caught her off guard. I beg your pardon. This is a hard life, Mrs. Sullivan.
The work breaks backs, and the loneliness breaks spirits. The last cook spent every meal looking like she was attending a funeral. It affected the men, made everything heavier than it needed to be. His expression remained serious, but there was something almost wistful in his voice. "So, I'll ask again.
Can you cook with laughter? Can you bring something besides food to that kitchen? " Margaret thought of the elegant dinner parties she'd hosted. The way she'd kept conversation flowing and guests smiling even when the roast was overdone or the wine ran low. "Mr. Caldwell.
I once kept 20 Philadelphia Society matrons entertained for 3 hours when my cook quit without notice and I had to prepare the meal myself. If I could manage that, I believe I can handle cowboys. This time she was certain she saw approval in his eyes. The kitchen's through here. I'll show you the quarters and explain the routine.
Dinner's at 6 sharp. That gives you He pulled out a pocket watch. Four hours to figure out that stove and feed 15 men. Still want the job? Margaret climbed down from the wagon, grateful her new boots gave her steady footing.
Lead the way, Mr. Caldwell. The kitchen was large but primitive by her standards. The massive cast iron stove dominated one wall with a wood box beside it that was nearly empty. A long wooden table occupied the center of the room, scarred from years of use. Open shelves held dishes, pots, and supplies.
A pantry door stood ajar, revealing sacks of flour, beans, and other staples. Everything was clean, but utilitarian, without a single touch of warmth or personality. Your room's through there, Jake indicated a door off the kitchen. It's small but private. You'll find water in the barrel by the stove.
We haul it from the well each morning. Firewood's out back. The root cellar's behind the house. Smokehouse is the small building to the left. We butcher our own beef.
Cure our own bacon. There's a kitchen garden, but it's gone to weed since he trailed off. Since the last cook left. Since before that. He moved to the stove.