Checking the firebox. This beast takes some getting used to. Too much wood and she'll burn everything. Too little and nothing cooks through. The dampers are temperamental and the oven runs hot on the right side.
Margaret approached the stove cautiously, as if it might bite. Any other peculiarities I should know about? The men like their coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe. Breakfast is always biscuits, bacon or salt pork, eggs when we have them, and gravy. Lunch for the range riders is usually cold biscuits, dried beef, and whatever else travels well.
Dinner's the big meal. Meat, potatoes, vegetables, if we have them, pie if you can manage it. Pie? Margaret's voice might have squeaked slightly. The men work hard.
Mrs. Sullivan, good food's one of the few pleasures out here. He moved toward the door, then paused. One week, if you're still here after that, we'll discuss wages and permanent arrangements. Mr. Caldwell, Margaret called as he reached the door. You asked if I could cook with laughter.
May I ask why that matters to you? He stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face unreadable against the bright afternoon light. Because I've lived 10 years in a house that forgot how to smile. Mrs. Sullivan. Sometimes a man gets tired of the silence.
Then he was gone, leaving Margaret alone in the kitchen that would either become her salvation or her defeat. She set down her carpet bag and surveyed her new domain more carefully. 4 hours to produce dinner for 15 men. She'd hosted larger dinner parties. She reminded herself.
Of course, she'd had a cook, two kitchen maids, and a butler to help serve. She found an apron hanging on a peg and tied it around her waist. First things first, she needed to get that stove going. The matches were where she'd expect them to be. And after several attempts and some inappropriate language that would have shocked her Philadelphia friends, she managed to get a fire started.
The pantry inventory revealed plenty of basics: flour, lard, salt, dried beans, potatoes, onions, and what looked like a quarter of beef hanging in the cold corner. She could make a stew, she decided. How hard could it be? Meat, vegetables, water, seasonings. Simple.
3 hours later, Margaret stood before the stove, fighting back tears of frustration. The stew pot was too heavy for her to lift when full. She'd had to ladle water into it one cup at a time. The vegetables were unevenly chopped because the knives were dulled and her hands were already developing blisters. The fire kept dying down, then roaring back to life when she added wood, making the pots contents alternate between barely simmering and boiling over.
You look like you're wrestling a bear. Margaret spun around to find a young cowboy standing in the doorway, hat in hand. He couldn't have been more than 20 with sandy hair and a friendly freckled face. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, ma'am.
I'm Tom Bradley. Jake sent me to see if you needed firewood brought in. Yes, please, Margaret said, then added impulsively. Tom, have you eaten many stews prepared by the previous cooks? Yes, ma'am.