be had in the whole room. What kind of cowboys were these, that a little indulgence was not allowed?
Josephine went into her room and slumped downon the bare mattress. She shouldnât be so upset. She ate beef. As a matter of fact, beef Wellington was one of her favorite dishes. Only sheâd never had to see the cowâs face before its meat was served up on her china plate with pâté de foie gras.
A wave of desolation swept over her as she stared at the cracks in the floorboards. What am I doing here?
C HAPTER
3
T he answer came simply inside Josephineâs head, and in the form of her motherâs voice. âOne way of finding out whether a risk is worth taking is not to take it, and see what you become in the long run.â Throughout the imprisoning years of her marriage, Josephine had taken her motherâs advice. But she heeded it no longer. That was why sheâd given up assorted snobberies, tedium, and fossilized rules of conduct and had ended up in Mr. J.D. McCallâs house working for thirty dollars a month.
Thirty dollars . It seemed like a fortune, yet on her twenty-first birthday sheâd been worth more than four million dollars.
Grudgingly, Josephine rose, went to her valise, and opened the catch. She removed a deep blue canvas-bound book entitled The Kitchen Companion and Housekeeperâs Own Book . In smaller print beneath the title it read: Containing All the Modern and Most Approved Methods in Cookery, Pastry & Confectionery with an Excellent Collection of VALUABLE RECIPES.
Josephine might not have known the first thing about cooking, but she knew what would not be on the menu tonight. Panda-faced cow. She couldnât possiblyface the meat, much less touch it or slice it with a butcherâs knife.
Thirty minutes later, Josephine stood at the stove, book in hand. Sheâd taken off the smart jersey to her suit and refastened her gold watch by its pin to the thin fabric of her underblouse. She followed through the instructions for lighting a cooking fire, improvising when she wasnât clear on the exact meaning of the directions. The section on dampers thoroughly confused her. Rather than concern herself over something that she didnât have to worry about until the fire was hot, she skipped that part.
When she was finished, her hands and patches on her pristine cuffs were the color of coal. She hadnât had the foresight to pump water into a bucket before beginning. Helplessly looking about for something to wipe her hands on, she could find nothing. Earlier, she hadnât come across an apron or a towel, so she ransacked what turned out to be a moderately sized larder. Everything she touched got smudged with black dust: the knob, the inside of the door, the shelf, the stack of flour sack towels with faint traces of the brand name still dyed on them.
After wiping off her hands, she remained standing in the modest pantry. She scanned the shelves for the ingredients she would require. There was a barrel of molasses, a half-bag of Arbuckleâs coffee, peppercorns, mace, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, salt, a tin of baking powder, and flour. Then came the meager supply of canned goods: milk, sardines, tomatoes. But there was an open case of canned corn on the floor, with a full case beneath it. Boots hadnât been kidding about the creamed corn on toast.
Despite the scarcity of staples, milk and tomatoes were exactly what she needed to get started on the soup. Though she couldnât understand why theyâd need canned milk on a ranch when there were all those cows to be milked. With a shrug, she juggled five No. 2 cans of tomatoes, the dented tin of bakingpowder, and a couple cans of milk that were supposed to add up to one quart.
Depositing them on the counter in a heap, she skimmed through the recipe once more. Heat the tomatoes, add the baking powder, and allow to effervesce. She wasnât all that sure what effervesce meant, but sheâd
Josephine went into her room and slumped downon the bare mattress. She shouldnât be so upset. She ate beef. As a matter of fact, beef Wellington was one of her favorite dishes. Only sheâd never had to see the cowâs face before its meat was served up on her china plate with pâté de foie gras.
A wave of desolation swept over her as she stared at the cracks in the floorboards. What am I doing here?
C HAPTER
3
T he answer came simply inside Josephineâs head, and in the form of her motherâs voice. âOne way of finding out whether a risk is worth taking is not to take it, and see what you become in the long run.â Throughout the imprisoning years of her marriage, Josephine had taken her motherâs advice. But she heeded it no longer. That was why sheâd given up assorted snobberies, tedium, and fossilized rules of conduct and had ended up in Mr. J.D. McCallâs house working for thirty dollars a month.
Thirty dollars . It seemed like a fortune, yet on her twenty-first birthday sheâd been worth more than four million dollars.
Grudgingly, Josephine rose, went to her valise, and opened the catch. She removed a deep blue canvas-bound book entitled The Kitchen Companion and Housekeeperâs Own Book . In smaller print beneath the title it read: Containing All the Modern and Most Approved Methods in Cookery, Pastry & Confectionery with an Excellent Collection of VALUABLE RECIPES.
Josephine might not have known the first thing about cooking, but she knew what would not be on the menu tonight. Panda-faced cow. She couldnât possiblyface the meat, much less touch it or slice it with a butcherâs knife.
Thirty minutes later, Josephine stood at the stove, book in hand. Sheâd taken off the smart jersey to her suit and refastened her gold watch by its pin to the thin fabric of her underblouse. She followed through the instructions for lighting a cooking fire, improvising when she wasnât clear on the exact meaning of the directions. The section on dampers thoroughly confused her. Rather than concern herself over something that she didnât have to worry about until the fire was hot, she skipped that part.
When she was finished, her hands and patches on her pristine cuffs were the color of coal. She hadnât had the foresight to pump water into a bucket before beginning. Helplessly looking about for something to wipe her hands on, she could find nothing. Earlier, she hadnât come across an apron or a towel, so she ransacked what turned out to be a moderately sized larder. Everything she touched got smudged with black dust: the knob, the inside of the door, the shelf, the stack of flour sack towels with faint traces of the brand name still dyed on them.
After wiping off her hands, she remained standing in the modest pantry. She scanned the shelves for the ingredients she would require. There was a barrel of molasses, a half-bag of Arbuckleâs coffee, peppercorns, mace, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, salt, a tin of baking powder, and flour. Then came the meager supply of canned goods: milk, sardines, tomatoes. But there was an open case of canned corn on the floor, with a full case beneath it. Boots hadnât been kidding about the creamed corn on toast.
Despite the scarcity of staples, milk and tomatoes were exactly what she needed to get started on the soup. Though she couldnât understand why theyâd need canned milk on a ranch when there were all those cows to be milked. With a shrug, she juggled five No. 2 cans of tomatoes, the dented tin of bakingpowder, and a couple cans of milk that were supposed to add up to one quart.
Depositing them on the counter in a heap, she skimmed through the recipe once more. Heat the tomatoes, add the baking powder, and allow to effervesce. She wasnât all that sure what effervesce meant, but sheâd
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