Chapter 11
FIGHTING A SENSE OF DOOM, Josephine lifted the cast-iron skillet, unprepared for its weight. Exhausted, she’d slept little and had risen before dawn to scour the kitchen and library for recipes.
Miss Mary’s book collection was extensive—law, science, arithmetic, languages, Greek mythology, shelves of classics and Shakespearean works. Dickens, Bronte, Whitman, Henry James. But the volumes on animal husbandry, farming tools, and agricultural methods were entirely new to her.
And still—not a single recipe anywhere.
She’d hoped Calla or some former cook had left a clipped newspaper recipe, notes scribbled on the back of an envelope.
Something. How many “women’s columns” had she skimmed past to reach the local, national, and international news?
What she wouldn’t give now for one of those simple lists of ingredients and measurements.
She set the skillet on the massive stove, which now resembled a fiery, red-eyed beast ready to devour her. She could almost feel her teeth rattling as Dodge Coburn’s wagon carried her over rain-rutted roads back to Tullahoma—and to certain arrest. Or worse.
She bowed her head, wanting to pray but unsure God was listening—or even cared anymore. A whisper, steely and insistent, threaded her thoughts. Perhaps he truly had written her off, and she really was on her own.
“Oh, don’t you go getting scaredy now, Josephine.” Calla came up behind her, working an apron over her head. “Miss Mary’s a hard judge, but she’s fair. Just give her your best.”
Josephine looked at her. “What if my best isn’t good enough?”
“Don’t you worry about that. You’ll do fine.”
“Thank you again for tending to my face last night. Whatever you put on it helped.”
Calla’s gaze moved over Josephine’s countenance. “You keep slathering on that liniment at night and those places should heal up right good.” Tenderness moved into her eyes. “You might come away with a scar or two, but that’s not the worst thing.”
Josephine forced a smile.
Calla finished tying her apron. “Use whatever you want from the larder. We keep the dried fruit toward the back. Peaches and apples, maybe some apricots. Miss Mary likes them all, but favors apple most,” she whispered.
“Or if you’re thinking biscuits and sausage gravy, the sausage is in the springhouse I showed you out back last night. Same for the buttermilk.”
“Buttermilk?”
“For the biscuits.” Calla paused. “You still ain’t decided which one to make?”
Josephine hesitated, an idea forming. “Which one would you do? If you were me.”
“I’d do the one I’m best at.”
“Which is?”
“Now there you go trying to make me boast. And me a God-fearing woman.” Calla grinned. “But I do make about the best fried apple pies you ever put in your mouth.”
“Then I’m definitely making biscuits with sausage gravy.”
“All right then. Best get to it.”
Calla reached for the teakettle, and Josephine noticed a tremor in her hand.
“Are you all right, Calla? You’re shaking.”
Calla laughed, clasping her hands. “Oh, I’m fine. Just getting older is all. My hands shake, my hair’s thinning, and my eyes don’t work like they once did. But at least I still got my mind. Or what’s left of it.”
Josephine smiled, her plan moving into clearer focus. She only hoped her tone wouldn’t betray her. “I guess I’ll head out back then and get the sausage and buttermilk. Anything else I should grab?”
“Nope. But mind your step in the springhouse. Those stairs can be slick.”
Satisfied those were the only items needed from cold storage, Josephine counted that as one solved piece of the puzzle.
The springhouse door was heavy, but a hard shove opened it. Calla had been right about the steps, and Josephine tread carefully. After a quick search, she found a package labeled sausage and a bottle of buttermilk.
As she returned to the kitchen, the teakettle whistled. Calla was pouring something from a small blue bottle into a mug.
“I found the sausage and buttermilk.”
Calla jumped and quickly screwed the lid back on. “Good for you. And you minded the steps?”
“Yes, thanks for the warning. They were slick.”
“You want a cup of mint tea with honey?” Calla held up the bottle. “Happy to make you one.”
“No, I think I’ll wait for coffee. But thank you.”
“Already got it brewing. Be ready shortly.” Calla began cracking eggs into a large bowl.
Josephine watched. “You do that one-handed?”
“Just like my mama taught me. How’d your mama teach you?”
Josephine was hesitant to admit that her mother hadn’t known anything about cooking either.
That they’d employed a cook for as long as she could remember.
“I’ve always used both hands, but I’ll have to try it your way sometime.
” When I have an hour to dig shards of broken shells out of a mess of eggs, she wanted to add, but didn’t.
Feeling guilty about trying to trick Calla into helping her, she continued nonetheless, the threat of being sent back to Atlanta all too real. “So you said the rest of what I need is in the larder? Would you mind showing me where everything is?”
“I would, but I need to get these eggs on the stove. Tenants’ll be down soon. Besides, everything’s labeled.”
Already knowing that from her earlier search, Josephine stepped into the larder. Biscuits weren’t a complete mystery, so she grabbed the flour tin and tried to recall how Lannie, their family’s cook, had made them. Flour, certainly. Buttermilk. What else?
She pictured Lannie kneading the dough, cutting biscuit with practiced ease. As a little girl, Josephine had stood at the table’s edge, watching every move. Sometimes Lannie would “accidentally” leave a scrap of dough within reach, and Josephine had gobbled it up, believing it a secret gift.
She hadn’t thought of Miss Lannie in years—or appreciated her skill nearly enough.
Dragging her thoughts back, she dumped flour into a bowl. It didn’t look like enough, so she added more.
“Oh, you’re making lots of biscuits!” Calla said. “That’s good, our tenants love to eat.”
Taking that at face value, Josephine poured in plenty of buttermilk, stirred, frowned, added more flour, and stirred again. Still a thick, soupy mess. Grateful Calla wasn’t watching, she added yet more flour until it finally resembled dough.
She dumped it onto the worktable and tried to knead.
The dough stuck to everything. Then she remembered standing close to the table’s edge, watching Miss Lannie work, and ending up with flour on her nose.
She dusted the table with flour, hoping to hide her mistake.
After a few minutes, she almost convinced herself this wasn’t so difficult.
“You gonna use that skillet?” Calla asked.
“I can use whatever you’d like.”
“No, that one’s fine. Cast iron gives biscuits a nice crust.”
“You’re welcome to check what I’m doing, if you want.”
“Oh I’m afraid I can’t help when it comes to a cook’s interview. Miss Mary’s strict on that. She wants to see what a cook can do on her lonesome.”
Josephine crammed as many biscuits into the skillet as would fit, then slid the extras on a baking sheet. Not wanting to think about how long it would take Miss Mary to toss her to the curb if the woman discovered she’d lied to her, she turned to the sausage.
“You already got your biscuits in?” Calla asked.
“Sure do. Now I’m making the gravy.”
“Milk or water?”
Josephine froze, not sure what she was asking. But the gravy Lannie used to make was a creamy white. “I use milk. What about you?”
“Same. And Miss Mary likes both. She just loves gravy!”
Calla chuckled and turned back to the eggs while Josephine broke up the sausage with a wooden spoon. As it cooked, hot grease popped and splattered, burning her hands and forearms.
Calla gestured. “You can close the damper a little if the stove’s cooking too hot.”
Josephine reached for the cover.
“No, ma’am!” Calla said sharply. “Not with your bare hand!”
Josephine jumped back, embarrassed.
“Gracious, woman, what are you thinking?”
Josephine shrugged. “I-I guess I wasn’t. I’m a little nervous.”
“Here, let me do it for you.” Calla grabbed a cloth and adjusted the cover. “I need to fetch a fresh tablecloth. Milk’s in the icebox.”
Josephine pulled the sausage off the heat and poured in the milk. But no matter how long she mixed, the grease and milk wouldn’t come together. Then she smelled it.
Her biscuits!
She grabbed the oven door handle then sucked in a sharp breath, muttering a word she’d heard Sarah use too often.
Snatching a drying cloth, she tried again.
Smoke billowed out. The biscuits in the skillet had fused into a hard, lumpy mass.
The ones on the baking sheet had spilled over the edges and dripped into piles onto the bottom of the oven. Two were in flames.
She doused the flames with water, and it hissed and crackled, sending up more smoke. She flung open the back door just as footsteps sounded behind her.
Calla stopped short. “What in land’s sake—”
“What is going on in here!” Miss Mary’s voice cut like a knife.