The christmas brides col.., p.43
The Christmas Brides Collection, page 43
“We need something special … and quick to make.” Idelia pondered for a moment. Mama’s uncharacteristic silence made her raise her brows. “No ideas?”
Mama shrugged. “Is for you to choose.”
“Fresh pork chops from the butchering yesterday, with crackling bread. I’ll run and get the meat while you ready the dutch oven. We’ll need it and the stove oven both.” Idelia scarcely waited for the nod of approval. Fresh crackling bread was a treat available only after a recent slaughter. The crisp bits of pork left after rendering the lard weren’t usually in ready supply.
They got down to work—heating the dutch oven, melting shortening, and laying the spiced chops within to bake. While the meat cooked, Idelia mixed cornmeal, flour, and baking soda in a large bowl. She stirred the batter constantly as she added the beaten eggs and buttermilk before folding in the cracklings. A few minutes later, a large roasting pan filled with the batter slid into the stove oven.
“Would you watch the ovens while I make butter?” Idelia swiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
“You made fresh butter yesterday.” Mama waved toward the well, where the crock hung on a long rope to keep cool. Soon enough it would be so cold that anything put outside would freeze straight through.
“Ja. But cracklin’ bread is best with sweet butter.”
“Ah.” She brushed the coals off the top of the dutch oven, checking the pork chops inside.
At this silent agreement, Idelia hurried to scoop the morning cream into the churn, adding salt before she pumped furiously. When it began to resist, she poured in a generous measure of honey and finished churning. A quick wash and a moment in the butter press and it was on the table as Mama pulled the crackling bread from the oven.
Idelia stepped outside to ring the dinner bell, gratified to see the men rush from the barn in their haste. In the blink of an eye, they sat at the table, a succulent chop steaming on each plate.
“Dear heavenly Father,” Jerome prayed, “we ask that You bless the hands that made this food, and thank You that Idelia and Mama Lurleen came to Willowville. Let them know how grateful we are. Furthermore, we ask that You help us be deserving of such bounty. Amen.”
She couldn’t help but give him a small smile for his efforts as she dished up hearty slices of the bread and passed around her sweet butter. Idelia watched as Mayor Ashton murmured something to Mama.
While Ashton cut into the meat first, Jerome slathered his bread with the creamy butter and bit into it with relish. His eyes widened as the flavor hit his tongue. “Cracklin’ bread?”
“Ja.” Idelia wouldn’t say more. It was up to him to make the conversation while Mama and Mayor Ashton were deep in discussion about the Christmas gathering.
“Cracklin’ bread?” Ashton, apparently not as deep in conversation as it appeared, wasted no time spreading a hearty helping of butter on his own. “Mmm …”
Mama shot her an amused glance, and for a moment, they shared a woman’s contentment at a dish well done and a plan carried through. Making a special dinner let the men know their ire wouldn’t last forever and gave Jerome and Ashton an opportunity to appreciate their efforts. Fortunately, the men were making good on their part.
“This is wonderful,” Jerome praised. “Every time you get in the kitchen, I’m sure the meal can’t compare to the one before, but you always prove me wrong.”
“It’s been this good each day?” Ashton put down his fork in astonishment and picked it up again when Mama started slicing more wedges from the pan. He dug in with gusto to make up for lost time.
“Wait until you taste what we make to celebrate Kerstmis,” Mama promised. “Then you will know true Dutch cooking.”
“I can’t wait.” Jerome wiped his face with his napkin.
Neither can I. Idelia couldn’t escape the smudge of doubt that clouded her thoughts. Because it’s the last day we can wed and still make the deadline.
Three days after the scene at the church and Jerome wasn’t much closer to figuring out how to prove to Idelia that he cared about her more than the money. If worse came to worst, he could just wait until after the Christmas celebration so she’d have no fears. Then Idelia would be secure, happy, and, most important, his.
Only problem with that was the money issue. He wanted his wife more than he wanted any sum of cash, but how would he be able to provide for her without it? If he were to be completely honest, he didn’t like the notion of waiting that long until the wedding, either. A woman like his bride-to-be was temptation enough to ensure he stayed in the barn. Indefinitely.
But shouldn’t he be able to think of some gesture now? Something so she didn’t have to feel like this anymore? Memories of the bootlace debacle kept him rejecting whatever came to mind. Jerome warmed every time he thought of Idelia’s kind understanding and honest gratitude for his efforts.
This time, it had to be special. Personal, even. And hang the potential for embarrassment. Maybe if he’d been more willing to risk his pride, he wouldn’t have lost his bride. So what would Idelia like best? What would she love more than anything else?
He prayed for guidance and wracked his brain throughout the day, until he was chopping logs for winter fuel and he heard the supper bell. One last swing split the huge felled trunk he’d been working on into manageable pieces, but a smaller one stood ready for him later.
Jerome headed to the well, drew some water, and splashed it on his face. He used his bandanna to dry off and gave one last look at the woodpile. An idea started to tickle the back of his mind.
On that disastrous Sunday, hadn’t Idelia and Mama Lurleen mentioned Kerstmis horns? Long, thinner logs hollowed out and rested on the lips of wells so the sound carried when someone blew into them. Idelia had grown a little wistful, saying she missed the loud welcome of Christ’s birth.
He tromped back over to the woodpile and ran his hand along the smaller, thinner log he hadn’t yet cut, judging its thickness to be about right. Jerome smiled and decided he’d start the project the next day. This was something meaningful that he could—and would—do for his bride.
Chapter 11
Saturday evening, Idelia and Mama made bacon-and-sausage gravy to be poured over warm biscuits. It was simple fare, but that night they had another focus. Mayor Ashton, enthusiastic about having a Dutchinfluenced Kerstmis celebration, had met with some resistance at the town council meeting. It seemed the menfolk were hesitant to make the change since they’d never sampled Dutch baking.
“I have half a mind to say it’s not that they’re worried about the dishes being tasty enough; it’s that they want to get extra treats.” Idelia rolled another batch on a floured board. “Speculaas will either make them admit it’s a good idea or make them decide further testing is required.”
“With one week, the decision is made today.” Mama popped another round into the dutch oven before checking the ones baking in the stove. “And is not the only choice.”
“Ja.” Idelia started stamping the cookies from the rolled dough. “Jerome has been kind and attentive, but I’d hoped for a clearer sign that the marriage is God’s will. But time runs short, and we cannot stay here if I do not become his wife.”
“You do not have to marry him.” Mama stopped what she was doing. “We will find other way. Remember this.”
“I will.” Idelia transferred the cookies to a baking pan. “But if only—”
The long, low moan of a great horn sounded over the farm. Silence fell for a moment as she and Mama stared at each other. Then another blast resonated through the evening air.
Idelia put down the pan and rushed to the door. The sting of cold air hit her face the moment she stepped outside, but she didn’t go back for her cloak. There, in the last rays of the sunset, was the sign she’d been seeking.
Jerome stood a few feet behind the well, holding the end of a horn braced against the edge of the well. He waved in greeting before blowing into the horn again. The sound repeated until the sun sank completely, and he drew the long instrument away from the well and walked toward her.
“You remembered.” The words sounded choked, forced from her suddenly dry throat. “To usher in Kerstmis. You found a horn.”
“Couldn’t find one, so I made it.” He held it up, its length made for two men to carry. “I thought I might not finish in time to use it properly.”
“It’s perfect.” She ran her hand along the smooth-sanded surface. “The start of a tradition.” Idelia sniffed at the thought.
“Someday I’ll hold it in place while our son blows,” Jerome agreed. “But tonight we won’t make any decisions about time.”
“But—”
“Nee, dotter.” Mama stepped forward. “Jerome is in the right. His gift tonight is just for us to enjoy.”
“Mayor Ashton has asked the two of you to speak with the council about your ideas for the festivities next Saturday, and he’ll bring you back to the farm afterward.” Jerome mentioned the plan just after church ended. He stared down two men who were making their way up the aisle, looking at Idelia with an avaricious gleam in their eyes. Only after they backed away did he register Idelia’s words.
“We need to talk.” She’d put her gloved hand on his arm.
“Agreed.” He bolted to his feet. She couldn’t make her decision yet—not before his second proof that he cared for her! “I’ll see you later this afternoon, and we’ll talk then.”
Jerome gave her a broad grin and, seeing Ashton shepherding Lurleen toward the front, nudged Idelia to follow. Once everyone but the council and the van der Zees had cleared out of the church, he went on his way.
He made it home in record time, ready to make the most of the two things in his favor. First, Mama Lurleen knew about his plan and would do her best to keep the meeting going. Second, she’d kindly translated the recipe to English. While Jerome wasn’t half the cook Idelia was, surely he could whip up a batch of her favorite cookies—pepernoten.
Especially since they were supposed to be hard anyway.
It wasn’t long before he’d situated the horses and stood in the kitchen, laying out the ingredients. Flour, sorghum, water, an egg, and five different spices. He headed for the spice rack, holding up the recipe to check against the labels. Cinnamon he knew. Salt was easy. He spotted nutmeg easily enough, but the anise seeds and cloves were harder.
Hmm … the recipe said powdered cloves. Jerome opened the container and inhaled the aromatic spice. Smelled good to him, and it couldn’t matter too much. Cloves were cloves, and everything would mix together anyway.
He grabbed the largest bowl in the kitchen and dumped the ingredients into it, then looked again at the instructions. Knead. Funny, he always thought women made desserts and such by stirring with a spoon or whisk.
Maybe it’s a Dutch word for the same thing? Deciding that was probably it, he grabbed a whisk. He gave it some good, solid stirs and watched as everything melded together. Jerome looked at the recipe again. Oops. One egg yolk. Well, it couldn’t make much difference that he put in the whole egg.
In fact, it would probably improve the mix. Since he’d been stirring it, the whole batter had gotten very stiff. Better put in a little more water. And while he was improving things, he might as well keep going. Those cloves were looking pretty strange, streaked and mashed into everything. Maybe if he added more of the other spices, it would even out. Strange that a cookie called pepernoten didn’t have pepper in it. He added a pinch for good measure.
It’s thicker. He peered at the bowl’s contents. It smells good. So he started taking lumps and rolling the dough into balls. They weren’t all the same size and some came out a little lopsided, but the recipe said to flatten them on the pan.
He squashed each one down flat then slid the first batch into the oven. They were supposed to take about twenty minutes—plenty of time for him to make the next batch. And maybe a few minutes to go and work some oil into his saddle.
Jerome returned to the house to find the oven smoking. He grabbed a dishcloth and wrenched open the door, plucking a piping hot pan of smoldering crisps out and dumping them on the stovetop. He stared at the blackened wafers for a moment before sliding in the next batch.
Okay, so he should have paid more attention to the “about” part of the instructions. Not a problem. This next lot would come out better. He wouldn’t leave the kitchen until they were ready. Except to dispose of the singed ones. He gathered them up and hustled out to the hog pen, dumping the bunch into the trough and rushing back to the house.
He opened the oven door to check on the cookies. Still doughy. Jerome plunked down in a chair to wait. An eternity later, his pocket watch said it had been another five minutes. He opened the door again. Not ready yet. Mama Lurleen said they were supposed to darken. They were still pretty light.
But what if it only took a minute between just right and burnt? He checked more frequently until he thought they looked about the right color. Jerome decided to ignore that they looked like crispy, brownish-orange splats instead of cookies.
With plenty of dough left, he rolled more lopsided, flattened lumps and put them in the oven. The cooked ones had cooled, so he figured he should test one. He grabbed the closest cookie and popped it into his mouth.
That pepper sure made itself known. He grimaced as the cloves wedged between his teeth. And was it supposed to taste so … strong? He crunched it into shards and gave a swallow, staring at the mixing bowl in accusation.
He was just starting to pick up and hide the evidence of his failure when the door opened.
Chapter 12
No matter how long she lived, Idelia was positive she’d never forget the look on Jerome’s face when she caught him with those cookies. A streak of dried dough crusted his hair, flour dusted his Sunday shirt, and his face was the very expression of consternation as he shoved a platter of his creation behind his back.
“You’re home.” He sidestepped toward a wall, still concealing the fruits of his labor. Jerome gave her the distinct impression that if she weren’t in the doorway, he’d scuttle out of there faster than she could say, “Stop.”
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Mama was pressing her lips together again, but it was no use. Her shoulders jerked up and down, betraying her smothered giggles. “What’ve you got there?”
“Nothing to be shared with another human being.” He gave a pained sigh and brought the dish out. A heap of thin, dark, misshapen crisps piled atop one another, the source of the pungent smell permeating the room. “It didn’t work.”
“What didn’t work?” Idelia looked from Mama to Jerome and back again, as they obviously knew what was going on.
“Had hard time with the pepernoten, did you?” Mama’s words released her laughter, as well. “What went wrong?”
“You were trying to bake?” Idelia raised her brows but didn’t add on the last part of her thought. Those are supposed to be pepernoten?
“Mama Lurleen said they were your favorite.” He gave a sheepish grin and tried to run his fingers through his hair. His hand caught on the dried gunk, and he pried it loose with a glower. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did.” Idelia bit the inside of her lip to keep her chuckles muffled. Jerome had tried so hard to be thoughtful and had gone to a good deal of trouble to make this mess.
“You’re always making delicious things for me, and I wanted to do the same for you.” He made a hapless gesture. “Seems like baking is more of a science than I knew. Even with a recipe.”
“It’s not so bad.” Idelia wracked her brain for something that would make him feel better. “You didn’t burn them.”
“Yes, I did.” His shoulders hunched, and he looked gloomily at the plate still in his hands. “The first batch is in the hog trough.” The “cookies” looked stranger the more she stared.
“Well, I love pepernoten.” She took a deep breath and reached for one of his creations. She didn’t move fast enough, as he jerked the plate away, causing the top one to fly up and land on his collar.
“What are you thinking?” His voice rang with reprimand. “You can’t eat them. I’m not sure the hogs can stomach them.”
“Now, Jerome.” She reached around and swiped one off the plate, only to have him try to snatch it back. They both wound up with half of the thing. “You made it for me, and I’m going to try it.”
“No, you’re not.” He made a futile grab. “No wife of mine is going to put herself in harm’s way like that.”
“I’m not your wife.” The words stopped him in his tracks, his expression so sad she clarified immediately. “But I will be later this week.” She took a decisive bite of the cookie in her hand and crunched despite the pain in her teeth. After a swallow she added, “So long as you never bake again.”
“Deal.”
“You look beautiful.” Jerome set his jaw. “Now go change.”
“What?” Idelia looked down. “Why?”
“That’s the dress you wore on our first wedding day. And I’ve already told you I’m not marrying you tonight.”
“Jerome!” She clenched her teeth and let out her breath in a hiss. “Stop being so stubborn. Tonight is the Kerstmis celebration, and you have to stop digging in your heels.”
“Nope.” He bit back a grin. She looked so cute when she was indignant. “You’ll have to wait for me like I waited for you.”
“But you know I love you,” she wailed. “There’s no reason to wait.”
If I give in, this will be our wedding night. He tamped down the temptation. “Yes, there is. No one will ever say that I married you for the money, and you’ll never have cause to wonder. There will be no wedding until tomorrow.”
“But I don’t wonder.” She drew close, smelling clean and looking so soft he had to put his hands behind his back like a military captain to keep from holding her. “And I don’t care if anyone else does. We and God know that we’ll mean our vows.”
“I want everyone to know it.” He watched as she came still closer, linking her hands around the back of his neck. “You are more than I deserve as it stands.”
