The wood-burning cookstove was lit, just as it had been since the middle of September. Grandma stood stirring a pot of stew she’d left on a cast iron burner to simmer while we were gone.
“Just as I’d hoped, not scorched in the least.” She held out the tasting spoon toward me for a slurp.
“I’d eat it, even if it was.” I swallowed the stew too eagerly and burned my tongue in the process. Damn. Now I wouldn’t really taste a thing at the Stack tonight.
“Whoever heard of anyone not getting their fill at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast? Better not say that in front of Myra. She’s sure to take offense.” Grandma grabbed the saltshaker and added so little it seemed more like a habit than an actual correction of flavors.
“I meant to eat but Alanza’s death sort of made everything a bit unappealing, safety-wise.” Grandma nodded and reached for the ladle. I moved to a white-painted cupboard and reached up on tiptoe to pull down a stack of soup bowls. The ceilings in this part of the house are lower than those elsewhere but everything still seemed impossibly high. The original builders knew what they were doing in the kitchen. It was housed in the ell, attached to the barn, like so many other New England homes.
It wasn’t built with a full basement underneath, more like a generous crawl space. I can stand up in it but no other adult I know can. Which has led to a lot of time spent down there fetching or placing things no one else can comfortably accomplish. The windows on the north side of the room were small, but they still let in the cold, so the low ceiling helped combat what could be considerable chill. With the stove working away all but three months of the year, the space managed to stay cozy.
I grabbed a handful of spoons and plunked them on the counter next to the bowls. Grandma ladled stew into mine, and I dug into it with a will. I ate the first bowl standing over the sink then refilled it, and after thanking Grandma for her efforts, I took my second helping to the sugarhouse. I had a few things left to prepare for the state inspection scheduled for Tuesday morning. Besides, I was in no mood for the winks the battery-operated Santa my mother had positioned in the kitchen rocker kept sending my way. No matter how many times I snuck down in the night and removed his batteries, someone replaced them by the time I came down for coffee in the morning.
Four
No one else in the family was up for going to the Griddle and Fiddle evening. Mostly they were too worn out from the excitement of the day, but in Celadon’s case, she couldn’t stand the homegrown music. I grabbed the keys to the farm pickup truck and dashed out the door. I glanced down at my jeans and realized they were too dirty to wear out, even for me. I zipped back inside, dug a clean pair from the bottom drawer of my dresser, and tossed on a fresh T-shirt and wool pullover for good measure. I paused in front of the mirror to check that there were no burrs or twigs sticking out of my hair and twisted my head to check each ear.
Nestled tightly to each lobe was the only bit of finery I generally bother with, emerald earrings, given to me on my thirteenth birthday by my grandfather. All the Greene women had an almost identical pair with an emerald center and her own birthstone set around the outside. Mine had an outer ring of sapphires, and I wore them almost every day. The tradition started with Grampa’s grandparents and had continued down through the generations. Oftentimes, a pair like mine had belonged to another woman in the family and had been saved to pass down. I swiped a quick layer of gloss over my lips and hurried back out the door.
On Griddle and Fiddle night, I always try to get to the Stack early to give my best friend, Piper Wynwood, a hand. She hates to ask the regular staff to come unless they volunteer, and she’s always running around like a crazy person at the last minute. All the way over I thought about the buzz Alanza’s death would cause at the gathering. Generally, the Griddle and Fiddle sessions were pure fun. I wondered if even Piper would be able to pull off the magical atmosphere that usually came so naturally to spaces where she appeared.
I pulled my car around behind the Stack and banged on the back door to be let in. Piper held it open while I carried in a slow cooker full of maple mustard glazed kielbasa bites. I loved the music at the Griddle and Fiddle, but it was also a great place to observe which foods were a real hit and which ones got a wishy-washy reception. Piper used the evenings to trial potential menu items for the restaurant, and I practiced on mixes and sauces we were considering retailing at the shop. Sometimes we combined the two. Piper would use my sauces on a menu item in the Stack and make a note in the menu that it was available at Greener Pastures. We did the same in the shop, mentioning that if you loved it in the jar, you’d love it the way Piper added it to her specialties in the Stack.