Birdie congratulated herself, first on finding two relish plates and second on placing the sliced tomatoes and cucumbers in an artistic pinwheel design. The table was set with two butter servers, two sets of salt and pepper, and two baskets full of bread placed at each end of the table, and everything appeared under control.
She heard the screen door open, and then Van appeared in the kitchen doorway. “There’s a buggy comin’ and a rider. I figure your folks are coming after you, Birdie. Can’t see who the rider is, could be Cornell. They’re comin’ from the canyon.”
The news spun Birdie completely around, her arms flying out in a panic. “We don’t have enough food.”
Behind her, she heard the screen door bang shut. She sprinted for the stove, flung open the oven door, and stared helplessly at the four chickens roasting and the eight halves of Hubbard squash. Baffled, she couldn’t decide what to do—how could she tell if they were done, how should she serve them? Everything looked done, the chickens nice and brown and crusty, and the squash, well, who could tell when squash was done? She poked a half with a fork and the fork sunk into the meat of the squash. She nodded and made the call—they were done. But would it be enough for…she counted on her fingers, ten people? Ten. Not ordinary people, but hungry men people. She doubted it.
Thinking fast, she dashed to the pantry where she found a basket of dried bread and a covered bowl of chicken livers, gizzards, and necks already cooked, sitting in their own stock. She turned up her nose but carried the disgusting parts out to the stove. She diced up some onion, celery, and mushrooms from the pantry, added the chicken livers, but set aside the gizzards and necks, unable to stomach the sight of them.
After a frantic search, she found the sage, seasoned everything with salt and pepper, tossed everything together with a liberal amount of bacon fat, and let it sizzle in the skillet while she crumbled up the dried bread in a big bowl. Once she had the ingredients from her skillet added to her breadcrumbs, she moistened the entire mess with the chicken stock. She pulled out the pan of roasting chickens and spooned the dressing all around the edge and in between and then stood back, amazed at her resourcefulness.
Before she shut the oven door, it occurred to her she would need to make gravy. You couldn’t have dressing and no gravy. She couldn’t do gravy—gravy took skill and patience, and she had neither. Her attempts at making gravy either turned out like wallpaper paste or lumpy like oatmeal, in both cases unappetizing and inedible.
Like the wind across the prairie, Doreen Bollo burst into the room in a swish of energy. Angry, hands on her ample hips, she marched up to her daughter. “Birdie-Alice Bollo, I’m getting sick and tired of running you down. I’d like to know what maggot has gotten into your brain. Why do you keep haring off like a wild colt?
“Last night you told me you had to be at the church at seven this morning to help Mrs. Gainnor arrange flowers for Mr. Gainnor’s funeral this afternoon. I believed you,” her mother said and stomped her foot. “I don’t know why I did, but I did. When I saw Mrs. Gainnor heading for the church at nine this morning, I knew you’d flown the coop again. She, of course, knew nothing about you helping her.”
Huffing and sweating, Birdie flapped her arms in frustration. “Never mind all of that, Mother. I need help here. Jo’s been cooking all day. She’s upstairs resting. I told her I could take care of things down here. Gabe is home, he’s brought with him his fiancée and his future mother-in-law, and now you and Daddy show up…”
Brows drawn together, her mother scanned the room and sniffed the air. “And Cornell, Cornell is here too. We insisted he come along to sort out this misunderstanding.”
Her mother stepped around her and peeked in the oven, then ran a finger across the counter next to the stovetop. She bent over the empty mixing bowl and wrinkled her nose.
Birdie ignored her mother as she picked up the skillet to take it to the wash-pan. “There’s enough food for six or seven people, but I don’t know about ten. The chickens are done. They’re brown anyway. And I can put a fork in the squash. I made some stuffing. I’ve never made stuffing before. I think I put everything in it I should. No matter, it’s in there cooking. But if we have stuffing, I think we have to have gravy, and I don’t do gravy. I need help.”
Brought up short, her mother stood before her, her eyes round in disbelief and wonder. “Stuffing? You made stuffing?” she said reverently. “I didn’t realize you even knew what it was.” Taking a fork, she opened the oven door and sampled a bit of the concoction. After giving it another taste, she declared, “I’m proud of you, Birdie. Let’s see what we’ve got to make the gravy. Do you have any of the chicken stock left?”
Birdie found her mother an apron and then gave her a rundown of events so far. As her mother helped her prepare the chicken gravy, and make it without lumps, her father poked his head into the kitchen to see his girls.
“We figured you’d be out here,” he said, placing his big paws on Birdie’s shoulders while she methodically stirred the gravy in the saucepan. “What are you making there, wallpaper paste?”
Her mother jabbed her father on the shoulder. “Hush, Raphael, Birdie’s cooking. She’s made the stuffing, and now she’s preparing the gravy.”
This her mother disclosed in much the same reverent tone she’d used upon learning Birdie had made the stuffing. The way her mother said it, it sounded like she’d performed some complicated experiment, invented a way to turn mud to diamonds, or discovered a cure for baldness. Birdie resented it. She’d promised herself she would not succumb to childishness, not tonight. She resisted the urge to abandon the field, give over all the cooking duties to her mother, and ride the heck out of here. Run and hide.
Behind her, her father muttered, “Ah,” and then patted her on the shoulder. “Forewarned is forearmed.” He kissed her on the cheek before pulling back. “Well, the men are going out to the office.”
Birdie glanced over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out at him. His back to her, he headed back outside. He hadn’t caught her defiant gesture, but her mother had, and she shook her finger in Birdie’s face.
“The office? What office?” Doreen asked her husband’s retreating backside.
“The barn, Mother,” Birdie explained and tapped her spoon on the side of the pan before she tasted the gravy coating the utensil. She nodded, pleased her gravy had begun to thicken without lumps. It smelled right and tasted right. She set the pan aside, afraid it would scorch. All she needed now was a gravy boat. She shouted to her father before he went out the screen door. “Dinner will be on the table in fifteen minutes. You tell the boys in the office I expect them to come when I call.”
Birdie heard her father chuckle. He winked at her and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before the screen door slapped shut.