Tess stood in front of the stove, staring at the huge black metal monstrosity with a mixture of dread and anticipation. She tried to tell herself this was a challenge, and she'd always loved a good challenge. Somehow this time it didn't work. There was no doubt in her mind that cooking was not one of the things she would be good at in this?or any other?life. In 1993 she hadn't had to worry about it. Between the takeout joints, delicatessens, restaurants, and frozen-food sections of her local grocery store, there'd been no reason to cook, but now, in 1873, she had no choice. She wanted to lift some of the burden from Savannah
's shoulders, and she wanted to be a mother. Cooking achieved both her goals. And so, cook she would. She'd given herself plenty of time. It was just after midday. The girls wouldn't be home from school for hours. All she had to do was start.
She kneeled and stared through the heavy, soot-stained grate. Thin, twisted, black remains jutted from a pile of cold, gray ashes. The acrid scent of a long-dead fire seeped through the iron bars and stung her eyes.
Using two fingers, she started to ease the door open.
She realized her mistake immediately. The door
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weighed a ton. It crashed downward, whacked hard on her bent knees, and knocked her off balance. With a stuttered cry, she flailed forward and smacked her head against the warming oven.
When she woke up, she was sprawled on the kitchen floor with her blue gingham gown up around her middle.
She took one look at herself and burst out laughing. Ten seconds in the kitchen and she'd already knocked herself unconscious.
Rubbing the goose-egg-sized bump that was forming above her left eye, she got to her knees and stared into the cold dead ashes. A sinking feeling tugged at her empty stomach. Ignoring it, she got to her feet and stood confidently in front of the stove. She tried her best to feel cheflike.
It was like trying to squeeze into a size four with the saleslady watching.
"Okay," she said aloud, "I'm going to cook dinner." She paused, thinking. "The first thing to do is make a fire."
She smiled, feeling better already. Yes, that seemed like a sensible plan of attack for someone hell-bent on cooking a meal. Make a fire.
There was a small, neatly piled stack of kindling alongside the stove. She opened the grate door and propped it open with her knee. Then, leaning sideways, she grabbed a few sticks and dropped them in the steel hole.
A quick search of the kitchen revealed no paper. So she set the kitchen towel on fire and dropped it on the pile of wood.
Thick, gray-black smoke spiraled up from the burning rag and crept along the ceiling. She waved it aside and peered into the hole. The smallest stick had caught on fire. Things were looking good.
Whistling at her success, she ambled around the cluttered kitchen, looking for a cookbook. She took this search
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considerably more seriously than she had her inspection for paper, and opened one cupboard after another. Next she tried the drawers. When she found herself lifting up the silverware to see what was underneath, she knew she was getting panicky.
There were no cookbooks.
How in the hell was she supposed to cook without instructions?
She flung the pantry door open and stared into the neatly aligned shelves. That sinking feeling immediately came back into her gut. The food was in industrial-sized sacks, stacked one after another and tied up with fraying rope. And jars. There were hundreds of glass jars brimming with colorful globs that reminded her of an eighth-grade science lab. Each jar proudly bore a date?as if people chose food by date rather than content.
Anxiety began to unravel Tess's self-confidence. She squeezed her eyes shut and sought divine help. Okay, I believe in reincarnation. So ESP must be real, too. Mom, give me a recipe. Or you, Carol. Come on, don't be shy. Jump on in.
Long minutes passed. No one answered.
Apparently deceased relatives and guardian angels were like cops. There was never one around when you needed them.
She opened her eyes. A thick sack of flour filled her vision.
Flour. Okay, what did a person make with flour?
Bread. She dismissed that idea immediately. She may not have been a great cook, but she'd been a world-class shopper. Bread makers sold for two hundred dollars? anything that expensive had to alleviate a ton of hard labor. She had to start small.
Small bread. Biscuits! She could do that.
Smiling broadly, she got out everything she thought she