Page 34 of The Gift of Seeds
Her silent prayer of thanksgiving before the meal was extra appreciative.
Although the orphans had been well fed, their food was basic and cheap. The days they could put berries or honey or cinnamon in their oatmeal seemed like a real treat. Scrambled eggs and especially bacon, were rarer, still. Even all her years at Mrs. Ransome’s, with plenty of expensive food, hadn’t lessened Hester’s gratitude for the blessing of eating a meal she loved.
Unlike Lucy, who devoured her breakfast, Hester ate slowly, savoring every bite. Then she cleaned up, and, without any more excuses to dawdle, retreated to her cold bedroom to get dressed.
Once finished, Hester went to her traveling chest, in which she’d stored all the linen, and lifted the stack of neatly folded sheets to reach the one on the bottom. Jimmy’s sheet, graying, worn in places, with big cross stitches awkwardly mending long rents. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to cut it up for cleaning rags.
Now, she was glad of that decision. When she rolled the strudel dough thinner than a dime and spread the sweet contents across the top, she’d need to lift the sheet to help slowly roll the dough into a log.
Not wanting to take the time to light the lantern, she propped open the cellar door, climbing down to retrieve a bushel of apples. She deliberately kept the space tidy and organized so, in the dim light, she could quickly grab what she needed without tripping over anything, and then escape up the stairs before too much colder air filtered into the house.
Hester set the basket on the side of the wash basin to clean the red apples. As she donned an apron, she recalled Micah stopping by several weeks ago, pulling a shiny red wagon withthis basket from the elder Nortons. He blithely informed her his grandmother insisted the apples werefloodinghis grandfather’s study, so Miss Smithmustaccept another basket, lest the minister drown in fruit.
Unable to resist Mrs. Norton’s funny message and the boy’s cheeky grin, Hester graciously accepted the gift. When she complimented his wagon, Micah’s eyes twinkled, much like his father’s, and he shrugged. “Grandpere’sbirthday present. He told me it was about time I earned my keep.
Hester chuckled at the memory. Then, more soberly, she contrasted Micah’s lighthearted repetition of his grandfather’s teasing with the very real pressure that all the orphans had felt to ‘earn their keep.’
By the time the older children were twelve, they were sometimes allowed to work outside the orphanage. The girls minded children for mothers who were ill or recovering from childbirth, or they drudged as kitchen maids or house cleaners when a hostess needed extra help for a party. They usually earned two cents a day. One penny went to the orphanage fund. The other they were allowed to keep.
Hester always made sure to save, so she could buy Lovie and Jimmy Christmas presents. For her brother…a slingshot one year. A handful of marbles another. When he was older, to remind him to have ambition and use his mechanical abilities and interests to pursue a profession, she’d gifted him a wool scarf, almost as fine as those the gentlemen wore.
How I wish he’d followed my advice.But with a university education out of the question, and few engineers or mechanical-type tradesmen willing to apprentice an orphan, her brother had naively thought to become a logger to make “good money.” In hindsight, his earnings weren’t much better than he could have done elsewhere.And the danger took him from me.
Tears pricked her eyes.Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Hester forced herself to focus on happy times—making the strudel and remembering the children’s laughter, sneaking bites of the filling, competing to see which group would make the thinnest layer of dough with the fewest holes.
For Christmas Eve dinner, instead of soups or stews that only had scraps of meat, they enjoyed turkey and the next day, ham for breakfast. Best of all, they ate the strudel forbothmeals, and sometimes Christmas dinner, too.
How they looked forward to that first bite—the strudel still warm from the oven. The crunch of the outer layer and almost custardy fruit layers. The tang of the apples and the sweetness of the sugar and cinnamon.
Her mouth watered.Maybe I’ll make a small strudel for myself.
As Hester immersed herself in her memories, her hands stayed busy with the strudel preparations. She cut apples into tiny cubes, soaked the raisins in hot water for ten minutes, mixed sugar and cinnamon in a small bowl, and, in a larger one, combined flour and salt to start the dough. She took down the wooden bread trough, which hung on the wall.
Sometimes, Hester heard the chime of harness bells when people drove by in their sleighs. The first time, she glanced out the window to watch a couple drive by in a big black sleigh. After that, she focused on her baking.
Almost without her awareness, she started to contentedly hum “Coventry Carol,” one of her favorite Christmas hymns, which emerged into singing, the words keeping company with her childhood memories of the holidays.
Since she was making the pastry Mrs. Holtz’s had taught her, she continued with the German carols the children had learned from the matron, “Stille Nacht,” “Oh, Tannebaum,” and “Ihr Kinderlein Kommet.” She sang each in German, and then againin English. “Silent Night,” “Oh, Christmas Tree,” and “Oh, Come Little Children.”
She remembered on Christmas Eve day, how she and Lovie would curl each other’s hair in rags after their evening baths, so in the morning, they could wear their hair long and pulled back in a big bow, instead of their usual braids. They’d found the material to make their bows in a box of fabric scraps donated for quilts. They’d proudly worn those bows for years. Hester still had hers tucked away in her trunk—faded and a bit frayed.We had good times.
After mixing flour and salt, Hester stirred in water, oil, and a small amount of vinegar until she made a rough-edged dough ball. She continued kneading, adding a little water when it became too dry.
Once she finished kneading, Hester greased her bread trough with butter and placed the ball into it. She turned the dough to coat the whole surface with butter. Then she set a towel over the bowl to rest for an hour. Because this dough didn’t contain yeast, it wouldn’t rise. But the vinegar would ensure that it became stretchy.
After finishing her preparations, Hester washed her floury hands and dried them on her apron.
I probably should take Lucy outside. Bring in more wood, too.
She glanced out the window, surprised to see how bright the day was, quite a contrast to yesterday’s purple-blue clouds. Moving closer to view the outside, she gasped at the beauty before her. This wasn’t the first snowfall she’d witnessed in Montana. Several had occurred. But each had been light, the layers building on each other.
Sunlight sparkled on the snow and glittered in lacey patterns on the branches of the trees. A red cardinal flew to land on abranch, and she wondered how the owl she often heard at dusk had fared in the storm.
She glanced down at the dog, patiently sitting at her feet. “What do you say, girl? Shall we go outside?”
A “rrruuff,” a bounce, and a tail wag were her answers.
