The Measure of Katie Calloway,: A Novel by Serena B. Miller Page A
Authors: Serena B. Miller
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awake in time to get an early start on breakfast!
9
We have fine girls, I own ’tis true.
But, alas, poor things, what can they do?
For if they want an honest man
he can’t be found in Michigan.
“Don’t Come to Michigan”
—1800s shanty song
October 9, 1867
Katie dreamed she was floating in a boat and fell into the water. As she thrashed around, she awoke and realized that she needed to go. Bad. Perhaps her plan to drink two glasses of water before bed was going to work after all!
She put on her shoes and checked the little pocket watch her father had given her a lifetime ago. Midnight. It was only midnight. Disappointed her plan hadn’t worked, she used the chamber pot and got back into bed. How in the world was she going to make herself get up in two more hours?
At first, her sleep was fitful, with many glances at her watch by the light of the candle. Then she once again tumbled into a deep sleep.
Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on her door, and Jigger’s voice broke through her consciousness.
“Hey! Yer sleepin’ in again. Way past time to start breakfast!”
She sat bolt upright. “Coming!” she yelled. “I’ll be right there.” She checked her watch. Three o’clock. She should have been up an hour ago. But at least this morning she was already dressed. Fearful this sort of thing might happen again, she had slept on top of the covers, fully clothed.
She splashed water on her face from the basin she had filled the night before and smoothed her hair down with her damp hands. She had deliberately not taken it out of its bun before she lay down. She blew out the candle and bolted into the darkness.
Jigger had already started the fire in the stove. She set her largest pot on top and dumped half a bucket of lard in to melt for the doughnuts she had told him she was making this morning.
A half pound of bacon for each man, she figured, so the eight pounds of bacon she had thick-sliced the night before should be enough. She threw two huge cast-iron skillets on the range and began layering the bacon in the bottoms. While that began to sizzle, she mixed up the flapjack batter Jigger told her the men would expect every morning. She checked, and the lard was beginning to get warm, but it wasn’t yet hot enough for doughnuts. There was time to get the flapjacks finished first. About six per man, from what she had seen yesterday morning.
“Is the sorghum and butter on the table?” she asked without turning around. It took all her concentration to keep the flapjacks from burning while frying the bacon.
“Already did it,” Jigger said. “While you was still a-snoozin’.”
“Take over the bacon, please.” She ignored his comment. “I’ll cut out the doughnuts.”
Even with only one hand, Jigger was capable of frying bacon. It could be worse, she thought. She could be left alone with no help at all.
“Can I help?” Ned wandered in, rubbing his eyes. She had not wanted to awaken the little fellow so early, but now that he was up, at least Robert couldn’t complain.
“Bring more firewood from outside,” she said. “The stove needs to be extra hot for the doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts?” Ned’s eyes widened. “We’re having doughnuts?”
“Just as soon as I can make them.”
Ned trotted happily off to do his chore.
“The men like ’em extra sweet,” Jigger said. “And I like to put vaniller in mine.”
“Me too.” She reached for the sack of sugar and dumped in several cupfuls. She had often helped her mother make doughnuts, and she automatically doubled the recipe.
“The vaniller’s over yonder on the shelf.”
“Thank you.” As she reached for it, she congratulated herself on the fact that they seemed to be finally getting along. If only she could figure out a way to wake up without Jigger’s help.
She dropped a smidgen of doughnut batter into the oil and watched it sizzle to a golden brown. One by one, she slipped raw doughnuts into the hot lard and watched
9
We have fine girls, I own ’tis true.
But, alas, poor things, what can they do?
For if they want an honest man
he can’t be found in Michigan.
“Don’t Come to Michigan”
—1800s shanty song
October 9, 1867
Katie dreamed she was floating in a boat and fell into the water. As she thrashed around, she awoke and realized that she needed to go. Bad. Perhaps her plan to drink two glasses of water before bed was going to work after all!
She put on her shoes and checked the little pocket watch her father had given her a lifetime ago. Midnight. It was only midnight. Disappointed her plan hadn’t worked, she used the chamber pot and got back into bed. How in the world was she going to make herself get up in two more hours?
At first, her sleep was fitful, with many glances at her watch by the light of the candle. Then she once again tumbled into a deep sleep.
Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on her door, and Jigger’s voice broke through her consciousness.
“Hey! Yer sleepin’ in again. Way past time to start breakfast!”
She sat bolt upright. “Coming!” she yelled. “I’ll be right there.” She checked her watch. Three o’clock. She should have been up an hour ago. But at least this morning she was already dressed. Fearful this sort of thing might happen again, she had slept on top of the covers, fully clothed.
She splashed water on her face from the basin she had filled the night before and smoothed her hair down with her damp hands. She had deliberately not taken it out of its bun before she lay down. She blew out the candle and bolted into the darkness.
Jigger had already started the fire in the stove. She set her largest pot on top and dumped half a bucket of lard in to melt for the doughnuts she had told him she was making this morning.
A half pound of bacon for each man, she figured, so the eight pounds of bacon she had thick-sliced the night before should be enough. She threw two huge cast-iron skillets on the range and began layering the bacon in the bottoms. While that began to sizzle, she mixed up the flapjack batter Jigger told her the men would expect every morning. She checked, and the lard was beginning to get warm, but it wasn’t yet hot enough for doughnuts. There was time to get the flapjacks finished first. About six per man, from what she had seen yesterday morning.
“Is the sorghum and butter on the table?” she asked without turning around. It took all her concentration to keep the flapjacks from burning while frying the bacon.
“Already did it,” Jigger said. “While you was still a-snoozin’.”
“Take over the bacon, please.” She ignored his comment. “I’ll cut out the doughnuts.”
Even with only one hand, Jigger was capable of frying bacon. It could be worse, she thought. She could be left alone with no help at all.
“Can I help?” Ned wandered in, rubbing his eyes. She had not wanted to awaken the little fellow so early, but now that he was up, at least Robert couldn’t complain.
“Bring more firewood from outside,” she said. “The stove needs to be extra hot for the doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts?” Ned’s eyes widened. “We’re having doughnuts?”
“Just as soon as I can make them.”
Ned trotted happily off to do his chore.
“The men like ’em extra sweet,” Jigger said. “And I like to put vaniller in mine.”
“Me too.” She reached for the sack of sugar and dumped in several cupfuls. She had often helped her mother make doughnuts, and she automatically doubled the recipe.
“The vaniller’s over yonder on the shelf.”
“Thank you.” As she reached for it, she congratulated herself on the fact that they seemed to be finally getting along. If only she could figure out a way to wake up without Jigger’s help.
She dropped a smidgen of doughnut batter into the oil and watched it sizzle to a golden brown. One by one, she slipped raw doughnuts into the hot lard and watched
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