Disclaimer: I own nothing of GWTW.
Chapter 8
Scarlett and the girls hadn't seen the menfolk again for a couple of hours when Rhett brought her a bagful of turkey tail feathers and vague directions concerning the creation of an Indian headdress for Wade to wear at his birthday feast.
He'd at least cleaned the feathers but tasked her with the actual fabrication. At first, she protested the use of valuable thread from the minuscule sewing kit she always kept in her reticule that had somehow miraculously survived the trip, but to no avail. She could see in his eyes that Wade would have the headdress, and with an inward sigh, she set aside what time she could in order to bind it together in some semblance of what she distantly remembered seeing depicted in books as a child.
She had the feathers, a handful of old leather boot lacings culled from the pile of junk in the second-room storage corner, and her imagination. Not a great deal to go on.
Scarlett was much more interested in the turkey and all the meals that could be managed from it than she was in any whimsical creation. They'd finished up the mince pie and most of the ham at noon, only saving the last bits for flavoring dried beans and such.
Rhett gave her the wings and a thigh to roast for their dinner that night and the noontime meal on the morrow; the rest would be smoked, and the children went on and on about the savory drumsticks that would be served for the party. Their favorites, and in a rare moment of magnanimity Scarlett told Wade he could have an entire leg for himself.
She regretted it almost immediately. But she reasoned that the turkey would provide many more meals; she could roast the neck and fry the gizzards and the heart and liver; the skin would provide valuable fat, and the sweetbreads, even the tail meat and feet could be boiled and served. She could manage more than one stew with the bones alone. This one kill would feed them for a week at least.
Sensing her patience was wearing dangerously thin, or perhaps for other reasons (Scarlett suspected he'd put off providing game himself so he could watch her do it) Rhett repaired and baited two rabbit traps with the week's worth of apple cores before dinner.
If he managed to trap a couple of rabbits she wouldn't have to worry for a while, although she wouldn't breathe much easier until the hickory shelves in that smokehouse were full. And they still needed fruit and vegetables to avoid sickness.
Whenever she had a spare moment Scarlett watched the sunniest points in the cleared portions of land around the cabin, trying to imagine where a garden might have been placed, and stared at the woods outside the windows, wondering what they might provide if only she could get to them.
Ella and Bonnie felt the momentum of the celebration and became excited, chatter growing louder as they finished up their gifts. Rhett egged them on when he took breaks indoors and by the late afternoon they were nearly jumping out of their skin, demanding their own feathered costume creations for the event. It was going to be a long, long day.
She couldn't help but notice Ella becoming more and more demanding as she spent time in Bonnie and Rhett's presence. They'd ruined her, she thought sourly, but then an inadvertent smile twisted her lips. It was refreshing to see Ella display spirit, even if sometimes annoying.
Rhett's words about her children's fear had cut her, and despite herself, she found that she wanted to keep up their bargain, and not only because decent Rhett was so worth it.
Although, as the day went on something unsettling about the festive mood niggled at her memory. When she punctured the palm of her hand with the end of a particularly tough turkey quill, she stared at the wound blankly until she recalled similar large feathers, albeit much more appealing, silky ones in saturated bronze and green-black colors, belonging to a scrawny rooster at Tara; ones that Melly had placed in her old patched bonnet, made new and fashionable when covered in the green velvet of Ellen O'Hara's portières.
Blast it. The party atmosphere amid squalor and deprivation. This day had been reminding her of that day when all of her folk were excited and happy to make her a dress and send her off to try to save them from ruin, even as they were teetering on the brink of disaster.
She could see them in her mind's eye; Ashley, Will, and her father smiling and smoking whatever they could find to smoke, coming to life as she bustled about and laughed in high spirits, even Suellen moved to give up her finest lace collar and Careen her best slippers.
And then herself, watching them all with concealed contempt and bitterness. They knew not what the depths she would sink to, what she would face. She thought of Rhett and her eyes clouded momentarily. He had never realized exactly what she'd gone through for so long. She doubted if he ever would, not all of it at least because she'd be damned if she'd ever share the magnitude of the sordid and horrifying details.
As it was he'd use what he did know against her in the most unexpected moments, and it felt like being jabbed with a needle when his smooth, barbed words caught her unaware.
Lost in her musings, she nearly failed to realize it was the first she'd thought of Ashley at all in days. When the thought came to her she found it perturbing and probed at her feelings, which did not help.
She feared that somehow she felt almost nothing at all for this man she'd loved for so long, other than a type of bleary nostalgic fondness for an old friend in far-gone times. She wondered briefly if he was dreadfully worried about her now that surely Atlanta knew they were missing, even presumed drowned; she wondered, again, why she hardly felt the possibility compelling.
She found this line of thinking supremely disconcerting and shook her head in slight confusion. She still cared for him, more than just cared, didn't she? Surely it was her current situation that had her mind muddled. Well, she'd worry about that some other time.
Scarlett swallowed thickly as she watched her children. For the thousandth time, she pictured what would happen if one of them fell sick. She squared her shoulders unconsciously. She would keep them alive and well, she would, despite this cabin and this mountain and all the challenges they might collectively present. She would starve and freeze and tromp through waist-deep snow only to wrestle a bear if need be.
She'd saved her family from certain ruin by sailing into the unknown horrors of post-war Atlanta, deeply in tax debt, all but starved, worked half to death, and beaten down by poverty and bad luck, wearing a made-over curtain dress over her ragged petticoats, and armed with no more than her flailing charm and wits; she'd committed murder, before that. She could do this.
Just then the front door opened and Rhett caught her in that moment, her eyes hard and glittering glass, staring out the window unseeing at the fresh snow that was just beginning to fall. He gave her a questioning glance, stamping his feet with Wade right behind. She looked away and without hesitating he picked Bonnie and Ella up, both squealing as he shook the snow from his hair over their faces, laughing as he did so.
"These little ladies need a nap," he ordered jovially. "You too, Wade. We won't need to check on the turkey for several hours yet."
She couldn't help but notice his early morning and late night lone forays to the smokehouse were not relaxing him as much as they had at first. At times he reminded her of a kettle about to boil over, and he seemed to be avoiding her even more than before. At the present, however, he seemed at peace enough.
Rhett took the girls to the next room and deposited them into their beds amidst weak protests. Wade grumbled but went willingly up to the loft. The sparkling winter sun retreated behind darkened clouds, providing an opportune time for late afternoon rest.
"What's wrong?" he asked as he came back to where she sat at the fireplace, gesturing to her lap. She looked up at him blankly and then back down to the hand she was unconsciously cradling. She'd forgotten all about her injury.
"Just a few quill pricks and scratches." She reached for the wretched semblance of a headdress again. It still looked like the ruffled back end of a wild bird, and nothing like what it was supposed to resemble despite all her efforts.
"Let me see," he said, sitting in the rocking chair next to hers and reaching for her hand. He barely fit in the chair; the man took up a great deal of space.
"It's nothing," she protested, but after he tugged she gave it willingly. Something else that felt like a feathered, winged thing fluttered in her breast as held her diminutive pale hand in his tanned and large one.
She held her breath as he examined the hurt palm, then turned her hand over to reveal the calluses and wear, the bruises scattered across her knuckles, and the small abrasions left from the labor she'd engaged in, trying to beat their winter fortress into a home.
And they were still there in her mind, the unpleasant recollections of the green dress and the visit to the firehouse all those years ago. Why would this day, these memories torture her when she had so much work to do? Why would Rhett not just let her be?
She tried to pull her hand back, feeling defensive and she didn't know why. She just hated that memory, of how angry he had become, how he'd goaded her to go on and then refused her and mocked her.
No doubt he'd comment on her current unrefined appearance and lack of gentility; and her hands, of course, the hands of a field laborer.
Old humiliations coupled with the anticipation of new ones stained her cheeks with fresh color.
"Scarlett," he said.
She had nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself; well, not that much, and not lately. She had only been trying to survive, both then and now. It happened so long ago but somehow felt as if it was taking place all over again.
He cleared his throat. "Scarlett," he repeated.
Rhett wouldn't stop until she looked up at him. She knew him that well, at least. He regarded her with those dark, cool eyes as he gently dropped her hand.
"You've done wonders with this ramshackle old cabin. The children are clean and well cared for, and everything is neat, tidy, and in perfect order. You've proven to be a better cook than I had ever imagined, and you're utilizing the available foodstuffs in an admirably frugal yet effective manner."
An uncomfortable expression flashed across his face for a split second. "You've also made a point to keep my boots and coat as dry as possible, and my meager few items of clothing brushed and laundered as needed. I'm not exactly sure how you do it, although I suspect you get up while I'm sleeping to move my belongings around the fire to better have them warm and dry by morning."
That's exactly what she did, although she would never admit it to him. She also would never tell him that getting up often kept the night terrors at bay, although she paid mightily for it the next morning.
"I am your wife. You are my husband. And I can hardly afford for you to take ill."
"Leave it to you to be almost obscenely practical when it comes to my health, yet you could hardly call yourself much of a wife when—"
"There is more than one aspect to being a wife," she countered sharply. "Or a husband, for that matter."
A slight smirk replaced the chagrin as he continued. "We'll leave that alone for the time being. I knew you were strong-willed and determined, yet I never would have imagined you would be this capable in domestic matters. Not to mention," he gave her a sideways glance, "your skill with the bow and arrow."
She didn't know if she'd heard or imagined the emphasis on 'domestic' but she did know that Rhett's compliments were almost unfailingly two-edged; she merely needed to wait for the other shoe to fall to see what he really meant.
The strain and stress of the past days felt like a load of bricks on her chest. She pressed her lips together. She would not cry, not if it hare-lipped hell would she cry no matter how hard he mocked her efforts.
He went on, oblivious to her inner turmoil. "Upon reflection, I shouldn't be that surprised. The mauso—, er, our home in Atlanta, although somewhat oppressively loud in decor, is organized and efficient. You do very well with it, managing the servants and meals and such. Better than the vast majority, I venture to say."
She shrugged warily. She only did what she had been taught to do. She just happened to be good at it.
"You spend so little time there anymore I'm surprised you noticed." She tried to keep the tartness out of her tone and failed miserably.
"And you value my presence so little, there as well as in other places, that I'm surprised you'd mention it," he shot back. Eh. She'd walked right into that one, and wisely, did not pursue it further.
"Forgive me, Rhett. I'm just not used to you being so nice to me."
"I can be nice." He reached into his pocket for a cigar and frowned when it came up empty. "I'm currently attempting to temper my usual irreverence and sarcasm with sincerity, although the effort seems to be once again lost on you."
Her shoulders sank. "And why would you make such an attempt at this late date?"
"Wade told me of some of what went on at Tara. Matters that you have never shared with me."
What? Is that what they were discussing during their man lessons?
"Wade was a baby."
"Yes, but Melly and Mammy explained quite a bit to him later on."
She frowned. Wade had no business knowing what all she'd done at Tara. Ever.
"Nothing untoward," he assured her. She nodded, albeit warily.
"Funny enough, Melly told him that your giving up portions of your meager meals then, and as you are doing now, for the children as well as myself—oh, don't think I haven't noticed," he said when she started to interrupt, "in addition to working yourself past the point of exhaustion is how you show love, of all things, in times of great need."
She avoided his piercing gaze. "Melly would think that."
"Yes, and Wade shared that Mammy agreed, maintaining you learned the little not sleeping and exhaustion practice from your sainted mother's fine example."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you talk about my—"
He waved away her protest airily. "As we all know, you are no saint. And it remains to be seen how you demonstrate tender feelings when times aren't dire."
He actually looked at her expectantly at this point, as if she would elaborate. She gave a delicate snort and turned her eyes away, at a sudden loss for words.
The fact that he interpreted her merely taking care of him in a wifely manner—as any respectable woman would, considering the circumstances— as a show of love and devotion rankled, and also piqued her in a most vexing fashion that she refused to explore. No need to encourage Rhett in that line of thinking. No need at all.
He went on as if he didn't sense her inner turmoil.
"There are many choices I don't think you should take pride in, yet you should be proud that you were able to persevere, and still are."
Damn him. How was he so perceptive, how did he always know what was bothering her?
"I made the choices I felt I had to make in order to persevere. Believe it or not, I wasn't always thrilled with them, even from the start. You always assume the worst of my motives, and I've come to suspect that your opinions of me reflect your opinions of yourself."
He had the grace to look a tad taken aback before his eyes lit with devilment. "Ah. So you consider yourself to be of an elevated nature, naturally possessing much more moral fiber than I."
"I didn't say that, although it wouldn't precisely be a high bar if I believed it. You just seem to think we are the same person sometimes, and we are not."
"Hmm." He gave her a measuring glance. "Perhaps. But you are worrying too much. I am here. You're not doing it by yourself. You're not alone."
"I wasn't alone then but in the end, I might as well have been." She twisted her injured hand by mistake and grimaced. "I-I do value your presence in my life Rhett, I've just never been able to depend on it. You are always leaving when I need you most. It seems I've been forevermore watching your back as you walk away from me."
A moment of heavy silence filled the air before he spoke again.
"I don't believe you are considering the effort expended," he said carefully, too carefully, "each and every time I returned, and continue to return, very much against my better judgment."
The silence stretched on until the atmosphere became nearly unbearable.
"Never mind all that," she said, and she waved her hand this time. "We'll have the party and then it will be over and back to the pile of challenges we've been dealing with since the wreck. All this hoopla will be for nothing in the end."
"Not for nothing. We need a break, Scarlett, from the worry. Even during the war, the soldiers would have evenings when we would drink what we could find and play cards, tell stories and laugh. Did you never have a break at Tara?"
"Well yes," she said, thinking of the day they made the dress again. "Yes, we did. But it didn't change anything. Only hard work changes anything. Well, that and money."
"Yet it helps you to work, and make money if there's money to be made, when you've had some time to play and know you will have more such time in the future. Bonnie and Ella may be too young but I'll wager Wade will remember this birthday for years to come. Let's make it good, shall we?" He stood up and met her gaze directly. His eyes were knowing, as always. She sighed.
"Rhett, you have to help me with this headdress. All I can recall is that the biggest feathers are at the top. It's hopeless."
She was creating a distraction, she knew. She could have certainly figured it out but she'd never enjoyed sewing and the stupid feathers were a pain to manipulate, not to mention the fact that she kept sticking and scratching herself with them.
She could hardly admit that the truth was she wanted him to stay inside and talk to her, to reassure her, and keep her company.
He hesitated. She was about to ask him if he had a more pressing social commitment somewhere in the surrounding wilderness when he seemed to come to an internal decision.
"Let me see," he said once more, with infinite patience.
He sat back down beside her and took the headdress from her hands, turning it this way and that, determining how best to accomplish the goal.
Her mouth went inexplicably dry when he bent his head over her haphazard handiwork, choosing and rearranging the feathers as if it were the most important task in his day. This rustic life is making me soft, she thought. But she didn't stop watching.
They were sitting close, their heads close together, and she could feel the heat from his body. She felt her hair move when he breathed against it. Several times their fingers brushed against one another.
She discussed the plans for the party and the children's high expectations with him and he listened intently, as intently as he'd listened to her problems after the war when she was married to Frank.
The dreariness of her former mood fell away as they passed the time amiably. She would weave and sew pieces for a few minutes and he would smoke. They shared a cup of warmed-over coffee as the children slept on, the falling snow outside creating a peaceful, lulling atmosphere inside the cabin, warm and cocooning and safe.
It felt like no time at all had passed when the sun started to set. Scarlett would need to see about supper soon.
Finally, the headdress took shape.
"Here," she said as she handed it to Rhett. "You will certainly be a better model than I."
He grinned as he obliged, teeth flashing, and he did look like a chief, tall and proud, straight-backed and big as a mountain with his dark hair and dark skin. He chuckled as he looked at himself in the tiny, broken piece of the mirror next to the washstand, then took it off his head and placed it on hers. She had to hold her hand over her mouth not to guffaw at her ludicrous appearance, and his eyes danced with merriment. It reminded her of their honeymoon when they were still light-hearted; when they still played.
"You'd have to shave your mustache to be truly authentic," she said as she reached up and touched it. "As well as the beard." Her fingers lingered as they drifted down his face.
He cleared his throat as he stepped away. She felt dejected. Rejected.
"You need to wake the children for supper here shortly," he said, turning toward the door.
"Before you go I wanted to talk to you about the menu for tomorrow night. We need something for dessert, I thought perhaps I could make some beaten biscuits with honey and maybe some maple snow candy," she shrugged helplessly.
"It's not very festive, but it would be sweet. I don't care about the games so much but I did want the meal to be somewhat special. We just don't have anything that approaches the makings for an actual cake. There's flour and sugar and a little butter left, but no eggs, nothing to make it rise at all."
He smiled. "Hmm. I meant to mention it, I made a discovery when I was in the root cellar earlier. Did you notice that there are dried cranberries mixed in with the beans, quite a bit of them strung on strings right alongside them?"
She shook her head. She had not and felt rather stupid as a result. It would make sense that people living in rural New York would dry and store cranberries.
"Wait right here," he said. "There are some items from the train that I was saving to give to you until tomorrow, but tonight will work just as well."
Items from the train? He was supposed to have shown her all of it days ago! Before she could remark he was out the door and returned less than five minutes later, holding a much smaller burlap bag than the other two.
He dumped it out on the kitchen table with a flourish. Three tins of sardines, one each of anchovies and pickled limes, and four cans of condensed milk. A rather worse-for-wear ball of white fabric rounded out the haul.
Sardines! Anchovies! Such a richness of delicacies made her mouth drop open. Condensed milk that could be cooked into a caramel sauce! Not to mention that she could thin it out and serve it as a warm drink to her dairy-deprived children.
"The luxury canned fare from the dining car kitchen was somewhat buried when the train tipped over but I recognized the label on the sardine tins poking out of the debris just as I was leaving the wreck," he said almost sheepishly. "I buried all this in the bottom of the bag with the collards on top so they wouldn't get too banged up."
His words hardly registered as her mind whirled. Her children would have milk for their bones and fish for their blood. The cranberries and limes; no scurvy. She felt almost faint with relief as Rhett picked up the ball, which now appeared to resemble a rolled-up cravat.
"What is that?" she asked, nearly holding her breath.
"The crown jewel of my nefarious haul," he proclaimed. "A large tin of baking powder had burst open when the car toppled its contents and spilled mostly on the ground, but a good undamaged amount remained in the very bottom of the can. I took off my cravat and poured it in and voila, my lady," he balanced the ball in the palm of his hand and offered it to her.
"Oh," she said, taken aback and momentarily speechless. There must have been a half-cup of baking powder nestled in the fine linen. She gave him a look like he was God Almighty despite herself, to which he nearly preened.
If she sweetened the cranberries heavily she could make a type of cake with the sugar and flour she'd saved, substituting cooked apple for the egg, and drizzle it with the honey and syrup and perhaps even the caramel. So much better than beaten biscuits!
She surveyed his horde again in wonder. How had he gotten it past her and kept it secret for all this time? It wasn't that much food but it would go to make what they had last so much longer. She could forage and Rhett could hunt - she could hunt as well if need be, she'd proven that, but the wild game was all that could provide. The baking powder would help stretch out the cornmeal and flour. The fruit would add flavor, the fish variety. Their chances of survival nearly tripled in her mind. At least, not-totally-bleak survival, that is.
The additional supplies hadn't saved them from worry by any means, but they would lessen misery and perhaps buy them some time.
Suddenly Scarlett knew a moment of flashing red-hot anger that he had hidden this from her, always hiding something, Rhett and his secrets, most of which she was sure she didn't want to know; but this, this was sustenance.
How dare he keep it from her? Didn't he know how much she'd worried, not to mention how much she adored sardines?
She opened her mouth to berate him, then abruptly she shut it.
He did know how she adored sardines. He'd often commented on it, how a girl who'd rarely visited a port city appreciated saltwater fish so much. She'd craved them when pregnant with Bonnie, and he'd made sure they were always on hand, no matter how expensive or scarce they might be.
Rhett wouldn't be Rhett without gifts.
It was part of who he was, at the very heart of him. Perhaps, she thought in a moment of rare and blinding insight, perhaps it was sometimes the only way he could share that part of himself, and demonstrate devotion or tender feelings or gentleness, or however he wanted to term it, as well.
In a fit of spontaneity, she placed the ball of baking powder back on the table and jumped up, hugging him. After a split second's hesitation in which he appeared completely caught off guard, his arms went around her.
They stood like this in silence, too precious and strange a moment to end. He hadn't held her like this in years. She buried her head in his chest and breathed him in. It was exhilarating. And terrifying. It was the best thing that had happened to her in a long, long time.
He spoke again far too quickly.
"Why Scarlett, I should have figured out some time ago that the way to your heart was through your stomach." But there was no sarcasm in his voice. "Have I not kept you well-fed since we married?"
"Well, yes," she admitted into his chest still, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. "Though it's not as if it took any effort on your part, being so rich and loving to throw money around the way you do."
She could feel his frown against her temple. "And you enjoy it as well."
"But this," she ignored him and gestured at the table. "You could have saved for yourself and Bonnie, yet you're sharing. And it's all that's left, and you're giving it to us."
"Ah," he said. "The widow's offering." The phrase rang a slightly biblical note with Scarlett, but not much more.
"Have I not been generous?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said begrudgingly. "Unless you're hiding something else."
She felt the laughter rumble in his chest as he started to pull away. It had to end sometime, she supposed.
"I'd best get to work," she said. Emboldened by the all-too-brief hug, she stood on her toes and made to give him a quick buss on the cheek, nothing more than the simple token gesture she and he had both made on many occasions, but at the last second he turned his head and captured her lips in a searing kiss.
And what a kiss! Her knees went weak and she wanted to laugh out loud and cry at the same time. She'd forgotten how wonderful Rhett's kisses were and she basked in it only minutely before giving back just as good as she got. No need to be shy, this might be her only chance, her last chance, who knew?
He went on with it, tender then demanding, sweet and forceful, raw with need; too much time had passed, and they both felt it.
Surely, she thought dazedly as she held onto his shoulders, the wound in her palm all but forgotten, surely it will all change now. Surely their life together would improve. Her heart swelled with pure and unadulterated joy.
Until Rhett broke the kiss, and, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, dropped his arms and practically vaulted away, for all the world as if touching her had burned his skin.
All the eagerness in his expression had turned to hurt, hurt and something else she dared not decipher. He couldn't get out of that cabin fast enough, moving as quickly as the day they jumped off the train, banging the front door after himself.
She went to the window and watched as he made his way determinedly up the path, her expression befuddled, her mouth slightly open. His fists were buried so deeply in the pockets of his britches it was a wonder they didn't split right open at the seams.
Scarlett waited about five minutes, pacing, cursing softly, wanting to scream with frustration.
And then, by God, she went after him.
OOOOooooOOOooooo
Fun Facts and Author's Notes:
There won't be any cranberry sauce to go with the turkey in this story. For one, it's February, not November, and two, Thanksgiving was considered 'The Yankee Abolitionist Holiday' by many Southerners for years after the war ended. Abraham Lincoln and Sarah Joseph Hale, the editor of Godey's Lady's Book and a fierce abolitionist, were involved in making it an official holiday in 1863, hence the moniker. It's too much info to put here but feel free to google it.
Although the Rhett in my mind is much brawnier and more formidable than Gable in general, if you search 'Clark Gable with a beard' images, the one with him sitting at a table with Carole Lombard, his beloved wife whom he nonetheless cheated on relentlessly, is the one that comes closest to my view of Rhett with a beard. Gable sure does look different with a beard, and he's hardly recognizable without any facial hair at all in Mutiny on the Bounty. The man had some interesting bone structure.
I tried to make beaten biscuits the summer I turned sixteen and totaled my first car; I was stuck at home in a tiny Delta town we'd just moved to, and hadn't made friends yet. The abysmally small library (google Thelma Rayner library in Merigold, MS; you won't believe your eyes when you lay them on that clapboard shack. It's still the same today as it was in 1979, and it's a fair wonder I'm not illiterate) had little fiction or much of anything else, but a relatively large section of, you guessed it, Civil War history, and cookbooks. I chose the cookbooks, most of which had been donated, and were old as Methuselah as a result. Or, at least, as old as the South.
Armed with ancient tomes of handwritten and grease-stained pages falling apart at the seams, I gathered my choices and made some decisions that were a bit less than informed, as my mother didn't cook. Nor her mother before her, or her grandmother before that, but that's another story. The point is, I was breaking virgin ground in my family.
The kitchen of our farmhouse had a rear wall of windows that faced south, nothing but acres of soybeans to look at, and no air conditioning. On a warm day it felt rather like being an ant under a microscope in the sun.
In heat and humidity many people will never try to survive for any great length of time (think South Florida without water or a breeze, or even the mitigating effects of alcohol; it was a 'dry' county, and I was sixteen, remember) I tried my hand at baking. I chose this particular recipe because it did not call for baking powder, as I did not have any. My mother, the non-cook, had none in her kitchen, and I, the friendless car-wrecker, had no way to get to a proper grocery store.
I beat those biscuits. I beat the hell out of them. Beating them (with a mallet, mind you, not a mixer or whisk) was supposed to add air to make up for the lack of leavening agents. Alas, the air I was beating in was 99 percent moisture. In the end, all I got was sore hands and thick, floury, non-crispy crackers, which I suspect was no improvement whatsoever over hardtack; nothing to get excited about, and certainly nothing near what the cookbook author had glowingly described.
The point of this story is leavening agents. Can I take a moment here to talk about the wonders of leavening agents? When you look up how people had to make cakes and breads before things like packaged yeast and baking powder and baking soda were widely available, it's crazy. Messing around with rotten potatoes, mixing up phosphates. Perhaps women of yore dreamt of receiving a big bag of phosphates for Christmas, because have you ever smelled a rotten potato? No wonder pies were so popular.
Baking powder became widely available around 1856 according to Smithsonian Magazine, (the same year condensed milk was invented), and I had to think of a way for Scarlett to get a hold of a little. I felt bad enough that her existence in this tale is further complicated by the lack of eggs. There was no way to give her access to eggs. Believe me, I tried to think of one. Thank God for the apples and a vegan cookbook.
Sardines were considered a luxury item in the 1870s. Sweetened condensed milk was invented in 1856 as stated above by Gail Borden after he witnessed children becoming ill and sometimes dying after drinking contaminated milk on boat trips. Union soldiers were given condensed milk as part of their rations during the war. I would have liked to have given Rhett more than four cans but realistically he was carrying quite a load up that mountain already. Gotta draw the line somewhere.
Pickled limes were a thing. Limes and vinegar? Sounds gross but they did help sailors, and people in general, avoid scurvy. See 'Little Women'. All the popular kids snacked on them. Don't have a recipe but loads of sugar had to be involved.
I'll add the citations for all this later but right now I'm too sleepy.
I thank you for reading, and for your continued support. My sixteen-year-old self thanks you for the opportunity to use that miserable beaten biscuit experience in some kind of productive and creative manner, haha. And I'll have you know that to this day there is always, and I mean always, a fresh can of Clabber Girl baking powder in my cabinet. Freshness is key, and I learned that the hard way as well.
The next few weeks will be devoted to my other fic (The Force, if you're reading) so it may be a little bit, but the next chapter of this story should be fun. Seriously. Got big plans for that birthday party, and the night that follows.
Take care of yourselves and drop me a line if you have time so I know I'm not shouting into the wind. It means the world. Hope to see you soon, peace, misscyn.