Emma’s Cottage: Chapter Three
The sun seemed to come up earlier than it had before. Maybe it was just because she had stayed up too late the night before, but the sun pooled in and she knew she had woken up late. The brown cat was still asleep on her chest, so he must have been tired as well. She gave his little nose a kiss to wake him up and shifted him off of her. Lately she had really loved wearing dresses and boots while working in the garden, so she slipped on her most Little House On The Prairie calico dress and her blundstones and headed down the stairs.
After completing her morning chores, she made herself some coffee and pulled out her sourdough starter. I think I can make ten loafs today to sell this weekend she thought to herself. It was still cool enough out that she was wearing the cardigan that her sister had made her for her birthday last year, so she rolled up the rusty orange sleeves and floured her counter. Her kitchen door was open so her ducks were wondering in and out while she baked and sipped on her coffee. Maybe I will make some cinnamon rolls, too. They went so fast last time. Maybe if I have enough time.
Before she knew it, the sun was setting again, and she needed to catch up on her evening chores. She had been baking all day and her little cottage was filled with the warm scent of sourdough. How she loved being able to make her own bread. That was another thing she had never tried before living in the cottage. It had always seemed to intimidating to her, but now that it was so popular, she thought, What do I really have to lose? and had simply fallen in love with it. During the winter months, when the garden wasn’t making her much money, she would make loaf after loaf and sell them at the Christmas markets and give them to her neighbors for gifts. She had also started making focaccia and putting little vegetables and edible flowers in the dough to create little pieces of art.
She bustled around, ushering the ducks out of the kitchen and into their hutch for the night, making sure to lock the little latches tight. Even though it had just been a joke the night before, it had really made her nervous. They were so dear to her, she didn’t want to loose them. I’ll collect their eggs in the morning, and put them into the little cartons that I have left, before we head into the market. It was Friday evening and she wanted to be prepared for the next day. Her baskets were full and by the back door so she could load them into the cart first thing.
Even though she had a car, she much preferred to use her butter yellow bike and little trailer. It doubled as a stand and everyone thought it was so cute. The summer before, when her car broke down, she had no other option and it was a real hit. She had never seen so much traffic to her stand, so she had been using it ever since. The market had little tables that they allowed the vendors to use, but her little cart was such a hit, she had rejected it this summer. On the front, she had painted her little cottage surrounded by flowers, veggies and ducks. In May she had told herself that she would add the little brown cat to the scene this year, but had yet to paint him in. She made a mental note to do it before next weekends market.
As the sun was barely peaking through her windows, she had wrapped up the last of the bread for the market tomorrow in the brown paper, string and little price tags she had made. They had a stamp of her cottage on them on one side and the price on the other. There was a local artist in town who made woodblock prints and she had commissioned a little stamp from them. While she knew this was a little below their artistry level, she wanted to support someone that was just down the road from her, and they happily agreed to it. The little stamp had quickly become one of her most prized possessions, and she kept it, along with the ink pad, in the little hutch in the kitchen. She tucked it back in its little drawer and padded her way up the stairs.
She had decided earlier that she was going to take a long hot bath that evening, and so she did. The old porcelain tub filled very slowly as she gathered her pajamas from the set of drawers in her room and set them on the counter along with her lotion. Taking her hair down from the bun she had tied it in that morning, she brushed out the tangles and the bits of dough that had found their way into the little strands next to her face and slipped into the filling tub. Next to her, there was a small window that she could look out of while she bathed, and because there was no one around for miles, she often left it open all the time. She rested her head on the edge of the tub and gazed out the window as the warm bubbles grew around her and lulled her into relaxation. From the second floor she could see the sun setting better than in the kitchen. This just may be my favorite view in the house.
