Page 47 of Till The Cows Come Home
Earlier in the day, I’d cleared out a stall used explicitly for storage, sweeping a few inches of dust before finally being satisfied with the space, and after a few minutes of searching in storage, I located an old wooden table I’d inherited from my parents. Albeit a few rough edges, it had a gorgeous rough cut top, perfect for a rustic evening. Using my palm sander, I carefullybuffed out any jaggedness that had accumulated over the years, stopping only when my hand glided smoothly over its surface. A lot of my childhood meals were had at this table, and I couldn’t help but tear up as I repurposed the piece for the evening. When it was finished, I carried it into the stall, adjusting until it sat nicely in the center. It was stunning, and I knew the things I’d gathered were going to complement it perfectly.
The last bag from my truck was the fun one, and I deposited it atop the table to unload it along with things I’d gathered from storage. I’d grabbed honey from the town's only beekeeper and was elated when I saw he had gorgeous beeswax taper candles that I knew would pair perfectly with the brass holders I already owned.
Now that they were together, my prediction was confirmed. The candles looked amazing, scattered in varying heights along the table. I had been nervous about the hand-me-down placemats, but now that they were placed at the two heads of the table, I thought they fit in perfectly. They were old with a vintage feel, woven of thick white yarn that popped atop the dark wood.
With the table set, I got to work hanging rolls and rolls of twinkling lights. When I thought I hung enough, I added one more roll, knowing that in this situation, more was better. When I finally inserted the plug, my eyes involuntarily squinted, responding to the sudden burst of light. The brilliance rivaled the moonlight, with each tiny light impersonating the night sky.
It was perfect.
Eventually I forced myself to peel my eyes away from the beautiful little bubble I’d created. The sides weren't going to make themselves, and as I walked through the door, I was immediately hit with the herbal aromas floating through my kitchen. After a quick baste, I tucked the chicken uncoveredback into the oven before grabbing my peeler to start on the carrots and potatoes.
When I was finished I threw my kitchen towel over my shoulder in triumph, pleased with the colorful arrangement as I slid the honey butter carrots alongside the bird to finish roasting together. The potatoes were boiling and aside from mashing and seasoning them; the meal was set, which meant I needed to shower and get dressed.
It had been a while since I wore more than a flannel and jeans and I became a bit anxious as I rifled through my closet in search of something slightly more formal. I found a pair of navy slacks, perfectly folded in their creases, but my confidence returned all at once when my favorite floral polo caught my eye, matching perfectly with the deep blue of the pants. After slipping on the outfit, I paused, studying my reflection in the mirror. It was unusual for me to be self-conscious, but the pressure of a proper first date had my nerves frayed, exposing them to the raw emotions underneath.
The oven’s alarm pulled me back to reality, saving me from falling too far down the rabbit hole of self doubt and anxiety that I was toeing, and upon inspection, the chicken was perfect. I removed it along with the carrots, allowing both to rest while I mashed the potatoes. Using the juices from the chicken, I prepped a simple gravy, whisking aggressively to ensure her favorite dinner addition was smooth like silk, and with the food finished, I began my trips, shuffling the various components to their places on the table.
On my final journey I carried the plates, carefully setting each atop their respective placemats, and as I lit the candles, the familiar creak of Sage’s car echoed through the barn. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, and I allowed myself amoment to survey how beautifully everything came together before turning to retrieve the Belle of the ball. Her door opened and as she raised to her full height, my breath left my body. A yellow dress clung to her curves, painfully outlining every inch of her body.
“You look delectable,” I whispered, tugging her body close enough to deliver a soft kiss to her temple.
I knew the moment I laced my fingers in hers that I was about to lead her into an evening we would both remember, and I couldn’t help the grin that spread across my lips as I appreciated how lucky I was to be the guide.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sage
It had taken me an eternity to figure out what to wear, but any uncertainty I harbored was quickly dissolved by the way Miles looked at me as I got out of my car. As soon as his eyes caught sight of my dress they darkened, and his hands extended eagerly to close the distance between our bodies. He dipped his head, whispering sweet things into my ear, his compliments drowning out any insecurities.
“What’s on the agenda?” I questioned, embracing myself to shut out the chill of the evening breeze.
He moved briskly, consuming my body with the expanse of his arms, and I hummed as his heat began to radiate through me.
“I prepared a beautiful dinner for us that’s waiting inside the barn, but it’s taking everything in me not to scoop you up into the house for dessert first.”
“Depending on what you made for dinner, I wouldn’t mind that preposition.”
“It involves gravy,” he mumbled into my hair, and before he could continue, I abruptly pulled away from his embrace.
“Dinner first,” I demanded.
His laughter boomed through the night air and I squealed as he scooped me into his arms. Despite my demands to be put down, Miles carried me through the dark aisles of the barn, my only indication that we were actually having dinner being the increasing intensity of aromas flooding my nose. After a few moments my eyes were overwhelmed with light, and as he set me down in the middle of a stall I squinted, adjusting to the sea of twinkling bulbs in front of me.
“Here, pretty girl,” he murmured, wrapping me in a knit blanket.
“You did this all for me?” I whispered, nearly speechless at the amount of effort it must have taken to set up something this elaborate.
“Sage, I would give you anything you asked for. This is merely a weekend's worth of effort,” he responded, guiding me to my seat at the table.
He pulled out my chair, gesturing for me to sit, and when I did, he carefully pushed my chair in until I was almost flush with the table, kissing the top of my head before stepping aside to grab a bottle of wine. It was then that I truly realized the magnitude of his work. The bottles were nestled in an ice bucket, which was balancing perfectly atop an arrangement of milk crates. While he poured into our glasses I surveyed the table, smiling as I recognized all the local touches he’d sprinkled throughout, but my attention was abruptly redirected as he lifted the lid off a dutch oven sending a divine wave of rich spices throughout the space.
Miles handed me my wine and retrieved the plate from in front of me, chuckling at the involuntary hum of approval that escaped my throat as each dish was uncovered. My eyes widened further and further as each lid slid off, revealing my favorite comfort meal, right down to the sides. Roasted chicken with glazed carrots and mashed potatoes, a meal I hadn’t prepped for myself in what seemed like ages.
Although on the surface it seemed like an elaborate and slightly stereotypical choice, during peak season, I could get most of the ingredients outside my door, and I did.
Constantly.
Any time my mood was slightly out of whack, I made my rounds, scooping up ingredients to arm myself for the therapeutic rhythm that cooking provided. Ruby got so accustomed to my roast dinner invites as a cry for help that we had to make a rule requiring me to call her before a bird got anywhere near the oven.
