Skinny Matilda's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

The peach tree was still a stick in the ground when Matilda hit the wall in her kitchen. She had promised Mr. Grumpypants a beef stew on Thursday. Her one small pot could not hold it. Her single frying pan warped when she tried to brown meat for six. She stood at the counter Wednesday morning and looked at what she had. A saucepan. A dented skillet. A wooden spoon. She had been feeding him from the same three pieces for two months, and he was starting to notice. Last visit he had lifted the lid of her saucepan and said, "You cook everything in this?" She had laughed it off. She could not laugh it off again. She had no money for a new set. The scale still read ninety-eight. Her disability check covered the mortgage and the light bill and not much else. She put on her pink terry robe over her bikini, because the morning was cool, and she walked to the little shop the church ran two streets over. A hand-lettered sign above the door said OPEN. Donation bins lined the sidewalk. She had passed the place a hundred times and never gone in. Inside it smelled like old books and lemon cleaner. A woman behind the counter nodded at her and went back to sorting buttons. Matilda found the kitchen shelf in the back. A cast iron Dutch oven sat on the bottom, lid chipped, four dollars. A heavy stockpot, six. A roasting pan with two good handles, three. A stack of mismatched wooden spoons for a quarter each. She carried the load to the counter in both arms. The total came to sixteen dollars and change. She paid in ones and quarters and walked home with the Dutch oven banging her hip through the robe. She scrubbed everything in the sink until the water ran clear. The cast iron she dried on the stove and rubbed with oil, the way her mother had taught her. By afternoon the kitchen smelled like hot iron and onions. She browned two pounds of chuck in the Dutch oven without a single warp or scorch. She built the stew in layers. Carrots, potatoes, a bay leaf, broth to the rim. She set the lid on and slid the whole thing into the oven. At six she carried a full bowl next door. Mr. Grumpypants opened the screen with his arms crossed the way he always did. He looked at the bowl. He looked at her. "That's a proper stew," he said. "I got a real pot," she said. He took the bowl in both hands. "About time." Then, quieter, "You'll want a lid for the skillet next. Mine's the wrong size or I'd give it to you." She walked home in the robe with her hands empty. The kitchen could hold him now. What she did not have was a second bowl to match the first, and he had already asked when Sunday's meal was coming.