A little butter.
Flour.
Salt.
Black pepper.
Buttermilk.
And a handful of herbs I'd dried during the previous summer.
I had already filled the large iron pot with water when William entered the kitchen.
He had been outside feeding the horses.
Snow dusted his hair and shoulders.
His fur vest was open over his broad chest, and his hands were cold from handling the stable door.
He stopped when he saw me beside the stove.
Then smiled.
"Well, there's my beautiful wife."
I laughed without looking up.
"Good morning to you too."
He crossed the room.
Wrapped one enormous arm gently around my waist.
And kissed my cheek.
I was holding the chicken above the pot.
"William."
"Hmm?"
"You're distracting the cook."
"That sounds serious."
"It is."
He kissed my cheek again.
I laughed.
"If you keep that up, we'll be eating burnt chicken."
He leaned closer.
"Darling, I'd eat a burnt boot if you cooked it."
I turned my head.
"Don't tempt me."
He laughed.
His voice filled the little kitchen.
For a moment, I forgot the cold outside.
Then I handed him the bowl of chopped vegetables.
"Onions."
He looked down.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Celery."
"Anything else?"
"Patience."
He sighed dramatically.
"Now you're asking too much."
I playfully slapped his hand when he reached toward the pot.
He laughed again.
Then watched as I lowered the chicken carefully into the water.
The heavy iron pot hissed softly.
Steam rose around my face.
William stood close behind me, holding the bowl of vegetables.
I glanced toward him.
"You're staring again."
He smiled.
"Can't help it."
"At the chicken?"
"At my wife."
I rolled my eyes.
"You're impossible."
He leaned down.
"And you're gorgeous."
My cheeks warmed.
Eight months of marriage, and he could still make me blush as though we had only just met.
I added the onions and celery.
Then adjusted the stove.
The fire needed to remain steady.
Too much heat would toughen the meat.
Too little would leave the chicken undercooked.
William watched me carefully.
"How long?"
"Until it's ready."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
He laughed.
Then carried the empty bowl to the washbasin.
The morning passed peacefully.
William repaired a damaged wooden chair near the fireplace.
I prepared dough for dumplings.
Snow continued falling outside.
Every so often, a gust of wind rattled the shutters.
But the cabin remained warm.
The chicken simmered.
The broth slowly turned golden.
And the smell spread through the house until William abandoned his chair repairs entirely.
He appeared beside me with a hungry expression.