She frowned thoughtfully.
"But there are lots of cabins down the valley where people don't have enough food."
I stopped stirring.
"How do you know?"
She looked toward the window.
"One of the boys at school said his mother sometimes skips supper."
My heart tightened.
"What boy?"
She told me.
I knew the family.
His father had injured his leg during the previous winter and could no longer work in the timber camps.
His mother took in washing and sewing.
They were proud people.
Hardworking.
But struggling.
Annie looked toward the pot.
"Could we make enough chicken and dumplings for them?"
I smiled gently.
"Of course."
She nodded.
Then asked, "What about everyone else?"
I looked at her.
The question was so simple.
So innocent.
And yet it stayed with me.
What about everyone else?
I had spent years making sure there was enough food for William and me.
Then enough for Annie.
But perhaps our kitchen could become something more.
Perhaps the place where a frightened child once hid behind the stove could become a place where no hungry child needed to hide.
That evening, I told William about Annie's idea.
He listened while repairing a leather harness.
When I finished, he looked toward the kitchen.
"How many people?"
"I don't know."
"How often?"
"Perhaps once a week."
He considered.
"Sunday?"
I smiled.
"Sunday."
William leaned back.
"That's a lot of chicken."
I laughed.
"It is."
He studied my face.
Then smiled.
"But you already know how to make it."
I nodded.
"Yes."
He set down the harness.
"Then let's do it."
I stared.
"Just like that?"
He shrugged.
"What are we waiting for?"
I laughed.
Then kissed him.
The following Sunday, we prepared dinner for twelve people.
William carried a larger iron pot into the kitchen.
I made three batches of dumpling dough.
Annie washed vegetables and helped arrange wooden bowls along the long table.
We invited the injured timber worker's family, two elderly neighbors, and several travelers who had been delayed by a washed-out road.
The meal was simple.
Chicken and dumplings.
Fresh bread.
Stewed apples.
Hot tea.
Nobody was charged.
Nobody was asked to explain why they needed a meal.
We simply opened the door.
At first, the guests seemed uncomfortable.
The timber worker's wife repeatedly offered to wash dishes.
I smiled.
"You're welcome to help if you'd enjoy it, but you don't have to earn your supper."
Her eyes filled.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes."
She looked toward her husband.
Then whispered, "Thank you."
We sat together.
Ate.
Talked.
And laughed.
William told stories about mountain winters.