Clara had prepared a sauce using dark molasses, crushed tomatoes preserved from summer, cider vinegar, and a little of the precious brown sugar Samuel had purchased for their first anniversary.
She opened the heavy oven door.
A fragrant cloud of steam filled the kitchen.
Samuel, who had been repairing a leather harness near the fireplace, immediately looked up.
"Is it ready?"
"Nearly."
"That's what you said an hour ago."
"And I was nearly right an hour ago."
She lifted the lid.
The meat had become so tender that the bones seemed ready to slide free.
Samuel approached slowly.
Clara brushed the ribs with the glossy sauce.
The surface shone beneath the warm light.
She returned the meat to the oven long enough for the glaze to caramelize.
Then she arranged the ribs on their largest iron platter, surrounded by roasted potatoes, carrots, and sprigs of rosemary.
Samuel stood motionless.
Clara looked at him.
"Well?"
He swallowed.
"Clara."
"What?"
"I believe I married a miracle."
She laughed.
"Wait until you taste it before you start praising me."
He reached for a piece.
She gently slapped his hand with the wooden spoon.
"Sit."
He obeyed immediately.
"Yes, ma'am."
Clara carried the platter to the table, and they settled beside the fire.
Samuel carved the first portion and placed it on his wife's plate.
She gave him an amused look.
"You know you're allowed to eat first."
"I know."
"Then why do you always serve me?"
He shrugged.
"Because I like seeing you smile."
Clara lowered her eyes.
After eleven months of marriage, such simple tenderness could still make her blush.
They began eating.
The beef was extraordinarily tender.
Samuel took one bite and stopped moving.
Clara watched him anxiously.
"Is something wrong?"
He slowly closed his eyes.
Then he put down his fork.
"Marry me again."
She burst into laughter.
"Samuel!"
"I'm serious."
"We're already married."
"Then we'll do it twice."
"And what would we tell the preacher?"
"That I wasn't properly warned about your cooking the first time."
Clara laughed so hard she nearly dropped her fork.
Samuel reached across the table and took her hand.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.
Then he said quietly, "I wish your mother could have been here."
Clara's smile softened.
"So do I."
"She would have been proud of you."
A shadow passed over her face.
"My father never thought so."
Samuel squeezed her hand.
"Your father didn't know what he had."
She looked down at their joined fingers.
Samuel knew better than to speak carelessly about the family she had lost.
Her father had died the previous winter, leaving debts, bitterness, and a collection of memories Clara was still learning how to examine without pain.
Her mother had died several years earlier.
For most of Clara's life, she had been told that she was too large, too emotional, too demanding, or simply too much.