Izzy Bird, a poem
Izzy Bird, "ginger" bread

Izzy Bird, holiday baking

Isabella is still in the cabin in Estes Park. They have decided that today is Thanksgiving. The day is not starting well, thanks to a cold front and snow storm.

The snow itself stopped about midnight, but not before covering Isabella’s bed. Her hair, which got wet with snowmelt earlier in the evening before bed, has frozen to her head.

“The milk and treacle are like rock, the eggs have to be kept in the coolest part of the stove to keep them fluid. Two calves in the shed were frozen to death. Half our floor is deep in snow, and it is so cold that we cannot open the door to shovel it out.”

The snow started up again while she wrote this letter to her sister. “Mr Kavan keeps my ink bottle close to the fire and hands it to me every time that I need to dip my pen.”

They do have a fire going, btw, but can’t get the interior temp higher than 20.

They are in decent spirits, all things considered, and are only worried about supplies.

“We have tea and coffee enough to last over to-morrow, the sugar is just done, and the flour is getting low. It is really serious that we have ‘another mouth to feed,’ and the newcomer is a ravenous creature, eating more than the three of us.”*

Still, they made a feast. Isabella made a pudding from saved eggs, cream, and dried cherries. “… and we had venison steak and potatoes, but for tea we were obliged to use the tea leaves of the morning again. I should think that few people in America have enjoyed their Thanksgiving dinner more.”


* remember him? He’s going to be much more a hindrance than a help. And very, very hungry.


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