into the kitchen. Nana was already dressed and wore a sturdy pair of work boots. “Would you rather make breakfast or milk Bossy?” she asked without turning around.
“I’ll take Bossy,” I answered with a yawn.
“All right. The pail is hanging on a hook by the door. Give her a good amount of hay. It distracts her while she’s being milked.”
“Sounds good.” I quickly pulled on the work clothes she kept for me at her house. If I’d ever tried to take them home, my parents would have burned them immediately. Also my nana insisted that my regular clothes were entirely too “froufrou” to work on a farm, so she’d bought several pairs of sturdy pants and thick, long-sleeved shirts that were stored in the guest bedroom drawer. They should have been a little tight on me by now, since the last time I visited was my sophomore year in high school. The pants were too short, but I’d lost weight in the last few months, so the clothes still fit passably well.
Stifling another yawn, I made my way out to the barn and groped in the darkness for the hanging chain to switch on the light. “Hey, Bossy,” I responded when the cow mooed in my direction. “Hold your horses.”
After filling her trough with fresh-cut hay, tying her to the stall, and positioning the pail and stool, I washed my hands and then sank down next to the cow. Pressing my cheek against her soft side, I steadied the bucket, hoping I remembered the right technique. After an irritated bawl and a few mistaken attempts, I figured it out and got into a comfortable rhythm.
Half an hour later, my fingers felt a bit stiff but I had two and a half gallons of milk and a happy cow. I patted her back, fed the horses, gathered the eggs, and headed toward the house with my prizes. After I set the pail and basket of eggs on the counter, Nana grunted her thanks and pointed her spatula to the table. “Hope you’re hungry,” she said. “I did the fancy one you like.”
“Crème brûlée French toast?” I asked, my mouth turning up in a hopeful grin.
“Of course. You’ve also got cheesy eggs and bacon, so eat up.”
There was something to be said about a hearty breakfast after manual labor. I managed to wolf down three pieces of French toast, a giant portion of eggs, a full glass of frothy, fresh milk, and four slices of bacon before I groaned and pushed away from the table.
We washed the dishes together, and when I asked what was on the agenda, Nana handed me one of her famous lists. I was a list maker, too, and while perusing hers, I wondered if I’d picked up the habit from her or if there was something in our genes that made us feel a sense of satisfaction when we checked off the little boxes for the day.
Nana’s list included weeding the garden; harvesting the tomatoes and zucchini; bathing the dog; exercising the horses; making a cake for her brother Melvin’s birthday; and visiting Grandpa’s grave.
When the farm chores were complete, we made Melvin’s cake. He preferred strawberry and Nana not only made his cake from scratch but she also filled it with her own homemade strawberry jam. Somehow she thought it would be a good idea to kill two birds with one stone and ride the horses over to deliver the cake.
When I asked her why we were making a cake for Melvin and not both Melvin and Marvin, she said that when the twins were younger, they insisted that their parents celebrate their birthdays separately just in case they got any wild ideas about combining birthday presents. Marvin’s favorite cake, a lemon treat so sour nearly no one could stand it but him, had been dropped off the week before.
Nana inexplicably determined that I, the less experienced rider, should be the one to hold the confection on the trip. Though the cake was pretty much bombproof, tucked safely into her old-school plastic, hand-me-down cake container from the 1950s, I still worried that I’d, at best, mess up her frosting or, at worst, drop it in a pile of cow patties.
Somehow I managed to keep my hands on both the reins and the cake and we made it all the way out to Melvin’s house on the far edge of the property without incident. After the inevitable hour-long visit with Melvin’s family, the polite inquiries about his