I put Tim to peeling the vegetables while I attacked the bread dough again. It had risen to almost double its original volume and was ready for the pan. The stove did not have an oven, but I could cover the bread pan and use it like a Dutch oven. I greased it and shaped biscuits with my hands, placing them half an inch apart in the bottom. I left the pan near the heat to rise again and applied myself to the turkey, which had soaked up the milk mixture and was soft again. I put it in the frying pan. The sizzling brought Tim’s head up, and he smiled.

“It’s almost like being at home.”

“Slice up those potatoes and let me have them,” I said. He did so, and I put them into the frying pan too. Then I dosed them and the turkey liberally with salt and pepper. It was so good not to have to stint on salt. Our own supply had dwindled down to a mere pinch or two.

Then I put the biscuits on to bake. Soon the odor of their fresh dough filled the room.

“Oh boy!” Tim said.

I cut up the onion and put it in the frying pan, and then covered everything. I reminded myself to keep a wary eye on it to avoid burning.

“Tim,” I said with mock sternness, “where are the spruce needles?”

He had stood up and started out the door before he saw that I was joking, and he began to laugh. I said: “No, we’ll forgo the spruce tea tonight in favor of some coffee and milk. How’s that?”

“Oh yes.” I gave him a dozen coffee beans to pound into powder, which he did, wrapping them in a bit of cloth and hitting them with the flat side of the trapper’s axe. When they were done, I put them into the coffee pot, where the water was steaming nicely. Another delicious odor wafted through the cabin, I closed my eyes. Tim had been right: it was almost like being home.

I looked at the biscuits which were coming along nicely. “If only we had some butter,” I said ungratefully. Tim gave me a surprised look, got up, and went out the door.

He was back in a moment, holding a square block wrapped in waxed paper. I stared at it. It was not butter, but the cheap imitation, margarine, which Miss Pauline would not allow in her kitchen and which now appeared more precious than as much gold.

“Where did you find this?”

“Out in the shed. There’s two more left. I guess the trapper put it there to keep it cold.”

The margarine was still soft enough for me to slice off a piece. I broke off a corner and popped it into my mouth. Yes, it tasted like butter and looked like butter, and when it had softened, it would spread like butter. I found myself wondering what Miss Pauline had against it.