“You got time for tea?” Roxie asked at the door.

“Can I take a rain check? Made a big pot of chicken soup and need to deliver it to a couple of places. That flu has been hard on our residents. You hear that old Mrs. Goldson passed away from it a couple of days ago? Funeral is next week.”

Roxie frowned in thought. “She was in her nineties, right?”

“Ninety-three to be exact. Seemed healthy as a horse.” Amalia took the poster. “If you’ve got enough, why don’t you give me another? I’ll put up one at the garden store too. Got to stop there anyway.”

“I can always print more. Thanks. See you at Annie’s for coffee tomorrow morning? Usual time?”

Amalia nodded. “You back to regular walking?”

“Working on it.”

Amalia leaned over to scratch Sir Charles behind his ears. “Such a good dog. Okay, see you in the a.m.”

After posting one flyer at the garden store, she pedaled on home, parked her bike in the rack, and gathered up her packages. She pushpinned the poster up on the bulletin board in the entrance. Someone must have recently removed all the out-of-date ones since there was room for this one. She noticed a card about a cat needing a home. Darn, Ima Goldson’s old cat, Jehoshaphat, needed a home. Got to think on that, she said to herself. She had assumed Ima’s daughter would take the grumpy critter home to her house. For some strange reason, Jehoshaphat liked Amalia, one of the few people he tolerated, in fact. But did she want to be tied down again? Not that she planned on being gone for any length of time, but…

The fragrance of chicken soup greeted her as she opened her door. Which reminded her why she was hesitant about taking in Jehoshaphat. The odor of a litter box. All the ads claimed the newfangled ones had no odor, but while her sight wasn’t as good as it used to be, her sense of smell made up for it. Hauling cat litter around on her bike might cause a bit of a problem. Of course, with Amazon, she could have both litter and cat food delivered right to her door. Was she trying to talk herself into or out of being owned by a cat?

The Crock-Pot fragranced the house anyway. She dug out plastic containers, most of which had had an earlier life containing cottage cheese or sour cream. Her Norwegian mother referred to them as Norwegian Tupperware. She had most assuredly passed on her frugal ways. This way no recipients felt obligated to return the containers. Once the four were filled, she had enough left for only two or three meals for herself. Perfect. She sealed them, then wrote instructions on the lid of the one for old Mr. Green. Usually she brought his down on a tray, ready to eat instantly. But with instructions, he could manage his microwave. She sliced and buttered the remainder of her sourdough-four-ingredient-bread-with-no-kneading, and slid each slice into a sandwich bag. Into two of the bags she added a recipe card with instructions on how to make the bread. Clara still liked to bake bread and Bess would manage this easy one. No kneading saved joints.