An Untamed Heart by Lauraine Snelling

Author:Lauraine Snelling
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC042030, FIC042000, FIC026000, Single women—Fiction, First loves—Fiction, Widowers—Fiction, Families—Fiction, Farm life—Fiction, Norway—Fiction, Domestic fiction
ISBN: 9781441262813
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2013-09-11T04:00:00+00:00

The next day Ingeborg and Gunlaug worked on the cheese together. Using the big jars made especially for this job, they poured all the saved cream to fill the jars and set them close enough to the fire to heat slowly. Then they poured the heated cream into the waiting pans and let them set until well curdled, looking more like a solid pudding than cheese.

After taking a break to check on Nils, Ingeborg said, “Guess I better get the curd cut and hung. Gunlaug, do you want to help me with the cheesecloth?” Together they cut the pans of slightly yellow curd into about two-inch squares and scooped it into cheesecloth bags to hang from hooks above the pans. When they finally got all the curds dripping, they dumped the whey into milk cans to be hauled to the barn for feeding the pigs and chickens, all of which thrived on the liquid poured over their feed.

“I think we need a cup of coffee, don’t you?” Gunlaug stacked the pans for washing. They already had the cream heating by the fire again. The process would continue all through the summer.

“Out on the bench?” The bench on the other side of the house faced the mountains and had been Ingeborg’s favorite spot for years.

“Of course. Then I’ll wash the pans and you can either weave or spin,” Gunlaug suggested.

“During the day? How slothful.” Shock struck her. She sounded just like her mor. Even when she was teasing.

“I will need yarn for the loom before long, you know. Who else knows how to spin?”

“I know Mari can and Kari would like to learn weaving. Perhaps Hamme?”

“She’s too young.”

“One is never too young to learn to spin. You needn’t have a long reach to control the shuttle.” They stopped in front of the fire, and Ingeborg used her apron to protect her hands as she pulled the pot free to pour. She glanced over at their guest, who was now sleeping again, this time his book on his chest. Perhaps soon he would be able to go outside. Having to stay inside was beginning to grate on him. She could tell by the way he stared out the window. What must it feel like to be so bound by injuries?

Or social convention?

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