It reminded me of the gingerbread I’d eaten on that day, that terrible fateful day of rosy skies. Libby pulled a pie out of the odd looking iron box which she had fed armfuls of wood and kindling before feeding it the pie. But the pie was spit back out, only now it was cooked to a perfectly golden crust. “I’ve never seen anything quite like that iron box,” I said. My voice was nearly lost in the large kitchen. Libby looked over her shoulder at me. Her smooth pink cheeks nearly covered her blue eyes when she smiled. She was a tall, robust woman who looked stronger than most men I knew, but she had the gentle demeanor of a grandmother. I’d grown quite fond of her during my convalescence. I had no idea how Nonni and I would ever repay her for her kindness. “This old thing? I call her Bessie.” Libby patted the side of the iron box. “She’s an antique, but she still produces a fine pie crust. Still, I’ve been saving my pennies hoping to buy a beauty of a coal burner I saw over at the merchant shop.”
