Summary: A slice-of-life from Hop Sing’s point of view.

Rated: K     Word count:  736

 

His Place

 

He stepped out the door to stand on the back porch where the late summer evening was at least twenty degrees cooler than the stifling kitchen with its large stove and gallons of near scalding water. He had left his cuffs rolled back, and the light breeze brushed his forearms as well as his cheeks.

 

He drew in a deep breath and settled in the old rocker with a sigh. His work for the day was done, his kitchen in order, and preparations made for tomorrow. He now had time to relax and survey the rest of his domain. His domain. The words drifted through his mind, and a smile settled on his lips with the recognition of that truth. The Ponderosa might belong to Mr. Cartwright, but he had carved out his own domain within its boundaries.

 

The kitchen, this porch, the yard with its chicken coop, the broad expanse of vegetable garden fringed with fruit trees, all these were under his indisputable control. His gaze rested on his chosen spot, chosen when he had accepted with surety that he would remain here for as long as the Cartwrights held title to the land. His Cartwrights were strong men, and he had little worry that anything would wrest the Ponderosa from their grasp. Secure in that certainty, he had spoken to Mr. Ben, and the choice had been made. When the time came for him to join his ancestors, his earthly remains would rest beneath that very tree. Mr. Ben had urged him to join the family in resting beside the lake. A great honor it would have been, but he wanted his final rest to be within his own realm. “It will be as you wish, Hop Sing,” Ben Cartwright had said, and Mr. Ben’s word was a bond.

 

His foot set the rocker into gentle motion. Tomorrow he would make Mr. Ben an applesauce cake. The applesauce cake was special because it was made from Miss Elizabeth’s recipe. He had a few recipes from each Mrs. Cartwright, and he followed them faithfully even when a tweak here or there might have enriched the taste, for the dishes he made from them were more than food; they were memories. Miss Elizabeth’s hand was neat, precise, and thinly flowing, and her recipes somehow held a subtle scent of New England’s salt air. Miss Inger’s hand was rounder, bolder, but still gentle. Her dishes held a deep richness. Missy Marie’s hand was wispy and full of flourishes giving rise to frothy delights.

 

His thoughts were interrupted as footsteps echoed inside and a deep voice called his name. Before he could answer, Adam Cartwright’s frame filled the doorway.

 

“Pardon me, Hop Sing, but that peach pie you made tonight is still calling to me. Might Hoss have left a piece?”

 

“Still one small piece. I get.” He started to rise.

 

“No, no, I can get it. Just tell me where it’s hidden.”

 

“If tell, then where I hide the walnut cake from you?” He shook his head, stood, and shooed the young man into, through, and out of the kitchen. Bustling about, he fixed a tray with the pie and a cup of hot coffee. Knowing that Adam Cartwright was far too shrewd to expect to eat the last piece of pie in front of his brothers, he carried the tray up the back stairs to Adam’s bedroom rapping softly before he entered.

 

“Sorry for the trouble.” Adam followed the words with a deep smile. “But I’m certainly not sorry to be receiving this.”

 

“Number one son sometime should have last piece.” He turned to go. “Just leave dishes. I see. . .”

 

“No, I’ll wash them up. Thank you, Hop Sing.”

 

He gave a slight bow. “Good night.” Descending again to the kitchen, he decided that Mr. Adam would be the next to receive a special treat. Miss Inger’s powered cookies would follow the applesauce cake. They always brought a boy’s smile to number one son’s face. It was still too hot for Missy Marie’s pralines, but Mr. Hoss and Little Joe loved her treasure cake. It would be dessert for Sunday dinner. His mind settled and the last ray of sunlight gone, he made his way to his room. He would rest well tonight and add berries to the pancakes in the morning.