Page 24 of A Prince for Christmas

Nick looked at me for reassurance, but I just gave him a challenging smile. “Your little Princess out there is going to drink it. Are you scared a tiny newborn calf can handle it better than a big strapping man?”

“Of course not.” He took a tentative sip, then another, and finally finished the small glass. “Well, Mum, I can’t deny that’s good stuff.”

“Yes, Boots and Bessie are both Jerseys, and their milk has a high butterfat content. That’s why the first thing we do is separate the milk and cream, because taking off a bunch of the cream gives us normal milk, and also butter and whipping cream.” Mom explained. “You want to watch how we do it?”

“Of course.”

She reached for the bucket, but Nick grabbed it. “If I’m going to watch, I might as well help,” he said. “Where to?”

Mom led him to the back porch, where we had an old-fashioned cream separator bolted to the floor. Dad had offered to get an electric model hundreds of times, but Mom insisted she liked the antique model. And, frankly, the big job about separating milk wasn’t turning the crank for a couple of minutes, it was cleaning the parts afterwards. The double dishwashers in the kitchen took care of that.

“This machine uses centrifugal force to separate the milk and cream,” Mom explained. “You see, cream is lighter than milk, and when I crank the handle, the lighter cream comes out the higher spout, and the milk the other.”

I smiled as I recalled her explaining the same thing to me. I was eight at the time.

“Can I give it a go?” Nick asked.

“Sure,” Mom agreed. “Just get a nice steady rhythm going. It only takes a few minutes.”

He was properly amazed at the thick, heavy cream accumulated in one bowl and the milk poured out into a larger pot.

“Now, we put the girls to work,” she said, “Lizzie, Jenny!”

The girls appeared promptly, glancing shyly at Nick. “Yes, Mom?”

“It’s Christmas Eve. The pigs are expecting their treat, and you’re going to give everyone their Christmas Eve dinners. Kibbles soaked in cream for the barn cats, milk, potatoes and apples for the pigs, and for the horses, apples and carrots and their usual ration of grain.”

The girls dashed off to distribute the special Christmas Eve meal to the livestock. It was a tradition that everyone got a special treat for the holidays. Even the beef cows, who stayed close to the barn when the weather got cold, were given a double ration of molasses-rich grain, though it was distributed by front-loader, as there were always a couple hundred beef cows on the ranch.

As a family that valued tradition, even if we’d only recently invented it, we generally had either beef roast or an exotic meat, such as deer or elk, for Christmas Eve dinner. This year, knowing that Nick was coming for the holidays, Mom had adjusted the menu to give him a taste of America.

We had roast beef for the main course with mashed potatoes and brown gravy on the side. She added grilled corn and a salad with native greens, wild onions and cranberries, with a slightly sweet, creamy dressing. Dessert was wonderful as well, a cobbler that melded blueberries, blackberries, and other berries with nuts, in a creamy base with a crunchy topping. Heaven on a plate.

Nick insisted on helping set the table and load one of the dishwashers even though my sisters and mother tried to stop him, telling him that was no job for a prince.

“Not my first time washing dishes, is it, Em?” he asked, giving me a conspiratorial wink across the room that made me forget I was mad at him.

I watched in amused delight as he took over what was traditionally my job. A few minutes before dinner was served, crept over and slid an arm around my waist. He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “What is the proper attire for this meal?”

“Pajamas,” I answered promptly. “Preferably Christmas pajamas.”

“But I don’t have any Christmas pajamas,” he said, looking close to panic. “I prefer sleeping in the buff, but of course when I’m a guest, I bring along some…”

“So, go change,” I said. “You couldn’t be expected to know the ‘proper attire,’ so just wear what you have. Seriously, my family doesn’t care.”

He looked embarrassed. “They’re a bit… Fancy. Satin, you know.”

Guilty that I’d forgotten to tell him this part of the tradition, I gave him a reassuring smile. “Let me see what I can do.”

Dad had not been idle while the cooking progressed. He’d made sure the fireplace was stoked to keep the house warm in the Montana night and put the color cones in a basket for everyone to add to the fire. A whole set of Christmas stories, from Dicken’s Christmas Carol to Dr. Seuss’s The Grinch, as well as a couple of lesser-known Christmas stories were laid out on the coffee table. He was lighting the candles in the family room when I found him.

“We have a little problem, Dad,” I said with a smile. “I forgot to tell Nick to bring some Christmas pajamas.”

His brow wrinkled for a minute, then he grinned. “He’s a little thinner than me, but I think I have a pair that’ll do. I never wore ‘em because your Aunt Linda gave them to me and they’re a little on the long side. Can’t be tripping on the stairs and breaking my neck when we’re snowed in.”

“That’s great, Dad. Should I tell him to come see you?”

He prodded the roaring fire in the fireplace before turning for the stairs. “Imagine,” I heard him mutter as he headed up. “A prince wearing my pajamas!”