The Orchard Weekend – Part 2: Cobbler

The cabin was tiny, with a woodstove, a wide bed and a kitchen the size of a closet.

"We'll make a pie," said Dana.

"We don't have a pie dish."

"We have a cast-iron pan."

"We'll make a cobbler."

They sliced apples at the narrow counter, elbows jostling, peel flying. Ben dropped half of them on the floor. Dana rolled out dough with a wine bottle. The recipe on her phone said bake at 375. The cabin's oven had only hot and very hot.

"Hot," said Ben, with confidence.

The cobbler came out bubbling, blackened at the edges, smelling of cinnamon and burnt sugar. They carried it to the rug in front of the woodstove, wrapped in a quilt, and ate it straight from the pan with two spoons, laughing helplessly.

"It's terrible," said Dana.

"It's the best thing I've ever eaten."

"It's charcoal."

"It's charcoal made with love."

Outside, the wind stirred the orchard, and leaves skittered across the porch. The woodstove glowed orange. She leaned against his shoulder, warm and sleepy, sugar on her chin.

"Can I ask you something?" said Ben.

"Yes."

"May I kiss my wife?"

"Yes," said Dana. "And if I say stop, you must cook breakfast."

"It'll be worse than the cobbler."

"I know."

He kissed her, slowly, tasting of cinnamon and smoke, a hand cupping the nape of her neck. She kissed him back with the unhurried warmth of eleven years, the quilt sliding off her shoulders. The fire popped softly. Rain began to tick against the window.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Dana. "Very green."

They went back the next October, and the one after. The cobbler is always burnt. They would not have it any other way.

More married couple romance: The Cruise · Couples Retreat · The Second Honeymoon