January 2nd, 1866.—1 have slept well and I feel decidedly better. I am not going to fret because the negroes are gone, nor will I bother my brains as to their whereabouts. I am going to learn to do all these things that need doing and bye and bye I shall do them well. I baked some corn bread for breakfast; batter bread, it was, with eggs and milk. We had plenty of butter to eat with it, then I boiled some eggs and father made the coffee, drip coffee is very little trouble to make when you have boiling water and I put a kettle on the fire the first thing when the fire was made.
This, I find is my stumbling block, I am the poorest hand at making a fire. “Make a note of that and improve,” said I to myself. I cannot milk a cow, neither can anyone else in the house. I think I shall have to hunt me a good milker and get married. Father just lives on milk. Boiled eggs for dinner again and more batter bread. The menu in this house seems to know no change. Supper is yet to come. What shall it be?
