Pieces of Broken China

by Dean R. Blanchard

  Gaxon did not come home that day. Other humans, long-faced and solemn, were walking up the driveway. Their lips whispered, and they walked softly, some hand-in-hand. Others cried.

  I jumped down off Joseph’s lap, barking as I ran through the house. I walked around to the sofa and saw the flat black stick resting there. The black box across the room was silent. Joseph and the other humans were talking among themselves. I stood up on my hind legs, my front paws sprawled on top of the sofa with the flat black stick between them. I snatched the stick between my teeth and ran outside around the back of the house. As I ran, I growled and shook my head, the black stick clenched between my teeth. I chewed it and bit down on it as hard as I could.

  When I got to the backyard, I ran to a small clearing and dug a hole in the ground as fast as I could and then dropped the flat black stick inside. I turned around and scratched the ground with all my feet until the hole was covered and the hated stick was out of sight.

  For a moment I jumped up and down on the mound of fresh dirt, sniffed, raised my head to the treetops, and wailed a mournful howl.

  I howled for Agnes.

  I howled for Mrs. Kitty.

  But most of all I howled for Gaxon, who named me

  Orson Welles.

  Seth’s Sourdough Shop

  I remember telling my mom, “When I grow up I’m going to open my own sourdough shop and bake you, Dad, and Tyler all the sourdough bread you want.”

  Mom—Dee is her nickname. Her first name is Bertha. She was named after her grandmother, whom she never liked, because whatever she did was not good enough for Grandma. Mom and Grandma had one thing in common though. Grandma taught Mom all there was to know about sourdough bread baking.

  By the time she married my dad, she was good at sourdough. My brother and I grew up on sourdough toast, eggs, and pancakes or waffles for breakfast. Shortly after my sixth birthday, Mom began to teach me how to take care of the sourdough pot. I had followed the process of removing a portion of sourdough from the ceramic container, mixing it with flour and water, and letting it sit out overnight. The next morning I removed the starter I needed for pancakes or waffles and returned the remainder of the sour to the sourdough pot.

  It was the sourdough bread that captivated my imagination. I loved the aroma, the tartness to the bite of toast. I talked about having my own sourdough shop at the supper table often.

  Tyler put his two cents’ worth of advice in each time when he reminded me that all businesses were in business to make money, to provide for their families like Dad. I didn’t care about money; I just wanted to own my own sourdough shop.

  I was on the dean’s list many times with Tyler throughout our school years. Tyler had a mind for numbers from kindergarten, and he was always at my father’s side as he grew up. Sometimes I felt my father loved Tyler more than me. Events that came later in my life proved me wrong.

  We never wore hand-me-downs, because my father, William Henderson, made good money. He was an accountant for many small businesses throughout the town. His office was in the same Victorian building as my great-great-grandfather’s, who began what was to become Henderson Accounting. After Tyler graduated from college with a degree in accounting, he returned home to join the firm. Mom was the typist and office manager.

  I graduated from high school, class of ’76. Shortly after graduation, I set out to find a job. Throughout my teen years I had a paper route that kept cash in my pocket.

  Dad set up an account for me so I would learn how to manage money.

  One day in the help-wanted section of the newspaper I noticed a position for a baker’s helper. I noted the address listed in the ad and tossed the newspaper on the dining-room table.

  With my family’s encouragement, I set out the following morning to get my first job. There was a small, square sign posted in the bakery window: HELP WANTED. A small bell attached to the door handle announced my arrival.

  A man was bent inside a large floor mixer. His voice echoed out of the belly of the mixer: “Be with you in a moment.”

  I examined the rows of breads inside the bakery case and took a bite of samples he had on top of the case. The texture and crumb of the bread was good, but none of the breads were sourdough.

  The man stood up and turned to face me. He blinked and asked, “Don’t I know you?”

  I smiled and said, “I’m Seth Henderson. I used to come in here with my mom, Dee Henderson.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said as he walked up to me and shook my hand. “Andrew Spellman... so what can I do for you?”

  “Your help-wanted sign.”

  “You a baker?”

  “At home,” I said proudly, “I bake all the sourdough breads.”

  “We don’t do sourdough here,” Spellman said.

  I shrugged.

  “When can you start?” he asked.

  “Now?”

  I was elated to be a baker’s helper. I was sure I would be popping loaves of sourdough bread out in no time. The thrill of being a baker’s helper died when Spellman handed me a rust-stained apron, scrub brush, bucket, and warm water. For the next six weeks I cleaned while Spellman baked.

  One day I asked, “When can I bake?”

  Spellman walked up to me and gestured to the mop, mop bucket, and broom. “This,” he said, “was how I started in the business.”

  “I know how to bake.” I stood toe-to-toe with Spellman, glared at him, and shouted, “I told you I bake sour!”

  Spellman snapped impatiently, “I told you I don’t do sourdough. Now shut up and get back to work.”

  “I quit! I hired on to bake breads.” I ripped off my apron and threw it on the floor.

  “I don’t like your attitude,” Spellman yelled at me as he scooped the apron up.

  “I could do a better job running this bakery any day of the week.”

  Never in my life had I been so frustrated and angry with anyone. “I’m the sourdough baker,” I repeated loudly as I raced back home. By the time I walked into the house, sweat poured off my brow and my heart beat as though it were going to explode out of my chest. I stopped dead when I saw Mom, Dad, and Tyler staring at me from the dining-room table.

  Mom jumped to her feet and ran over to me. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Spellman’s a jerk,” I spouted.

  “What did Mr. Spellman say to you?” Dad asked.

  Tyler sat quietly next to Dad. Mom sat next to me as I sat down at the dining table across from my dad. I looked at him and said, “I answered his ad in the classified section of the newspaper. He wanted a baker’s helper. For the past six weeks I’ve been sweeping, mopping, and wiping off the counter and cleaning out the bakery cases after closing. I didn’t hire on to be his janitor.”

  Father said, “It’s Mr. Spellman’s business, and you’ll do what he tells you to do. When you own your own bakery, you can run it the way you want.”

  I ignored dad’s advice and grumbled, “I want to bake sour.”

  Tyler jumped to his feet. In an angry voice, he said to me, “Mr. Spellman understands the profit and loss of business. We are Mr. Spellman’s accountant. If you want to know how many successful mom-and-pop bakeries there are in this town...” Tyler held up two fingers and added, “The Safeway food giant that moved into town several years ago has bakeries and bakers who work for them. Owning your own bakery is hard work with little pay and long hours.”

  Mom reminded Tyler and Dad, “Seth has a dream of owning his own sourdough bakery. What’s wrong with that idea?”

  Tyler looked at Mom and said, “Seth doesn’t know anything of running a business.”

  Mom looked at Tyler and said, “Seth needs to start somewhere.” She looked at me and said, “I want you to set aside starter tonight before you go to bed. In the morning after breakfast, I will help you bake loaves of sourdough nine-grain and pumpernickel. Once the loaves are cooled, we will go with you to Mr. Spellman’s bakery.”

  Dad asked Mom, “Why does Seth have to do t
his?”

  Mom shocked all of us when she looked at me and said, “Seth needs to go back to Mr. Spellman with loaves of sourdough, a peace symbol of sorts.”

  * * *

  The following morning Mom and I assembled all the ingredients to make the loaves of sourdough nine-grain and pumpernickel.

  Mom made extra loves for Dad and Tyler. Later that afternoon, after the loaves had cooled, she placed two loaves in a brown bag along with a jar of plum jam she had canned the year before I had mixed feelings about returning to Mr. Spellman’s bakery, but Mom would hear of nothing else. My stomach soured all the way there. The bell above the door of Spellman’s bakery announced our arrival.

  “Be right with you,” Spellman called out from the back room.

  A lady came out into the bakery first. When she saw Mom standing at the bakery case, her face lit up.

  “Eleanor,” Mom greeted her warmly, “how have you been?”

  At that moment Mr. Spellman walked out of the back room. He looked at me and asked, “You’re back to work?”

  I almost ran out of the bakery when Eleanor said to me, “You were this tall when Dee brought you into the bakery.” She held her hand at her knees. Then she touched the top of the paper bag. “What’s this?” she asked me.

  “I brought two loaves of sourdough bread here for Mr. Spellman to taste,” I said, looking at him.

  As she handed the bag to Mr. Spellman, Mom said, “A peace offering. Seth told me about his quarrel with you.”

  Mom, Eleanor, and I walked around the bakery case and followed him to a large workbench. He removed the sourdough pumpernickel first and held it reverently in his hands and took a deep sniff. He put the loaf down on the workbench, grabbed a bread knife, and began slicing the loaf.

  The aroma of pumpernickel was fabulous. He removed the sourdough nine-grain and cut into that loaf. The aroma of the nine-grain was powerful, too.

  He handed a slice of pumpernickel to Eleanor. She examined the texture and crumb and then took a bite.

  Mr. Spellman asked Eleanor, “Is it as good as it looks and smells?”

  “It’s better than good,” she replied.

  I will never forget that moment, because a person outside of my family acknowledged my baking abilities for the first time. Mr. Spellman cautioned me that sourdough was specialty bread in a class of its own. He went on to explain that he had baked various kinds of sourdough in addition to other breads. When the other breads outsold the sourdough, he quit making that bread because he didn’t have time to fuss over the sourdough starter.

  Mom and Eleanor left a short time later to have girl talk, as Mom put it.

  I spent the rest of the day with Mr. Spellman. I learned a lot about Mr. Spellman that afternoon. He explained that he had married Eleanor, his close friend since second grade, after they graduated from high school, and she had been his bride for fifty-five years. They had taken over the bakery after Mr. Spellman’s father died.

  Three years later, Eleanor had become pregnant with the first of their two sons. They had talked about hiring help after the first child was born, but the bakery did not do enough business to support help. She had been the bookkeeper from the first day they married. When the second child was born, they had decided they needed to look for a bookkeeper. A businessman who came into his bakery to purchase bread before going home had told Mr. Spellman about Henderson Accounting.

  Mr. Spellman went on to tell me how his mother had taught him to cook and bake. She had insisted that his future wife would be attracted to him because he was as good in the kitchen as he was in the bedroom.

  I roared over that comment, and other memories of his brought tears to my eyes as well. At one point he asked me what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. My dream of owning my sourdough bake shop was my goal. I had to admit that I didn’t know how to get there. That’s when Mr. Spellman recommended that I enroll in Logan Technical College. He had been there several times as a guest instructor. Mr. Spellman told me he would work my hours around my class schedules and homework.

  I was pumped full of adrenaline that late afternoon as I raced home. That night at the dinner table I talked to my family about the school. My father started by saying, “I’ll pay all the bills with one condition.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  Dad said, “You maintain a B average.”

  I confidently said, “No problem.”

  For most students that would have been a tall order. I loved education and thrived in the classroom. Mom and Dad had been with Tyler and me from grade school up through high school. Tyler and I had always been at the top of our classes. We were always competitive but not in a jealous way.

  Mom looked at me and said, “We’ll all go with you when you register for classes.”

  In the fall of 1977 my family and I drove me to Logan Technical College, which was three miles from my home. We parked in a gravel area because all the parking spots closer to the main building were taken.

  The campus was alive with people roaming around the grounds and others who stood in small groups. A beautiful gray cobblestone walkway wove its way around the campus.

  We were welcomed to the junior college by senior students. When I explained to one of the students that I wanted to enroll in the culinary arts program, I was taken to a table that had a chef’s hat on it and an assortment of brochures describing the program. Mom and I sat down on a chair in front of the table while Dad and Tyler walked around the campus. A lady about Mom’s age took a seat in a chair across from us. She gave us an overview of the culinary arts program and then handed me a campus map showing me where the culinary arts area was.

  Mom went with me, because she wanted to see the kitchen. In the kitchen, students and instructors who wore white smocks with their names embroidered in black cursive letters above the pockets stood elbow-to-elbow. It was at that point that Mom told me she wanted to go find Dad and Tyler. Mom did not like crowds except when Dad was with her.

  Shortly after she left, an instructor with deep dimples on his cheeks looked at me and asked, “Are you a new student?”

  “I am,” I said as I approached him. I mentally took note of his name, Mr. Kenneth Richardson, and said,

  “I’m Seth Henderson.”

  He nodded around the kitchen and said, “The kitchen will be your classroom for the next two years.” He paused. “What do you expect to get out of this course?”

  “I don’t know.” That was an honest answer. “I bake sourdough at home and cook with Mom. I’ve been working at Mr. Spellman’s bakery. He’s a good teacher.”

  “I’ve known Mr. Spellman for forty-five years. We were in high school, and I knew after graduation he would take over his family’s bakery. I needed a job after I graduated. I asked Mr. Spellman if I could work for him until I decided what to do with my life. I learned everything I know about baking from that guy. After six months of working for him, I decided I did not want a life as a baker.

  “I went back to school to get my teaching degree and kept working with Mr. Spellman through graduation. A month after I graduated, a friend of Mr. Spellman’s who worked in the registrar’s office told him the school was looking for a culinary arts instructor. I didn’t think I had a chance in hell but I applied anyway. The rest, as they say, is history.” He paused and then asked, “What does your dad do for a living?”

  “He’s the owner of Henderson Accounting. Ever heard of that firm?” I asked.

  “Nope. I do my own. If I need help I ask the accounting instructor here at the school. Why don’t you want to be an accountant?” he asked.

  I shrugged and said, “I could, I guess. But I’ve always had this dream of owning my sourdough shop.”

  “I understand dreams,” Mr. Richardson said. “I was chosen for this job three months later and never regretted a moment of my time here.” His eyes watered as he said, “Mr. Spellman’s been the best friend I’ve ever had, next to my wife.”

  Soon other students were crowd
ed around the kitchen. At that point I decided I had taken enough time with Mr. Richardson. I shook his hand before I walked out of the kitchen to go find my family.

  When I met up with the family, Dad gave me a folder stuffed with papers and told me I had to go to the register’s office to fill in and sign paperwork.

  * * *

  I kept my promise to my father. I was on the dean’s list throughout the culinary arts course. When I wasn’t in school, I worked at Mr. Spellman’s bakery. My family saw little of me during this time, but they understood and were very much a part of my busy life.

  I had always dreamed of having my cook book sitting on the shelf in my mother’s kitchen but didn’t know how to get one published. I had taken note of various cookbook publishers in all Mom’s cookbooks. One cookbook publishing company stood out more than the others. They offered a packaged deal for custom cookbooks.

  Halfway through my first year, I presented the idea of publishing a class cookbook to the class. Our instructor wanted a show of hands of those students who wanted to participate. Everyone raised their hands, and it was decided that we call our cookbook The Cobblestone, named for the stone walkway around the campus. I had my own section of the cookbook devoted to sourdough cooking and baking.

  The centerpiece of the food service program was the Cobblestone Inn Restaurant, which served lunches daily and a formal dinner on Friday evenings. The main entrée for the Friday evening meal was prime rib or poached salmon.

  All pastries, pies, and cakes were made in the kitchen by students who wanted to specialize in those areas. Our performance in preparing, serving, and cleaning up after each meal was three-fourths of our grade.

  I brought my sourdough starter to the class and gave a minicourse on this type of bread baking. But the biggest hit at the Cobblestone Inn Restaurant was the sourdough bread bowls the class helped me make, which were filled with the soup of the day.

  In the fall of my second year, a few months before Christmas, our cookbook was finally published. We had a cookbook signing among classmates. I still have mine.