So this morning, I look through my notebook and decide which recipe I’m going to try. Strawberry pie. Pretty simple. First I have to finish my chores, though. I head outside, Jacques and Julia following like they always do. Even though I didn’t like dogs a couple of months ago, now I feel sort of weird when I go outside without them. Like I forgot my shoes or something.
I feed the chickens and the pets and clean all their poop up from all their places. I also collect all the eggs from the chickens and place them in the kitchen. Shell told me fresh chicken eggs don’t have to be refrigerated for a few weeks, but they do have to be washed. After all, they come out of the chicken’s you-know-where. This part is kind of gross. But I like fresh eggs, so oh well.
Finally, I get to pick my pie ingredients out of the garden, beginning with the fruit. Shell had said that strawberry can be a little tricky. “You have to taste them, then add the right amount of sugar,” she’d told me. “So you might need more or less than the recipe says.”
“How much more or less?” I’d asked.
“It depends on what they taste like,” she’d said.
Well, that advice wasn’t helpful.
Shell had also suggested rhubarb. Rhubarb and strawberry, she’d said, is classic. “But the rhubarb leaves are poisonous.”
“How poisonous?” I’d asked.
“Deadly.”
I definitely don’t want any rhubarb leaves. I look at the planting box where Shell said the rhubarb was growing, next to the beans sprouting up their poles. She said it looks like pink celery. I look over the plants and don’t see anything like it.
“Is it this one?” I touch a big green leaf. The stalk looks a little reddish, maybe. Mostly green, though. “I’m not sure.”
Jacques barks at me. “Should I not do it?” I ask him. “Well, then. Maybe it’ll be a plain old strawberry pie.” I’ll ask Shell later where the rhubarb is.
I wonder what my dad eats in jail. Do they have a garden? It would be nice if they did. I imagine Dad outside, digging in black soft earth with his hands and a shovel. I hope Dad is happy. Well, maybe he can’t be happy, but at least not sad. Without all those big peaks and valleys of his moods. That’s what I’d like him to be.
Dad likes to garden. He used to save paper cups and put dirt and seeds in them and keep them in the van. Usually they didn’t get very big—they probably needed more light—but once we grew a pretty large tomato plant. Once it outgrew the cup, we transferred it into an old orange bucket, and it actually gave us five tomatoes. They were small and orange, not red, but they were tomatoes all the same. “The bounty of the earth, Cady!” Dad had chuckled as he’d picked them.
Thinking about him is like when I get a cut on my finger and it’s almost healed, but it still hurts. Especially if you push hard. It makes me go through everything I wish he’d done. All the things I wish could be happening. I should write him a letter, ask him about the ear piercing.
He’s still my dad.
I count the berries I have in my cardboard box. About two dozen. It’s more than enough. I eat a berry and toss the stem onto the compost heap in the far corner of the yard, which steams with layers of chicken manure and vegetables. I’ll have to turn that later so the fresh top layer gets a chance to decompose. Then we use the dirt on our garden.
Shell had told me to pick basil and oregano for a marinara sauce, so I head over to the herb bed and pick those next. Basil’s easy to identify. It has tender green leaves a little bit like lettuce, but small. Oregano has smaller leaves and I always get it mixed up with thyme, but thyme’s woodier.
I take another juicy bite of strawberry as I head back into the house, wiping my chin where it’s dripped. The smell of basil’s still on my fingers. I inhale. The scent of both of them mixed together makes my mouth water.
I stop short. The dogs stop too and look up at me expectantly.
“Strawberry basil,” I say to the dogs. “That’s what I’ll do.”
“Ruff!” Julia wags her tail.
“I’m so glad you agree, love,” I say in my British accent. “It shall be a right proper pie. No soggy bottoms to be found.”
Inside, I get out my stationery and smooth it on top of the kitchen table, thinking of what I can say.
Dear Dad,
Hi. It’s Cady, your daughter. I’m still doing fine. Don’t worry, Shell doesn’t take me to church.
Dad, I want to know something. How come you weren’t stronger, like Shell and Mom?
I cross that out and crumple it up. I can’t write that to him. “Now I’ve wasted a perfectly good piece of stationery,” I say to the dogs. They don’t look up from their naps this time, so I can’t pretend they’re talking.
I start again.
I hope you’re doing okay. I hope they give you pie in there.
Sincerely,
Cady
P.S. BTW, I’m getting my ears re-pierced. I’ll assume you’re fine with that, since Mom wanted them that way. And I do, too.
It’s the best I can do. I fold the paper up and stick it into an envelope. Then I neatly write the address Shell gave me. Inmate #423042. That’s Dad. So odd to have a dad who’s a number, even if it’s only temporary.
“Cady.” Shell almost gives me a heart attack by appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
“What are you doing home?”
“I came to get you, but you were outside.” Shell’s carrying a laundry basket, but there are no clothes in it. Instead, she’s got all my food. My cheeks fire up when I see how much I’ve collected. It looks like I could open a small grocery store.
She sets the basket on the table. “Cady, why do you have all this in your bedroom?”
Her tone is very gentle, especially for Shell, and this throws me off more than anything. I shrug, staring at nothing. “Don’t know.”
Shell sits across from me. “You don’t have to hoard food, Cady. It’s okay. We’re going to feed you.”
Now my breath catches in my throat, and I glare at her. Dad’s probably not coming back for me for a long time, but there’s something else now, too. “How do I know that? I know the pie shop’s in trouble.”
Shell looks stricken. “I’m not going to lose the pie shop.”
“Jay and I heard you and María talking. I know about the debt collectors.” I bite my lip really hard.
Shell puts her hand on my arm. “Cady, don’t hurt your lip.”
I stop that. “So what if you lose everything and we don’t have anything to eat? At least I’ll have some food. I’ll even share it.”
Shell’s head dips down to the table. Then she lifts it. I’m afraid she’ll be crying, but her eyes just look hollow. “I’m not going to stop you from keeping the food if it makes you feel better. Just nothing that will attract bugs. Okay?”
I nod mutely.
“But I will always take care of you, Cady. You have my word.” Shell stands up.
I pick up the basket and head upstairs, trying my hardest to feel better. I’ve got her word, but so did a lot of other people, like those people she promised she’d pay.
I don’t know. Maybe Shell’s word is only as good as Dad’s. Bitterness rises in my throat. I set the basket in the corner. There’s no reason to hide it anymore.
In the afternoon, I go to the pie shop with my box of strawberries and basil. Shell raises her eyebrows at this. “I wouldn’t put basil into something sweet.” She says “basil” like I said I wanted to use dog food.
“Your name isn’t Cady Madeline Bennett, either.” I shrug. “Besides, Suzanne says it could work.”
Shell’s lips twitch. “Don’t use too much. Maybe like a dozen leaves.”
Some recipes say “a few” and some say “twelve.” I decide on eight. I make this one with a lattice pie top like Shell taught me. The lattice top has the added bonus of letting steam escape. No holes needed like you have to make with other pies.
When it’s done, I take it out to the front. Suzanne’s home from the boat and sit
ting with María and Shell, talking in low voices at a corner table. Mr. Miniver and a couple of other locals sit nearby. Jay’s working on a laptop.
“Cady! Come see the game I made. It’s pretty awesome.” Jay waves to me.
“In a second.” I put the pie on the counter and begin cutting it for everyone to try. This is my favorite part, and the worst part. Favorite because of course I want everyone to love it. Also the worst because it’s terrible if the filling runs out, or if there’s a soggy bottom, or if anyone hates it. Last week I made a blueberry-mint that Jay actually spit out. “Toothpaste!” he declared, then saw my probably horrified-looking face. “Sorry, Cady.”
This time, I take a bite of it myself first. The brightness of the berries and the basil combine perfectly. The basil tastes . . . green. But that could be me. Shell says that palates are subjective, meaning everyone’s palate has a different opinion. That’s why some people like chocolate best and some people like vanilla. However, if watching The Great British Bake Off has taught me anything, it’s that there are still some things that you can judge. Like, if you make a chocolate tart, the chocolate shouldn’t be grainy or runny, or too bitter or too sweet. If you make a fruit pie, it shouldn’t be grossly sugary or mouth-puckeringly sour. So there are still rules everyone follows.
I cover the pie pieces in whipped cream and carry three plates to the table for Shell, balancing one on my forearm like Claudia taught me.
Suzanne leans across the table, looking more intense than I’ve ever seen her. “Shell, I’m telling you, my boss would put up the money. He loves your pies and he always offers them on the boat. Everyone who charters the yacht loves it.”
“I’m not getting involved with a partner. It’s too messy. He wants twenty percent.”
“Twenty percent of something is better than a hundred percent of nothing!” Suzanne fires back. I haven’t seen Suzanne mad before. “It’s logical.”
Shell massages her temples. “Sheesh, Suzanne. Give it a rest.”
Now’s maybe not the best time, but oh well. I’m here. “Voilà.” I put the pie down with a flourish. The three women look up at me, their foreheads creased with worry. They’re having an Important Adult Conversation. I can tell they wish I’d stayed in the kitchen. “Everything okay, Aunt Shell?” My stomach twists a bit as I remember that big stack of bills and what Jay told me and the conversation Jay and I overheard.
Jay catches my eye and shakes his head. I give him one of the plates.
“Everything’s fine, Cady,” Shell says a bit too firmly. Suzanne leans back. “Now, tell us about this pie.”
“Strawberry basil.”
Suzanne takes a bite. Immediately I know from her expression she likes it. “My goodness. You wouldn’t expect those to work together because basil’s not nearly as sweet as strawberry. But it tastes so . . .”
“Fresh,” María supplies, pie oozing from the corner of her mouth. She wipes it.
I stand there watching Jay spoon bites into his mouth. “What do you think?”
He points to his nearly empty plate.
“I was wrong.” Shell’s face relaxes. “The basil was a good idea.”
“I’m not even the first one to think of it,” I say modestly.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind trying some of that,” Mr. Miniver pipes up. “My goodness, a new flavor! How exciting.” The other people in the café look interested, too. All two of them. My stomach flips in worry.
“Cady, cut the pie up and put it into those little Dixie cups,” Shell says. “Let everyone try.”
My heart racing, I do so. This is the first pie Shell has let me give out to anyone. She’s never even suggested it before.
Claudia helps me cut up the rest of the pie and put it into little paper cups. “Oh! I have an idea.” I jump up and down. “Shell, can I go outside and give them to people?”
Shell nods. “I don’t see how that could hurt.”
“Not at this point, especially,” María adds darkly. Suzanne nudges her.
Without waiting another instant, I head out the door and down the hill, past the dusty parking lot to the main street. “Wait!” Jay runs after me, holding the sidewalk sign normally in front of the store. “Let me help you.”
We stand on the street. “Sample?” I ask everyone. “Would you like a sample?”
A group of hipster-looking kids who look like they could be friends with Claudia gather around. “Strawberry basil?” A man with a huge fluffy beard smacks his lips. “I haven’t seen that anywhere.”
“We’re trying a new flavor. The strawberries are organic,” I add. They seem like the type of people who’d like that. They all take a cup, and in another minute, we’re out of samples.
Suzanne appears. “How’s it going?”
I show her my empty tray. “How do you think?”
She claps. “That’s great!” Then she taps her chin with an index finger. “Well, Miss Cady, if we can’t convince Shell to expand, maybe we can convince her to add a new flavor.”
Jay wrinkles his brow. “I don’t know. She’s pretty stubborn about those two kinds.”
“I know. Trust me, I know.” Suzanne kind of barks out a laugh. “But I’ve been working on changing her mind for, oh, four years now.”
The fluffy-bearded guy walks up. “Can I get a whole pie to take home? My mom loves strawberries.”
I give him a thumbs-up. “You will, soon.” Jay and I run back to the store, laughing like two maniacs. We probably scared the customers away. Oh well.
Chapter 26
Señora Vasquez sits in front of the TV, her head lolled to the side, a snore escaping her parted lips. From a shelf, a radio plays the same Mexican music station María listens to. A small, doll-sized cap attached to a pink ball of yarn lies in her lap. Jay says crocheting’s her main hobby, due to her knee.
I try to enter quietly. Shell told me that I had to stay here today while she took María and the kids into town for a doctor’s appointment. No matter how much I pleaded to be left alone.
“You could both use the company,” Shell had said, and she’d said it in her no more arguments tone, so I gave up.
“Don’t people knock these days?” Señora Vasquez doesn’t open her eyes or move her head. “Well, don’t stand there letting the flies in.”
I hop in and shut the door. “Um, hi.” What am I supposed to do here all day? Maybe I could offer to clean the house, which would be better than watching her crochet. And that way I could sort of hide from her. It’s pretty clean, though, so it probably wouldn’t take long. “What are you making?”
She opens her eyes. “A preemie hat. I send them to the hospital.”
“Oh.” That actually doesn’t seem like something a mean person would do, and I relax a bit. Maybe she could teach me, but I don’t exactly think Señora would be the most enthusiastic teacher.
She lifts her eyebrows at me as her fingers turn the hat circle. “I hear you almost burned the house down.”
I blanch. I didn’t think Shell had told anyone. “That was weeks ago. And we still ate the cake.”
“And that you threw a pie a mi nieto.” Her lips twitch.
“That’s one hundred percent not true!” Who’s telling her about this stuff? I’ve never had so many people interested in my business. There was only ever my dad. Of course, I never had the chance to push pies off tables before, so it didn’t much matter. Is this how it’s going to be from now on—everything I do getting discussed by a whole crowd?
“I’m not saying I never wanted to throw a pie at him myself. He can be somewhat of a know-it-all.” She smooths down the cap.
“Jay’s not a know-it-all. He does know everything he talks about,” I say hotly, even though that’s why I got so mad at him that time. “What am I supposed to do here all day?”
She blinks. “Whatever you want, as long as you don’t hurt yourself.”
Then I’m going to see the cows. I open the back door. “Be back later.”
“Wher
e are you going?” she calls. “I need to supervise you.”
I put my hand on the doorknob, puffing through my nose. A sharp reply wants to burst out. Then I get a better idea. I give her my most regal, chin-pointy look. “I know that your knee hurts, my dear Señora Vasquez, and I am sorry for that. But I would most appreciate it if you could stop hurling insults in my direction!” I make sure to say appreciate with a c like an s, like Mary Berry might say.
Señora Vasquez looks surprised, and for a second I’m afraid she’s going to throw her crochet needle at me like a spear. But then her eyes sparkle, and she begins coughing. She leans over, her face turning deep brick red. Uh-oh. She’s choking.
I rush over to her and pound her back. “Do you need water?”
She holds up a hand and raises her head, still making the choking noise. I realize it’s not choking at all. It’s laughter. It’s so rusty it sounds like the cough of a dying smokestack.
When she finally stops, she has to take off her glasses and wipe the tears out of her eyes. “There’s that feistiness I heard about. I was beginning to think the stories were all lies.”
I sit back on my heels, astounded. “Stories?”
“Jay talks about you all the time.” She pushes her glasses up on her face. “I don’t get out much. I have to get my entertainment where I can. Now. Do you want to clean out the shed or make a tres leches cake?”
I grin. “I bet you can guess.”
Chapter 27
I inhale the scents of sugar and flour and cinnamon as we mix up the batter. The egg whites are the hardest part; like the Lady Baltimore Cake, you have to whip them separately. Between my chores and all this baking, my arms are most definitely getting ripped. In fact, my whole body feels stronger. I notice that it’s easier to stand up straight, and I’m not getting tired like I did last month.
“This is the main reason I don’t make this cake very much. I don’t have a mixer. It’s too hard to beat the egg whites stiff by hand.” Señora Vasquez watches. “Hey, you’re pretty good.”
“I try,” I say modestly. I lift the whisk out to see if it makes a peak again. It does. “It’s ready.”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 16