I turned to Maddy and Ella. “Let’s try a different flavor of macarons—something that reminds us of fall,” I suggested. Macarons were one of our customers’ favorites, and it was fun to try new flavors.
“Like what?” Maddy asked.
I already had an idea up my sleeve. “Like pumpkin-cinnamon!”
Ella nodded. “Yum. I love anything with pumpkin.”
Grandma and Grandpa told us we could use some of their ingredients, such as flour, baking soda, sugar, and other dry goods.
As we worked, Maddy brought up the conversation we’d started last week. “I still think we should all go together to France someday.”
“We could hang out with my cousins Sylvie and Lily,” I added, catching her enthusiasm.
“A trip like that would cost a fortune,” Ella said realistically. “Maybe we could afford it in twenty years.”
“Why not dream about it?” I asked. “We could make it a reality. We dreamed of starting a business, and now we’re doing it.”
“It doesn’t cost anything to dream,” Grandpa agreed.
I glanced over at him. “Everything starts with an idea, right, Grandma and Grandpa? Like your bakery?”
They both nodded and smiled at us, but there was a hint of sadness in their faces. Maybe they were just remembering back to when they’d first started the bakery—and now they felt wistful.
Wistful. It was a word I’d learned in one of Mom’s teacher moments. We’d been sorting through clothes I’d outgrown and bagging them up to donate to charity.
“Oh, look,” Mom had said, holding up a green velvet holiday dress that I’d worn when I was little. “You looked so darling in this outfit, and you loved wearing it. Seeing this again makes me wistful.”
When I’d asked what the word meant, she’d said, “The only thing separating wishful and wistful is a single letter. Wishful means feeling hopeful for something and looking to the future. Wistful is feeling sadness about something and longing for the past.”
Sitting side by side on their stools, Grandpa put his arm around Grandma’s shoulder and pulled her closer. She leaned into him. They seemed wistful. Why? I wondered. Could they be thinking about all the moments in the bakery they’d shared over the years?
That made me think of the trip I wanted to take to France with my friends someday.
And that definitely made me feel wishful.
ecause I’d been so busy with LPP, I hadn’t had time to video-chat with Sylvie. We usually did it on Sundays at noon Massachusetts time, which meant six p.m. in Paris. It was a good way for us to stay close. Plus, as my “business consultant,” Sylvie wanted to hear all about our orders and what we were baking. As I turned on my computer, I realized how much I’d missed talking with her.
From the screen, Sylvie peered back at me with her big brown eyes. In her arms, she cradled her golden tabby, Napoléon. “How are you, Grace?” Sylvie asked in English.
I wanted to say, “Me? I’m fine,” but I had to think for a moment in order to translate it into French. “Moi? Je vais bien,” I replied. And then I returned her question. “Comment vas-tu?”
“Me? I’m fine, too,” she answered. I could tell right away that she’d been working on her English. She could practice every day with her parents.
I nodded and smiled. I wanted to ask how baby Lily was, but my brain churned, trying to form the right words. I could feel my French already slipping away. “Comment vas-tu?”
Sylvie laughed lightly. “Me? I’m still fine,” she replied.
I shook my head. “Pardonne-moi,” I said. “Comment famille?”
“Comment va ta famille?” she gently corrected.
“Oui,” I said, feeling a little flustered. “Merci.”
“My family is fine,” she said. “My mom, my dad, my baby sister. All fine.” Then she rattled off something long and fast in French, and I figured from her expression that it had something to do with being frustrated by our language differences.
“I miss you!” I said, pantomiming that I’d hug her if I could.
She put her fingers to her lips and blew me a kiss. “Je t’aime!”
Then Aunt Sophie appeared with baby Lily, whose cheeks had filled out and whose dark hair was tied in a tiny pink bow at the top of her head.
“Hi, Aunt Sophie! Hi, Lily!” I exclaimed.
Lily wiggled in my aunt’s arms. I liked to think that she still recognized the sound of my voice.
“Aunt Sophie,” I said, “please tell Sylvie that my friends and I are dreaming of coming to France someday. Our business is really taking off!”
“Yes, so much so,” Mom said, coming up behind me, “that they’ve moved from my kitchen to First Street Family Bakery’s kitchen in the late afternoons.”
“Congratulations, Grace!” Aunt Sophie said.
“So we’re dreaming bigger,” I added. “Please tell Sylvie for me.”
Aunt Sophie translated, and Sylvie moved in closer. Her face appeared bigger on the screen, and she was grinning. “C’est génial!”
Then it was time to log off. Sylvie said, “Good-bye, Grace.”
“Au revoir, Sylvie,” I answered before the screen went blank.
I turned to Bonbon at my feet. “C’mon, girl,” I said, grabbing her leash and clipping it to her collar. “Time for a walk.” Because the backyard was enclosed and Bonbon couldn’t escape, I usually just opened the back door and let her out. But I knew she loved our walks, too, so I tried to fit one in every afternoon.
Nose to the ground, Bonbon snuffled and snorted as we walked the towpath alongside the canal, where half a dozen Canada geese floated. When one honked, Bonbon started yapping. One of the geese lifted its head higher, at full alert, watching us carefully until we’d passed.
“You don’t want to try to take them on,” I assured Bonbon.
Dry leaves swished around our feet. Red squirrels and gray squirrels dashed up and down tree trunks, carrying their stash and hiding it who-knows-where. With every sighting of a squirrel, Bonbon tugged a little at the end of her leash, ready to chase. I had to call her back so that she would remember to walk quietly beside me.
“You have to walk nice, Bonbon,” I said. “You know how.” I was learning how to train Bonbon, and she was doing well.
I breathed in the spicy air and the tang of turning leaves. In open stretches, the sun warmed my face, but in the shadows of trees, I felt a slight chill. The days were getting shorter now, which reminded me that Halloween was coming soon.
Last Friday, on top of giving us homework in math and reading, Captain Bauer had announced, “I want you to find a box and start working on your robot project for Halloween.” As part of our science and technology unit this month, he wanted us to dress up as robots to prepare for what he called “the Great Robot Invasion” at our school.
“A robot,” I said to Bonbon as we walked, “is not exactly my dream costume, but it looks like I’ll have to come up with something.”
She glanced up and whined at me, as if she understood perfectly.
When we returned home, I headed to the garage where Josh was rebuilding a bike. “Help!” I said. I told him about the robot assignment and asked if he had any suggestions.
“Well, you probably don’t have tons of time to make the costume, right?” he asked, adjusting the tension on the hand brakes.
“That’s for sure,” I said. “There’s Bonbon to take care of, baking orders to fill and deliver, and homework on top of it all.”
“Well, for starters,” he said, leaning over the handlebars, “the robot costume doesn’t have to be a lot of work. Just find a big box, cut holes in the sides for your arms and one on top for your head, and spray-paint it with metallic paint.”
“But won’t the costume need some gadgets and wiring?” I asked. I looked around at all of Josh’s extra bike parts, which were sorted and organized in plastic bins. “Could I use some of these bike parts? I could glue them on, couldn’t I?”
Josh saw wha
t I was eyeing and shook his head vigorously. “This all may look like junk to you, Grace, but I actually need this stuff. Besides, why not make the robot something more you?”
“More me?”
He nodded. “You’re the idea girl. You’ll figure it out.”
“Thanks,” I said, though my head felt full of rocks. I was fresh out of ideas.
After dinner, I climbed onto the cushions in the bay window with my backpack. Bonbon hopped up beside me. It helped that she liked to keep me company while I did my homework. First, I did my math problems. When I turned to my reading assignment, Bonbon peered out the window, watching for squirrels even though it was too dark to see.
I pressed my head gently against hers and stared out the window, too. When I heard the wind rustling through the trees, I thought again about my Halloween costume. I still couldn’t see how to make my robot more me.
“Maybe coming up with good ideas is like looking for squirrels,” I whispered into Bonbon’s ear. “Maybe, sometimes, all we can do is watch and wait.”
Two weeks later, our business license arrived. My grandparents’ kitchen had been inspected and approved as a commissary kitchen, so LPP was officially back in business!
On Monday, my friends and I met at First Street Family Bakery to fill our first orders in our new space. Instead of heading home, Grandma and Grandpa stayed with us. They seemed happy to sit and just hang out for a while.
“Do you mind if we put up a whiteboard?” I asked them. We’d bought an inexpensive one, along with a set of colorful markers.
“Go right ahead,” Grandpa said. “Put it somewhere where it’s easy for you girls to get at it.”
Mr. Petronia—or “Mr. P.,” as we’d started to call him—helped us hang the board near the swinging door that led to the front of the bakery. “If the job doesn’t get on the board,” he said to Grandpa over his shoulder, “it doesn’t get done.”
“So true!” I agreed.
Maddy nudged me and nodded toward the folder in her hands. She had come armed with images of Paris that she’d found online: a pâtisserie, bakery treats, statues, the Eiffel Tower, a woman carrying a baguette, a fountain, and a man walking three small dogs on leashes.
“Oh, that’s right. Grandma, we brought some pictures of Paris, too,” I said.
“Go right ahead and put those up, too,” she said.
As Maddy and Ella taped up images, I said, “I almost feel like I’m back in Paris!”
“I know. It makes me want to go there even more,” Maddy said, climbing the step stool and posting a photo of colorful macarons.
Once the atmosphere was set, we settled into our routine. First we checked our website for new orders. Ella read the orders aloud and I wrote each one—and the delivery date—on the whiteboard. Then we washed our hands, donned aprons, and got to work.
Mr. P. seemed more than happy to help us with today’s new recipe: mini cream puffs. And Grandpa jumped in with a suggestion or two while we worked.
“While you’re baking the shells,” he said, “put the heavy cream in the freezer for a bit. Make sure it’s extra cold before you start. The cream will whip up faster, and you’ll get the light, fluffy texture you want.”
I beamed at him. There’s that old expression about “too many cooks in the kitchen” being a bad thing, but today, I felt like “many cooks in the kitchen” couldn’t be better.
In what seemed like no time at all, we’d baked dozens of shells. While the shells cooled, we made the whipped cream and divided the batch into two smaller bowls. One would become chocolate cream and the other, vanilla cream.
“If these work, I want to try them in a bunch of flavors,” I said, slicing open a puffy, hollow shell and spooning a dollop of filling in the middle. “The recipe said we could make hazelnut, pistachio, coffee, and raspberry cream.”
“But how do we know which ones customers are going to like the most?” Ella asked. “What if we make a bunch of pistachio cream puffs and no one buys them? We’d have to dump them—and we’d lose money.”
“I’m happy to taste-test them all for you girls,” Grandma joked.
I giggled, but there was a seed of an idea in Grandma’s words. “Maybe we should do some taste testing with customers.” I turned to Grandma. “How could we make that happen?”
“What do you girls think?” Grandma asked, looking at me and Ella and Maddy.
We were all quiet, deep in thought, as we continued filling cream puffs.
“From the cart!” Maddy said suddenly.
The moment she said the words, I could see it: our beautiful cart with an assortment of mini cream puffs in a bunch of different flavors. “That’s it!” I said. “We can set it up just outside on First Street. We can give away free samples.”
“Free?” Ella said, her eyes doubtful.
“Free,” I repeated. “That way customers will feel free to tell us which ones they like best. Then we’ll know which ones to make more of.”
“And,” Maddy said, “we can have them write reviews as they sample the different flavors. The more good reviews, the better!”
Grandpa nodded his approval. “Good thinking, girls. Samples and reviews make good business sense.”
While we cleaned up, we made plans to meet again on Wednesday and bake more mini cream puffs as well as macarons in some fun new flavors. And on Friday, we’d display our cart outside the bakery and do a taste test. I couldn’t wait!
Maddy handed each of us a small box of the mini cream puffs we had made today. “Don’t forget to get reviews at home, too,” she said. “We need good ones before we can add cream puffs to our menu.”
Grandma smiled at the box in her hand. “These are coming with me to my book club tonight.” Then she checked her watch and added, “Oh dear. I’m going to miss it altogether if I don’t get going! See you girls on Wednesday.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” I said. “You’re the best.”
She winked at me as she followed Grandpa out the door.
As I closed the door behind them, I noticed the stack of large empty boxes near the recyclables bin. “Woo-hoo!” I exclaimed.
“What?” Maddy asked.
“What did you find?” Ella joined in.
I pointed to the stack of cardboard boxes.
Ella’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I don’t get it. What’s so exciting about boxes?”
“Nothing,” I said, “unless you’re supposed to make a robot costume for Halloween and the first step is finding a big box. Then this is a gold mine!”
“You get to make robots in Mr. Bauer’s class?” Ella asked.
I nodded. “I think our whole class might parade around school. Mr. Bauer is calling it the Great Robot Invasion.”
“Oh, that sounds soooo fun!” Maddy whined. “We’re not doing that in—” She stopped short.
I had a sinking feeling. “My mom’s class,” I finished for her. I shrugged. “I can’t help it that Captain Bauer comes up with all these crazy ideas.”
“Actually,” Ella said, “did you know we’re decorating our classroom for Halloween?”
“You are?” I said. “My mom hasn’t said a thing about it.”
Ella clamped her hand over her mouth. “Maybe it’s supposed to be a surprise,” she said in a muffled voice. “Just like your robot invasion.”
I pretended to lock my lips and throw away the key.
Then Maddy and Ella did the same.
ur bakery cart was a magnet. The moment we pushed it out onto the sidewalk in front of First Street Family Bakery, people stopped to investigate.
“Free samples,” we called to walkers and bikers. And nearly every time, they stopped to sample our new flavors of mini cream puffs and macarons.
“Yum!”
“Delicious!”
“Incredible!” came the responses.
And we were quick to pull out a notepad and pencil. “Would you mind writing a quick review?” we would ask.
It didn’t take long to
see which flavors were the most popular. Our pumpkin-cinnamon macarons were a big hit, along with the raspberry cream puffs.
“Now we know which ones to bake more of,” Ella said.
“Exactly,” I replied.
Even Mr. Hammond from the Kitchen Shop dropped by. “It’s just amazing what you girls have accomplished!” he exclaimed. “My customers rave about what they order from you. I hope you’re having fun, too. Are you?”
I beamed. I couldn’t imagine anywhere else I’d rather be than outside my grandparents’ bakery, in the shade of a fuchsia-leaved maple tree, working the LPP bakery cart with my friends. “It’s lots of work,” I admitted to Mr. Hammond, “but we’re having a blast.”
He smiled and nodded. “Good to hear. Even though it’s work, I love running my shop and being in business for myself. There’s always something new to learn, like the blog I started a few months ago.” He ran his hand through his short-cropped hair. “That was a bear. I had no idea what I was doing at first with it, but after a while, it came as natural as breathing.”
I like talking with Mr. Hammond. He treats us like real business owners—which we are!—and sometimes gives us good ideas, too.
In fact, the moment he walked out of earshot, Maddy’s eyes lit up. “Ella. Grace. We need a blog!”
Ella made a face. “With school and all, I don’t see how we can add another thing to LPP.” Ella was good at being practical and making sure we didn’t get in over our heads.
But I couldn’t help getting excited about Maddy’s idea. “Like the blog I had in Paris?” I asked. I had started a blog on my mom’s teacher site, and it had been a fun way to stay in touch with Maddy and Ella back home.
“Exactly,” Maddy answered. “A blog is a great way to advertise and get people excited about our business. Between our website, our taste tests, and a blog, our business can grow—and grow—and grow.” With each grow she extended her arms wider, until she knocked our “Free Samples” sign off the top of our cart. “Oops!”
Ella picked up the sign and immediately rehung it.
“Thanks,” said Maddy, but she’d lost none of her enthusiasm when she asked me, “Could we put our blog on your mom’s teacher site again, like you did when you were in France?”
Grace Makes It Great Page 4