“Good for you! Are you coming to town? I’d love to see you again!”
“I’m not, at least not soon, but I was wondering if I could ask a massive favor.”
“Of course, what do you need?”
I explain, best as I can, about Herman and Langer’s and Cake Goddess and the whole debacle. I tell her that I’m trying to find that one specialty item that no one else has, to try and keep the doors open. And that I thought milk bread was just the ticket, but that I didn’t have time to do all the recipe testing to make my own version and wanted to just steal hers wholesale.
“We’ll call it Stephanie’s Kindred Milk Bread; and on all of our social media stuff, we will link to you guys and say that if people are going to Charlotte, this is just a small taste of what they will find at your place. I know it’s a long shot, but I figure since we are so far away, it isn’t direct competition, and we can promote you while totally using your recipe for our own gain. I want to start with your plain version, and then do some daily variations so that people keep coming in to see the different versions.”
There is a pause, and for a moment I think that I’m about to spend long hours trying to reinvent the wheel. “I love it.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Look, it’s not like I invented milk bread, after all. Just tweaked a recipe till I liked it. And we published the home version of the recipe a while back in Bon Appétit. It’s not hard; you’d have figured it out really quickly. But I’m happy to share the large-batch recipe we are using. I love what you’re doing there. There was a bakery like that in my hometown, probably the reason I do what I do, so if I can help you try and save one? I’m in. Is your email the same?”
“It is.”
“It’s coming your way. My batch makes a dozen of those four-roll pans, which are about the equivalent of one small loaf per. But it multiplies up pretty easily.”
“You’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m touched and honored, and I hope it does what you want it to do.”
“Thanks so much. If there is anything you ever need from me, you’ve got it!”
“All I want is that you have to keep me updated on the variations. I want to know what you do with it!”
“Of course!”
“Oh, and to be honest, I could really use a great recipe for chocolate babka.”
I laugh. “I’ve got just the thing. You’ll love it. When I get your email, I’ll attach it to the reply.”
“Perfect. And, Sophie, I’m really glad you called, and I’m really glad you’re doing okay. Keep in touch.”
“Will do. And thank you again; it means the world.”
“Hey, us baking girls have to stick together!”
I finish the last bite of lasagna and drop my plate into the dishwasher, then run upstairs to check my computer. I scroll past dozens of new Wedding Girl emails, and there it is, subject line “Milk Bread.” I read over the recipe. It really is simple. A basic yeast dough enriched with heavy cream and butter, an egg, some honey, and an interesting combination of cake flour and bread flour. Even better, it does a one-hour initial proof, then kneading and forming, and then a second proof before baking. Which makes it perfect for something you have to bake every day, unlike some of our other breads, which require two full risings before forming. It’s the kind of recipe Herman can manage easily on his own if need be, which is also important. And the soft, sweet dough should lend itself beautifully to additions like dried fruits, so if Herman supports the idea, we can hopefully get people addicted to the original, and then after the cake competition we can roll out a daily new variation, just so people don’t get bored.
I reply to the email, attaching the chocolate babka recipe, and tell Stephanie again how much I really appreciate her generosity. Then I check my watch. I have about an hour before I have to go to the bakery, so I figure I should work on some Wedding Girl emails while I can. I get through half a dozen before I see it.
Dear Wedding Girl—
I keep seeing your site when researching my wedding online, and so I thought I would reach out for some advice. I’m having some problems with my wedding planning, and I hope you can help. I’m in my early sixties and about to marry the man I’ve been with for over forty years. The problem is that our only child, my daughter, seems to disagree with many of my ideas. I am trying to be very understanding about her attitudes. We have very different styles and aesthetics, and it is difficult to find common ground. When I try and suggest things I think are more in line with her likes, she is dismissive of them as incongruous with her perception of who I am. And I’m afraid to even broach certain ideas, since I know that while she loves us, the lifestyle her dad and I have always chosen is at odds with her own desires. As much as I’m tempted to just bag the whole thing and elope, there is a part of me that really does want to mark this new chapter of my life with a wonderful memorable event. But not to the detriment of my relationship with her. Any advice on how to bridge the gap?
First time bride, longtime mom
For the love of all that is holy. It is bad enough that I have to even do this whole wedding advice thing. But with the money I’ve earned from it plus my dad’s bonus check, I’ve been able to pay down nearly 15 percent of the principal on my stupid debt, so I do know that it’s worth it. If only I could keep my freaking parents from writing in, it would be so much better. I close the email, not remotely in a place to think about how to answer her, and print out the milk bread recipe. I grab it, along with my folder for the cake competition, and head for the bakery, where I can think about cookies and bread and other things that are far less stressful.
I’m just pulling the first batch of milk bread out of the oven when my cell phone pings. Instead of baking the bread as four roundish rolls in a deep round tin, I portioned it as four rectangular mini-loaves in a rectangular dish. They are the perfect size for one large roll for dinner or breakfast, but still usable for sandwiches if someone was so inclined. Like Stephanie, I did a light egg wash and then sprinkled them with flaky sea salt crystals, so the tops are burnished and shiny. I put the pans on racks to cool, and grab my phone out of my pocket. I have a text from Amelia.
Brian and I are back, having dinner tonight with pal from college who recently moved to town, and would love to know more locals besides the two of us. I know it’s last minute but are you available? Would love to have you join us. Just going for casual Italian over at Buona Terra. 8pm?
The bakery closes at seven, so I should have time to go home quickly to change, and I know that Bubbles is attending the symphony tonight. Plus I love that Amelia is so kind; I know if I moved here and didn’t know many people, I would totally want what few friends I did have to introduce me to their circle. I’m really flattered she would think of me, and even though part of me feels like I should go home and knock out Wedding Girl replies, I didn’t have any red exclamation points in the inbox. And if I do answer emails, I’ll have to think about how to reply to my mother, which is pretty much the last thing I want to deal with, either online or in person. I’m just about to accept the invite when my phone pings again.
Also, he’s single and cute, so that can’t hurt, right? ;)
Hell to the no. A fix-up double date? Out of the blue? With less than an hour after work to pull myself together? Thank god I hadn’t finished typing my reply. I delete the part I had written about meeting them there, and instead decline as politely as I can.
So sorry, tonight not good. But thanks for thinking of me! We’ll make plans soon . . . Ruth wants to do a girls night to celebrate Jean’s new freedom.
Looks like it’s going to be the computer and me tonight after all, but here’s what I know: I’m in a far better headspace to deal with my mother than with a date.
Damn, but worth a try. And I’m not giving up on this one, he’s a good guy, and I think you’ll like him, so be prepared for my cashing a rain check. Gi
rls night sounds good. Talk soon.
Bless her little meddling heart.
Herman comes through the door to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “What is that smell?”
I gesture to the pans cooling on the racks. “Milk bread. Hopefully our new signature bring-them-in-by-the-hundreds, can’t-live-without-it offering.”
“That’s a lot of pressure on some rolls.”
“Yep.”
He peers at them over the tops of his glasses. He pokes one gently. “May I?”
“They’re still too hot. Give them fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. How are we looking on the cake? Did you read the packet?”
“Yeah, I did. I think we’ll be good; we just need to start with the theme. Did you have any ideas?”
“You know me. I want a cake to look like a cake.”
“Well, then forget how you want it to look; how do you want it to represent us?”
“By being delicious!”
I laugh. “That’s a given. But what are our best qualities? What are we trying to convey?”
He considers this for a moment. “I think it should just represent who we actually are. A neighborhood bakery, serving the people in our community, making simple things that are wonderful and bring joy to people.”
“Okay. And how are we specifically Chicago?”
“Chicago is a city of neighborhoods. We aren’t trying to be all things to all people; we just want to be good neighbors. What’s more Chicago than that?”
“You make a good point. Now we just have to figure that out visually.”
“I know you can do it!”
“Your faith is admirable.” How on earth am I going to visually depict Chicago’s neighborhood feel?
Herman reaches for a side towel and the nearest pan, which he flips over deftly, releasing the four conjoined rolls onto the rack. I’m delighted to see how easily they came out of the pan, and that they are golden and crusty on the bottoms. He pulls one roll off the set, releasing a cloud of steam. I can see how the interior stretches, little shreds pulling apart, very elastic and tender. That’s a good sign. Herman breaks off a piece and blows on it gently before putting it in his mouth. And then his eyes close. He chews and swallows, and when he opens his eyes, they are moist with tears.
“My mother’s bread,” he says simply. I reach for a roll and pull off a bite, savoring the slight sweetness, the softness, the pop of salt on the top, and I know what he means. Whatever the recipe, the emotion behind this simple bread is home cooking; it’s Thanksgiving, it’s Sunday supper. It’s the bread of our mothers and grandmothers and favorite aunts. It’s home. I can feel my eyes well up a bit myself. Herman puts an arm around me, and we finish our rolls in damp silence.
I take a swig of my gin and tonic, and face the computer.
Dear First Time Bride—
Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, and I’m sorry for the complications that it is presenting.
I think first and foremost, you should have the day YOU want. And you can’t worry about whether your daughter thinks it is wonderful or awful, it isn’t her day. The best advice I can give about weddings in general is that what other people think of you is none of your business. The only opinions that matter are yours and your husband to be. If you start planning a wedding based on public perception, or crowdsourcing details, you’ll end up with an event that isn’t you, and the memories won’t be what you want them to be.
For starters, I will say what I say to any bride who isn’t 25. Only put the people in the room who you love most, who you most want to witness you saying those vows. This is not the time for old acquaintances, casual colleagues, or everyone in the Rolodex. If you’ve waited this long to marry this man, you want the day to be about the two of you and the family and friends around you who are the most important to the life you’ve built together. That might be 20 people or it might be 200, but you should only fill the space with the people that mean the most. My rule of thumb is if it is someone you would pick up a phone and call directly to share important breaking news, good or bad, then they make the list.
As far as your daughter is concerned, I’d just tell her that you love her and that you would love for her to support you as you plan your wedding, in whatever way she feels comfortable. I think the clearer idea you have about the type of event you want, the easier it will be for everyone to communicate about it.
And there is nothing wrong with eloping if you and your fiancé decide it is the most “you.” You can always just plan a simpler party to celebrate after!
Best of luck,
Wedding Girl
I say a little prayer that the elopement message sinks in. It would be a load off everyone’s mind and, I think, the best thing they could do, but even if we are still going full-bore wedding, hopefully she’ll tone it down a little bit. For all of our sanity’s sake.
It Happened One Night
(1934)
I want to see what love looks like when it’s triumphant. I haven’t had a good laugh in a week.
• CLARK GABLE AS PETER WARNE •
S—
Tonight I ate something called Spotted Dick. And it was delicious. I’m now wondering if I may be questioning my whole identity. I would give my left arm for a char dog or an Italian beef. I find myself dreaming of the crispy almost burnt cheese edges on a Pequod’s pizza. How are things with the sassy old lady?
J
I love when I get to wake up to his emails. He tends to shoot off some little missive every third day or so. Just silly stuff usually, but sometimes he goes a little deeper. And slowly I’m revealing myself, as much as I can. I fessed up to living with my grandmother, but just said I had made some bad decisions career-wise and real estate investment–wise and was regrouping a bit. He was very kind and supportive, said I was smart to get out from under the condo before I ended up with something like a foreclosure or bankruptcy on my record, and thinks it is sweet that I have such a close relationship with Bubbles. He assumes the Wedding Girl site is to build back up my savings and create a nest egg. I still have not been able to tell him my real name or job, or that I’m forty grand in debt on a wedding that didn’t happen; he thinks I’m over at the hardware store helping good old Uncle Earl.
Considering his reaction to my being semi-unemployed and living with Bubbles, I probably should have just let the whole thing out, but it is still too tender, and now I like him too much to jeopardize it. I think it warrants a face-to-face conversation. I even thought briefly about suggesting Skype or FaceTime or one of those things, but then I tried it with Kenzie, my pal from culinary school who is doing a stage in Rome, and saw how I looked on the screen: pale, hair frizzed out. And the computer-camera angle does nothing for either of my current chins. Besides, our schedules are totally opposite. He is keeping insane hours at work, wanting the assignment to end sooner rather than later, and he spends at least half his week traveling to his company’s holdings all over England. That and the time difference make anything but email a moot point. I’m at the bakery nearly round the clock, working up recipes for the competition cake after hours in addition to managing my usual load. I’m getting close to feeling good about the flavor combinations, which means I really need to amp it up in terms of the look. I still have no idea what our theme should be.
So when I saw his email this morning before I left for work, and read about how much he was missing some classic Chicago foods, it made me wonder.
J—
The old lady is a dynamo. I should have half her energy. I think a man who can order spotted dick without irony and enjoy it thoroughly does not have anything to worry about in terms of his, um, inclinations. But I do have a question for you. Since you are missing Chicago, if I were going to take a picture of something here, what do you think would be iconically Chicago, something that in one fell swoop would give you that sense of home th
at the city evokes in us?
S
While Herman went to some doctor’s appointments, I spent the whole day at the bakery alone, playing with some new milk bread variations, dealing with just enough customers to keep me hopping. After closing, I stayed till nine doing prep for tomorrow, and with Jake’s email in my head, I picked up a drippy Italian beef sandwich and fries from Al’s and ate them in the den while watching the second half of Lady with a Past, which has one of my favorite movie lines ever:
“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t live in glass houses.”
“They don’t make them like that anymore, Snatch,” I say to the pup, giving him a belly rub. He wiggles in delight and then makes a little snorting noise. I’ve almost forgiven him for snarfing up the last quarter of my sandwich while I was in the bathroom. His stolen treat resulted in some truly horrific flatulence during the credits of the film, and a very scary deposit in the backyard, which I have every intention of letting Bubbles deal with when she gets home. When I go up to bed, I have a reply from Jake.
S—
This is going to maybe sound weird, I know most homesick guys would want a great picture of the skyline, or Navy Pier all lit up with the fireworks behind the ferris wheel, or a picture of the 1985 Super Bowl Bears or something like that. But I think if you were going to take a single picture to make me feel home, it would be a picture of one of those classic old graystone three flats, like in Logan Square or one of those turn of the century neighborhoods, you know the ones that have the Chicago flag proudly on the porch instead of the American flag, and a Cub’s W sign in the window. Maybe on a block party day, where the old people are sitting on the stoop gossiping about the neighbors, and someone is grilling Vienna Beef five to the pounds on a Weber in the front yard. That’s quintessential Chicago to me, you know?
But you can also send me a picture of a pizza. I’m not picky.
Wedding Girl Page 24