The Traveling Tea Shop

by Belinda Jones

  “Eon?” I raise a brow.

  She juts her chin. “We’ve been together two years.”

  “God help us.”

  “What did you say?” Ravenna snaps at her grandmother.

  “Are those giant headphones affecting your hearing? I said, ‘God help us!’”

  “How can you be so rude?” Ravenna gapes.

  “Oh, when he speaks so fondly of us?”

  “He’d never say any of that stuff to your face.”

  “How very discreet!”

  “Um,” I scoot forward in my seat, eager to change the subject. “We’re just approaching New Haven if you would like to take a little break? It’s not part of our official itinerary, but it is home to Yale University, and Louis’ Lunch—the birthplace of the American hamburger—if anyone’s peckish?”

  “I’m happy to keep going,” says Gracie, adjusting her grip on the steering wheel.

  Ravenna gives a “don’t care either way” shrug and Pamela doesn’t even reply, she’s so deep in her own thoughts.

  “Okay, well we’ll just keep on trucking.” I slide back into my seat.

  Gracie catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “You look disappointed?”

  “Oh no, it’s fine! I’ve just got a bit of a thing for university towns.” I pull my cardigan around me. “Even though we’re just getting into summer, they still make me think of argyle socks and scrunchy leaves and armfuls of books.” I don’t really mean to keep talking, but I do. “It seems so romantic to me—the idea of sitting at some creaky desk listening to a whiskery intellectual spouting mind-expanding wisdom—”

  “I take it you’ve never actually been to university?”

  “Ravenna!” Gracie scolds.

  “It’s okay,” I respond. “I haven’t. I got offered a travel rep job as soon as I left school and, at that point, the idea of getting paid to spend a year in Greece was rather more appealing than student loans and more exams. Not that I’m saying that was the smarter decision,” I quickly add, conscious that Ravenna is still in uni mode.

  Mercifully Gracie suggests some music: “My friend’s grandson put together a CD for me . . .”

  Ravenna rolls her eyes and lodges her headphones in place before she’s even heard a note—Gracie could have opened with “Highway to Hell” for all she knows.

  In actual fact it’s the most laid-back, borderline melancholic selection from the 1940s—“One for My Baby (And One More for the Road),” “Sentimental Journey” and a rather ironic “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore” . . .

  • • •

  By the time we get to our official first stop, both Pamela and Ravenna have nodded off.

  “Now this is more like it,” I whisper to Gracie, acknowledging the hand-carved, welcome-to-our-town sign (settled 1654), picture-perfect, pointy-spired white church and ye olde seaport with Captain Pugwash-style sailing vessels.

  “Delightful,” she agrees.

  “Are we here?” Pamela croaks as we pull into a parking spot beside the wooden boardwalk.

  “We are.”

  She reaches to jiggle Ravenna’s shoulder.

  “Don’t wake her!” Gracie hisses.

  “What do you mean? We can’t leave her in the car!”

  “It’s fine—we’ll crack the window.”

  “Oh Mum!” she tuts and gently touches her daughter’s hair—guaranteed to render her wide-awake and riled.

  “Where are we?” Ravenna asks—a simple enough question, though it sounds more like an accusation with her tone.

  “Mystic,” I announce.

  She snorts. “What, as in Mystic Pizza?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  She jolts upright and looks around her. “You’re telling me the film was set here?”

  “Set here, filmed here, inspired by here.”

  She releases herself from her seatbelt and steps out to survey the waterfront. We all follow.

  “So Julia Roberts was actually here?” She seems to need a lot of convincing.

  “Yes.”

  “Is there really a pizza place?”

  “There is. In fact, we’re a little early for our appointment, if anyone fancies a slice?”

  Gracie and Pamela are keen, whereas Ravenna tries desperately to shrug off her eagerness.

  Ah, the universal power of Julia Roberts.

  We cross the Meccano-esque drawbridge to the main high street and find it crammed with tourist-friendly temptations like Mystic Sweet’s fresh fudge and an array of nautical-themed knick-knacks. (I’m extremely drawn to a set of octopus, starfish and coral-print cushions but admit they wouldn’t necessarily make sense in a Manhattan setting.)

  “Mystic Pizza—A Slice of Heaven,” Pamela reads the sign as we stop outside the pale-gray clapboard building at the top of the town. “It really is just like in the movie!”

  “Apparently they renovated it to look more like the one in the film,” I chuckle as we head inside.

  Every inch of wall-space is filled with framed photos—either stills from the movie or freeze-framed sports stars. There’s a friendly, family vibe and, best of all, the girl behind the counter is just about as lovely as Julia herself—a wild tumble of curls swept over the side, dancing eyes and huge, perfect-toothed grin. She serves us our triangles of thin crust Margherita with an impressive amount of joie de vivre. Looking between her and Ravenna, I see the great chasm between choosing to be sunny and sweet versus sullen and sulky. Apparently Gracie sees it too.

  “Pretty girl,” she notes. “Probably about your age, Ravenna?”

  “You didn’t get one for me?” she asks as we dig in to the juicy, drizzly tomato sauce and bronzed, bubbling cheese topping.

  “Oh,” I apologize as I dab my chin. “I didn’t think you ate.”

  She gives an indignant pout. “I just need one as a prop for my picture.”

  “No problem!” I order Ravenna an individual box to go. “Would you like me to snap you outside by the sign?”

  “I’ll do it,” she says, hurrying away with her stash.

  “Another day, another selfie,” Gracie mutters as she takes a sip of iced tea.

  I smile. She’s really a very savvy granny.

  • • •

  It’s time for us to be heading on to our appointment at the other end of town. I feel as if I’ve pulled off quite a coup, setting up a cake-baking session with Warren Brown, host of the Food Network’s Sugar Rush show and author of United Cakes of America: Recipes Celebrating Every State (including a rather intriguing Tomato Soup Cake from New Jersey, where Campbell’s launched their condensed soup empire).

  Today he’s sharing his updated spin on Connecticut’s Hartford Election Cake—Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes. (Connecticut is known as the Nutmeg State and its residents as Nutmeggers.) I know the results are going to be good because this is a man who says, “Baking is an act of love done to bring pleasure to the world.” Isn’t that gorgeous? Of course, I know better than to expect wild applause from Pamela. Not that she’s not grateful, she’s just so distracted . . .

  Aware that we need to get a move on, Ravenna repeatedly lags behind. I can see this is stressing Pamela, so I suggest she and Gracie go on ahead, giving them the address of the host’s bake shop across the bridge and reassuring them that they can’t miss Warren’s striking six-foot-three-inch form. For many years he was known for his slimline dreadlocks, but now his head is clean-shaven, all the better to see his bright smile.

  Warren is actually based in Washington DC, but he’s passing through Connecticut on his way home from a reunion at Brown University in Rhode Island. He graduated from there with a BA in history, went on to do a law degree with a master’s in public health, and it was while he was working as a litigator for the inspector general that he found his true calling as a cake baker. He now owns three CakeLove bak
eries and is moving into wholesale with an ingenious cake-in-a-jar product called Cake Bites.

  Aren’t people fascinating?

  And annoying. Ravenna is now on the phone, slowing her all the more. At one point she even takes a few steps in the opposite direction.

  “Come on!” I yell back to her. “We’re going to miss the crossing.”

  I can see a tall ship approaching, and goodness only knows how long the process takes for the bridge to split, rear up and then rejoin itself.

  At least Pamela and Gracie are safely across. I weigh my options—if I forget Ravenna, I can make it to where I need to be. On time. If I stay and play babysitter, I’ll look unprofessional to the man I worked so hard to set up this meeting with.

  “Ravenna!”

  She turns away in annoyance, hand covering the phone. I begin marching toward her and then hear the sound of the barrier lowering across the street.

  Will I never learn?

  What is it that makes some of us choose to try and save the contrary person while others accept that they need to be responsible for their own lives and don’t even look back? Why am I still doing this when I really should know better?

  “What’s going on?” Ravenna finally appears by my side.

  “They’re letting a ship pass through.”

  “So now we just have to wait here?” she grumps.

  “Because of you!” I want to scream, but what’s the point?

  It’s like they say—if you want to develop more patience, spend more time with frustrating people.

  Chapter 10

  Pamela and Warren are getting on famously by the time we arrive. (Famously being an apt word, since they’ve both had their own TV shows.) Coincidentally his wife’s name is Pamela and they both agree that patience is key when it comes to baking—taking your time every step of the way.

  “The best parts of life are in the roads traveled to get to your destination.”

  (When I read this line on his website, I knew he had to be part of this project!)

  He’s equally thoughtful while ruminating on the joy-inducing nature of cakes: “I think it’s all about memories—cake harks back to the earliest recall we have of gathering with others, celebrating with song, cheers, wishes and being in the spotlight. Everyone likes that a little and, even if you don’t, it’s still a special moment of every year that forces everyone to focus on themselves. I think that has something to do with the staying power of cake—especially when it’s targeted as the unhealthy bogeyman in one’s diet!”

  As we watch him top the now-cooled cupcakes with old-fashioned buttercream frosting, I ask which recipe he liked best from his state-wide research for the United Cakes of America.

  “Well, there are so many,” he muses. “I enjoyed the avocado cupcake for California because it’s so different.”

  “I’ll say!” Gracie concurs.

  “It’s good; most won’t give it a try. And the sweet potato cake for Louisiana is great—it reminds me of the holidays we spent with family from that part of the Deep South.”

  He then brings us neatly back to New England as he sets his finished batch of Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes before us.

  “They smell so wonderful!” we chorus.

  In between mouthfuls of flavorful sponge (and licking frosted fingertips), I show Pamela the 1796 recipe for the traditional Hartford Election Cake, which Warren notes “makes enough to feed an entire church.” It also makes for amusing reading—the instructions may only comprise one paragraph, but they are curiously specific:

  “Make a sponge of the milk and flour at four o’clock, at nine mix together . . .”

  “Did you actually test it out?” I ask Warren.

  “I did,” he cringes. “Very bad. The entire pound of raisins made it way too heavy.”

  Gracie can’t help but chuckle. “That’s exactly what Georgie loved about my fruit cake. He said it sat like a brick in his stomach. In a good way.”

  And then she proceeds to show us just how weighty it is.

  It’s fun watching Gracie at work. She has so many similar mannerisms to Pamela. People used to say that about me and Mum. We both had very “descriptive” hands. And you couldn’t tell our voices apart on the phone. I always liked hearing that. It’s strange to me that Ravenna wants to distance herself from Pamela’s identity in every possible way.

  Ravenna’s sitting outside now, watching a schooner prepare for its afternoon cruise.

  Once we’ve bid Warren a grateful good-bye, promising to visit his DC shop next time we’re dropping in to the White House, I head over to her.

  “Are we going to the hotel now?” she sighs.

  “Actually we’re not staying the night in Connecticut,” I disappoint her. “Rhode Island is just fifty miles away, so we thought it made sense to spend two nights in Newport, what with the bus to sort out and all.”

  “So we’ll be there in about an hour?”

  “Not quite,” I grimace. “Today is unusual in that we have more than one cake appointment, the rest of the schedule isn’t quite so jam-packed. Pardon the pun.”

  Ravenna holds my gaze. “Where exactly are we going next?”

  Oh she’s going to love this one.

  “It’s an old mill. Very rustic. We’re going to learn how to make Johnny Cakes.”

  She raises a brow.

  “Apparently it’s some kind of fried gruel.”

  “Right,” she nods as she gets to her feet. “This time you can leave me in the car.” As she walks away she adds a muttered, “And don’t bother cracking the window.”

  Chapter 11

  It feels important to mention, as soon as possible, that the name Johnny Cakes may be the misheard (or slightly slurred) version of “journey cakes,” as in an enduring snack you could pop in your sackcloth bag as you set off trekking.

  They are not really cakes in the teatime sense, being neither sweet nor spongy. Mostly you find them on the breakfast menus at roadside diners.

  “And the primary ingredient is white flint corn?” Pamela peers over my shoulder at my notes.

  “Yes, it’s one of the main food crops of the Native Indians—they were the originators of this recipe. Which also leads to theories about the name evolving from Shawnee Cake. You can hear the similarity if you say them one after the other.”

  “Shawnee Cake, Johnny Cake,” she repeats. “Oh yes.”

  “The ‘flint’ aspect refers to the hard exterior of the kernels, and this particular strain is exclusive to the soils of Rhode Island,” I continue, “which happens to be the smallest state in America.”

  “Bless.”

  When we arrive at Kenyon’s Grist Mill in the little village of Usquepaugh, Ravenna keeps to her word by staying in the car. She can’t see any reason to get out since there’s just an excess of foliage and a few “ye olde” buildings beside a river.

  Of course this doesn’t stop her being a pain in the behind. Our charming host—Paul Drumm—is just explaining how the mill was founded in 1696, and showing us the giant granite millstone that grinds corn to flour (apparently stone ground is far superior to modern steel methods, both in terms of texture and preserving the nutrients) when Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” starts blaring out from the direction of the car.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” I elect to handle the situation, fighting the urge to take one of the blunt work tools along with me.

  I rap on the window. “Headphones break?”

  “What?” Ravenna yells over the music. “Can’t hear!”

  I reach to open the door and she quickly silences the stereo.

  “What do you want?” I ask, crouching beside her in my best Supernanny pose.

  “What do I want?”

  “Well, you are attention-seeking, so here I am—you have my attention.”

  “I’m bored!”
she huffs.

  “So?”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do for the next hour?”

  “Eon not available for a chat now?”

  “He’s at a show.” She lets her head loll back.

  “You still have your music, your iPad—”

  “Urgh!”

  I take a breath. “Do you want to check out the gift shop?”

  This is all it would take to perk me up as a child. I must confess I wasn’t terribly enamored of nature myself back then. Jessica could amuse herself for hours making daisy chains, but not me. I was always more of the retail therapy persuasion, even if it was just picking out a funny little seaside ornament for my grandparents. I would study every little shell animal, determined to find the one whose eyes were stuck on straight with no wayward globules of glue. Even today, I feel the need to touch every item on the shelves.

  • • •

  “Stone Ground Johnny Cake,” I read as I reach for a pack of Kenyon’s White Corn Meal, admiring the vintage design—darkest navy background, red etching of the mill, white lettering. “This is what they’ll be using to cook with.”

  To the left of the main building, Paul has set up an outdoor preparation table, just to add to the “simpler times” quality of the process. He seems a very nice man. People who love their work often are.

  “So what is Mum trading here?” Ravenna shows a glimmer of curiosity as she follows my gaze.

  “Scones,” I reply. “We thought it should be something fairly robust; something you could throw in your travel bag that wouldn’t fall to pieces along the way.”

  “Plain scones?”

  “We’re showing him the Devon cream variety.”

  “Ahh,” Ravenna nods. “The added bonus of clogged arteries.”

  I pick up a packet of Poison Ivy Relief. It’s a horrible thing to be prickled by that plant—major itching and irritation. I wonder if the cure would work on Ravenna?

  “Don’t get any ideas.” She seems to read my mind.

  “Did you ever help your mum in the kitchen?” I ask as we move on to the pancake section.