by Susan Wiggs
“You could set the table,” Annie suggested. “I’ll get the roast in and then I need to jump in the shower.”
“I’m going to put the leaf in the table,” Mom said. “Now that we’re nine for dinner . . .”
“Make that ten,” Annie said, hastily unloading the groceries.
“Who’s the tenth?”
“I invited Fletcher.”
Mom’s head snapped around to face Annie. “You did?”
“Be nice, okay?”
“Of course I’ll—” Her mother broke off. “You were wearing that on Friday.”
Annie looked down at the coral-colored shift dress she’d worn to the meeting. It was slightly wrinkled from having been slung over a chair at Fletcher’s house all weekend. “I’ll change after my shower” was all she said.
As Annie fell into the as-yet-undefined affair with Fletcher, she remembered something she used to believe with all her heart—life had grace notes. These were moments so sweet that they could be tucked like the smallest of keepsakes, never to be forgotten. She discovered many such moments with Fletcher. She felt a glow of warmth just looking at him. She was so smitten. She almost didn’t trust how happy she felt.
She grew stronger every day, and floated through fresh summer days that held sweet echoes of her own childhood, when her family was still whole and the world felt completely safe. They took Teddy on picnics and got drenched in peach juice running down their chins. They even got him to jump into Moonlight Quarry from a dizzying ten-foot-high granite outcropping.
They went creek hiking and lay in the grass, looking at clouds. They brought produce home from the farmers’ market and had elaborate cookouts, listened for the tinkling bells of the ice cream truck trolling through the village. They stayed out late, running around after dark barefoot on the damp, dewy grass, catching fireflies.
She and Fletcher visited all their old favorite places, but this time they didn’t worry about curfews or future plans or anything but being together. From time to time, Annie would catch a piercing sentiment when she saw Teddy’s delight at finding a bird’s nest, his pride at catching a trout, his gentle affection for the dogs when he came up to the farm, or his unadulterated glee with the water slides at the quarry. She couldn’t help thinking about the baby she’d lost in the accident. She grieved for all that potential that would never be reached, the sweet little body she would never hug, the eyes that had never glimpsed the wonder of the world.
Then the wave would recede, and she would count herself lucky to be alive, to have this unexpected time with Fletcher, to have her family and the farm and everything exactly as it should be.
There were moments when she felt a happiness so complete it didn’t even seem real to her.
At the same time, the idyllic summer joy felt fragile, as if the least little shift could cause it to disintegrate.
To guard herself against those worries, she nurtured a fantasy of staying holed up right here in Switchback, falling back in love with Fletcher, getting to know his boy, one day having a baby with him. Yes, she dared to think it. To imagine it. To want it.
Her parents made their move to the city. Kyle and Annie worked long hours, launching the barrel-aged syrup with more success than they’d ever imagined. “Consumers are a mystery to me,” Kyle said, more than once. “They squawk at paying ten bucks a quart for regular syrup, but they’re happy to throw down fifteen for a fancy pint bottle of barrel-aged.” The rate at which they had to step up production gave new meaning to the name Sugar Rush.
“This is fantastic,” said Beth, joining Annie and Fletcher in the newly installed teaching kitchen at the school. “The students are going to go crazy when they see this place.”
“The good kind of crazy, I hope,” Annie said. She felt a surge of accomplishment as she looked around the finished space. Funded by Sanford’s foundation, the kitchen was designed to prepare students with both life and job skills. Annie had set it up so that lessons could easily be filmed, with a big console in the middle of the room and mirrors angled to show the action.
“Seriously,” Beth said, “this is beautiful. Fletcher, let me know when you and your father can come for the dedication after school starts.”
“Will do,” he said. “Glad you like it. Who knew my dad—a high school dropout—would end up funding education?”
“I have a feeling he got a nudge from the judge,” Beth said. That was how she referred to Fletcher’s work in juvenile court. When dealing with at-risk kids, he tended to nudge them toward better alternatives instead of having them sent up to the juvenile facility at Woodside.
“Speaking of which—the judge has an early meeting tomorrow,” he said. “I need to go prepare.” He brushed a swift kiss on Annie’s forehead. “See you tonight?”
She smiled and nodded, turning to watch him go.
Beth gave her shoulder a gentle shove. “So. You and Fletcher . . . ?”
Annie nodded. “Me and Fletcher.”
“I’m glad, Annie. He’s great, as I’m sure you know.”
She did know. Fletcher was amazing. He could go anywhere, do anything, but he stayed here in this town, where he’d set down roots after a peripatetic childhood he rarely spoke of. He had come here with his father, and now he stayed for Teddy. And probably because he’d never had that in his life, a permanent home, a community. His son was happy here. He felt safe.
“The foundation has been so generous with the school,” Beth added. “He is such a good guy.”
“I hear that all the time, from everyone.”
“The main point is, do you believe it?”
“With every cell in my body.”
“But . . . ? I can hear the ‘but’ in your voice.”
“You have sharp ears, then.” Annie turned and looked at the setup they’d created for the school. She could so easily picture a video production here, and the thought of working again excited her. Yet another part of her wanted to devote all her energy to Fletcher. “I’m falling in love with him. Again. Hard.”
“And this is a problem?”
“It’s awesome. I can’t even believe it’s happening.”
“Let it happen, Annie. Let yourself be happy.”
“I want to. I do. But my life imploded, and I don’t even know if I can trust my own judgment. The show . . . I had a whole life in California. It was taken from me.”
“Do you want it back?”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Are you trying to talk yourself out of it? Are you trying to get me to talk you out of it? Because if you are, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“It’s not that. I want this to happen. But maybe . . . not so fast. I need to sort myself out before I get tangled up in a relationship. I want to be independent again. I have to start all over from scratch. Is it possible to do that while I’m in a free fall?”
Summer ended in Switchback the way it had for generations. The whole town gathered at the lake for a Labor Day picnic. It was the last chance for kids to swim in the cold clear water, the last chance to sit around drinking beer, relaxing and soaking up the sunshine before autumn descended, the last chance for watermelon and corn on the cob and thick slices of Brandywine tomatoes fresh from the garden.
“They say if the tomatoes don’t ripen by Labor Day, you’d better get out the chutney recipe,” Annie told her eldest niece, Dana, who was helping her make blackberry crisp for the picnic. More accurately, Dana was looking at Annie’s laptop, which sat open on the counter, while Annie made the dish. At seventeen, Dana was awkward and adorable, far more interested in boys and makeup than in cooking. She was also a smart cookie, even more interested in traveling the world than in boys and makeup.
“What’s chutney?” asked Dana.
“It’s a kind of relish,” Annie explained. “Originated in India and Nepal.”
“Have you been to India and Nepal?”
“Both.” Annie went back to chopping. “We filmed there for the show—India,
Nepal, and Bhutan. If you click the tab for my remote server files, you can see pictures.”
Beth always said Dana was her wanderlust child. “Where would you go if you could go anywhere in the world?” Annie asked.
“Everywhere,” Dana said. She leaned into the computer screen. “Starting with Bhutan. It looks amazing.”
“You sound like me at your age. I hope you do get to go everywhere. We made Ema Datshi in Bhutan—hot peppers and yak’s-milk cheese over red rice.” The shoot had gone well, even though Melissa had complained nonstop about the muddy mountain roads, the lumbering bus rides, and the bathroom facilities. Annie remembered feeling nothing but enchantment, which emanated from the snowy peaks and shadowed gorges, the lush forests cloaked in every shade of green and flickering with the unreal colors of exotic birds. The air had a clarity she’d never before sensed, and the villages were redolent of woodsmoke and frying chilies.
“What’s the best place you’ve ever been?” Dana asked.
“Right here.” Annie laughed at the girl’s expression. “I know it sounds lame to you now, but it’s actually a good feeling, to realize your favorite place is the place where you are. Although in order to find that out, you have to go away to lots of other places.”
“What’s this folder, the one called ‘Annie in the Kitchen’?” Dana asked, clicking on a file storage link.
“Wow, I haven’t looked at those in years. They’re digitized versions of some old VHS tapes I recorded when I was little. Do you know what VHS tapes are?”
“Yeah, old videotapes.”
Annie nodded. “I used a video recorder to produce cooking shows of me and Gran in the kitchen.”
“Cool. Can I watch one?”
“Sure. It should play if you click on it.”
“Okay—here’s one called ‘The Secret to Perfect Pasta.’”
Annie grinned as she set the first batch of crisp on a cooling rack. “I don’t even remember that, but judging by the title, I was very confident.”
Knox, Lucas, and Hazel wandered in, probably lured by the scent of baking blackberry crisp. Annie’s recipe featured ground almonds in a streusel topping, and a touch of almond extract and lemon with the berries, creating a perfect balance of flavors. Anticipating her hungry nieces and nephews, she’d made a small one for home, and a few larger ones for the picnic.
“You must be the taste-testing squad,” she said. “Just in time.” She fixed each of them a small serving with a sidecar of vanilla ice cream, and they looked at the treat as if they’d discovered El Dorado. Annie’s special bond with her brother’s family felt particularly strong in that moment. The kids reminded her of the richness of her own childhood.
“You’re the best,” said Knox.
“I don’t know about that, but I bet my blackberry crisp is the best.”
Hazel nodded. “No wonder Teddy Wyndham said his dad is gonna marry you.”
Annie stared at her. “Teddy said what?”
“That his dad’s gonna marry you.” Hazel dug in. “And he should, if it means he gets to eat like this.”
“When did Teddy say that?” Annie’s stomach churned.
Hazel shrugged her shoulders. “Recess, I think.”
“Okay, let’s watch,” Dana said, angling the laptop so everyone could see. “It’s Aunt Annie doing a cooking show when she was little.”
The first reel featured Gran. “Look at her,” Annie said, her heart blooming with love for the woman on the screen. “That’s Gran. My gran.” She wanted to fall into the picture, wanted to feel her grandmother’s hand and inhale the floury scent of her apron.
Gramps stepped into the picture and gave her a kiss, stole a cookie, and left with a grin on his face. “He likes my cookies,” Gran said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ve never seen a man who couldn’t be made happier by eating an iced raisin bar.”
Annie felt a phantom squeeze of warmth. They’re not gone, she thought. They’re still here. Still with me.
“I remember her,” Dana murmured.
“Me, too,” said Lucas.
“I wish the whole world had known her,” Annie said.
“We do now,” Dana pointed out. “Not the way you did, but she seems so alive here.”
And that, Annie realized, was the value in what she did. Her art and craft kept things alive.
The next file featured Annie. She took a seat on a kitchen stool and hoisted Knox into her lap. He was utterly silent, his mouth full of warm blackberries and melting ice cream. The opening shot showed a little girl of about nine, with her hair in pigtails tied with polka-dotted bows, and a chef’s apron her mother had made her, with her name embroidered in the middle.
“I’m Annie Rush,” the girl said directly into the camera. “Welcome to my kitchen.”
Annie was amazed. Her voice sounded like Minnie Mouse’s. She didn’t remember producing this specific episode, but she did recall wanting to achieve the same look as her favorite cooking shows. She had created carefully lettered cards with the opening credits: Starring Annie Rush. Written by Annie Rush. Recorded by Annie Rush. Special Thanks to Anastasia Carnaby (aka Gran). She had labored mightily over the lettering.
The nieces and nephews were mesmerized as Annie demonstrated the pasta lesson. “It’s all about the dough,” she said. “Starting from scratch is the only way to go. The best flour to use is called semolina.” She paused and held up the bag. “After that, all you need is an egg, salt, and two tablespoons of water. The most important thing is, you have to knead the dough until it’s smooth. Work in all the crumbly bits. And whatever you do, don’t let the dough dry out. You’ll know when it’s ready . . .” Here she stumbled a bit, though she never stopped the kneading rhythm with the heel of her hand. “You just know. Your hands—they know.”
Annie watched the girl on the screen. The joy on her face was infectious. As a child, she had always believed she could do anything if she loved it enough, and she loved cooking that much. Her childlike wonder and passion came through as confidence and knowledge.
And she had star power. By now, Annie had worked in the business long enough to recognize it. She had a way of engaging with the audience and with the subject matter that held people’s attention. It was written all over the faces of her brother’s kids. Yes, she had star power.
Now she went back into the skin of her nine-year-old self, and began to remember what it was she loved. There was a time when she had fervently believed she could do something simply because she loved it. This was it, she realized. This was how to begin anew. She had to start from scratch.
25
Annie finally found a way to reconnect with her past and her old dreams. The key, after all, was simple. Go back to the original dream.
Paging through her grandmother’s cookbook, she felt Gran come alive again in the deepest corners of her heart, where the small blessings of life were only hiding.
Getting out the old camera gear and renting better equipment from a place in Burlington, she started filming again. She laughed and played in the kitchen, recording herself, her nieces and nephews, friends who came over to hang out, leaning against the counter, eager for samples and gossip.
She filmed herself making cookies with Knox, whose cuteness nearly broke the camera. She created a happy hour segment with Pam and Klaus, featuring the Sugar Rush old-fashioned and a clover club cocktail—“Shake that shaker like you’re mad at it.” She did a homemade ricotta demo for a local book club whose members were all divorced—“Squeeze that cheesecloth like it’s your ex-husband’s . . . wallet.” For the staff of the local library, she created snacks and drinks inspired by literature—catcher in the rye bread, green eggs and ham, madeleines of maximum remembrance.
She dove into the work, capturing the laughter, the mistakes, the banging pans and spilled ingredients. She stayed up late to find the perfect sound tracks as she self-produced, filmed, and edited her own pieces. The old work flow that used to take her over kicked in again. She spent hours crea
ting reel after reel, honing them sometimes one frame at a time.
This was what she loved—the preproduction, recipe testing, shooting, animating, and editing, darting back and forth in front of the camera and behind during filming. Like the nine-year-old Annie of long ago, she became her own writer, producer, and star, reveling in unfiltered creative freedom.
The new reels were a celebration of the deeper pleasures of home cooking for friends and family, though they were not entirely focused on cooking. She mused aloud about the nature of family, the bonds that held people together, the meaning of home. This was her key ingredient, and it had nothing to do with fatty duck livers, water-buffalo milk, or venomous fish. The key ingredient to life lay beyond the kitchen.
Regaining confidence along with her deepest, most authentic voice, Annie was ready to take the next step.
She went to see Fletcher, because on the nights he didn’t have Teddy, she couldn’t keep herself away. But more than that, he was becoming her best friend again. “I want you to see what I’m doing now.”
She linked up her computer to the big screen and ran a short piece she’d labored over for hours. The simple opening credits lasted mere seconds, twelve beats of a great song and the title Starting from Scratch.
Fletcher didn’t move a muscle as he watched. When it ended with the credit screen, he turned to her. “This is what you’ve been working on?”
“Yes. I love doing this. I miss it. And it bugs the hell out of me to see that I’m nothing but a footnote buried in old production details.”
He indicated the screen. “This is not the work of a footnote.”
Now she felt a flutter of nerves. “I have a dozen segments ready to go.”