The Crossroads Cafe

by Deborah Smith

  Place biscuits in the oven—touching is okay, but don’t crowd them together. Put your pre-warmed lid on the oven; fill it with coals. Now set the covered oven on glowing coals. The average baking time is about 20 minutes. Lift the lid and check to see if your biscuits are brown on top and bottom.

  Old-Fashioned Soda Biscuits

  2 cups flour (not self-rising)

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon cream of tartar

  2 tablespoons lard

  1 cup milk

  Sift the dry items together, add the lard, then add the milk while you slowly stir (a fork is good for stirring dough). Roll the dough out on a floured board to about ½” thick, cut into biscuits. Bake at 425 degrees for about 15 minutes.

  Old-Fashioned Beaten Biscuits

  4 cups all-purpose flour (as always, this means not self-rising)

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon sugar

  ½ cup lard

  ⅓ cup milk mixed with ⅓ cup water

  Mix the flour, baking powder, salt and sugar. Add the lard and knead until you have a coarse, mealy consistency. Add just enough milk/water to make a stiff dough. Knead the dough then place it on a floured board.

  Beat the dough for about 30 minutes. Turn it several times. The end result should be dough that “pops,” and feels both smooth and elastic.

  Pull off small chunks and shape into smooth balls by hand. Place on a cookie sheet; then be sure to prick each biscuit with a fork, making 3 rows of holes. Bake in a preheated oven at 400 degrees for about 20 minutes. The biscuits should be a light, golden brown.

  THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ READING GUIDE

  1. If you could be any beautiful woman in the world, who would you be? Why?

  2. Do you feel that your looks—good, bad or ordinary—have played a major part in shaping your life? How?

  3. Our obsession with physical beauty is a focus of the book. Do you feel that society places unfair expectations on women in regard to their personal appearance?

  4. Even in today’s supposedly enlightened world, are women still judged primarily on their youthfulness and looks?

  5. Does it concern you when notable women in business, academics and politics are critiqued for their appearance? Do you feel that men receive similar critiques in public?

  6. Is it still true that “Men get character lines, but women get wrinkles?”

  7. Do you feel that beautiful celebrities, like the book’s Cathryn Deen, represent unrealistic and even destructive ideals for physical appearance?

  8. Studies indicate that men enjoy looking at pretty young women more than women enjoy looking at pretty young men. In other words, that men rank physical appearance higher than women do. Do you agree?

  9. Food—and all it represents in terms of family, comfort, and heritage—plays a thematic role in The Crossroads Café. What part does food play in your own family memories and reunions?

  10. Thomas Mitternich is consumed with grief for his wife and son even four years after their deaths. At what point do you think grief becomes self-destructive?

  11. Thomas’s ability to see past Cathryn’s scars is one of his most endearing traits. Despite Hollywood images of beauty and perfection, many people in “real life” lead happy, fulfilling love lives regardless of severe physical imperfections. Discuss true anecdotes from your own circle of family and friends.

  12. Haveyouevermade—orseenothersmake—negativeassumptionsabout strangers who are physically unattractive? Studies show that pretty people are assumed to be smarter, more successful and more likable.

  Dedication

  The inspiration for this story, the first ingredient of the recipe that later became this novel, started with a trip in search of flowers and food. Three women on a hunt for roses and lunch.

  On a spring day many years ago, my mother and I, and our pal, Ceil, piled into a car at our Asheville hotel and headed north into the high Blue Ridge peaks of western North Carolina. Our mission was to find a rare-plant nursery we’d read about in a tourist brochure. And, as always, to eat a good meal. Women don’t just shop. They shop and eat. It’s a given.

  An hour later, dizzy from weaving along a narrow two-lane road that zigzagged over the mountains like a snake wrapped around a rock, we wondered if we’d lose our lunch, not find it. One more double-back turn with nothing but perpendicular mountain rock on one side and thin air on the other, and food would be the last thing we wanted.

  Finally, the roller-coaster road deposited us on the other side of the world in a high cove tucked between even higher ridges beneath a dome of Delft-blue sky. Sighing with relief, we cruised past wonderful little farms, chicken houses, fields full of cattle, and the greening squares of spring gardens. This was a place where most civilized roads competed with rocky creek beds for their route; there was always a creek to our left or right, hooded with big evergreens, its banks filling with lacy ferns. Elves. Elves must live in those North Carolina mountains. And unicorns and tiny dragons. The creek bottoms harbor magic.

  Without really knowing how we got there, and with no idea what to expect, we found a quiet intersection in the woods. Our companion creek meandered nearby, passing beneath a narrow bridge before disappearing toward Tennessee. A crossroad headed to parts unknown. A few aged highway signs hinted that a mapmaker might be able to pinpoint this crossroads, but it would take a magnifying glass.

  In one corner was a beautiful little farmhouse surrounded by gorgeous flower beds. On the opposite corner was the modern equivalent of a stagecoach stop: a mom-and-pop store, a couple of sun-faded gas pumps, a graveled parking lot, and, glory be, a small diner. We hurried inside and flopped down at a booth beside a huge picture window that overlooked the creek. A sturdy, smiling woman brought us handwritten menus listing the day’s offerings. We gawked at a list that included every staple of a heavenly Southern meal: fried chicken, cream gravy, biscuits, casseroles, turnip greens, stewed peas, cornbread, creamed corn, homemade pickles, chow-chow, banana pudding, apple pie, and on and on and on.

  We fanned ourselves with excitement. Nothing gives heart palpitations quicker to Southern women of a certain size than the prospect of a plate piled with all the major food groups cooked in a pound of lard. And don’t forget the fatback. And the butter.

  After we settled on our side dishes we chose fried trout that had been caught fresh from a local pond that morning. When the platters (not plates, platters) arrived, sidling up to tall, sweaty glasses of iced tea so sweet it made the teaspoons stand at attention, my mother bowed her head over the repast and prayed, “The Lard cooks in mysterious ways. Amen.” Not bad for a lapsed Methodist-turned-Universalist keeping company with a Catholic and a tree-hugger.

  And we ate. And ate. And ate, all while gazing happily out the big picture window at the creek, the farm, the woods, and the mountains. That day we enjoyed the most secluded five-star dining experience on the planet, with the best, world-class view. And what made it even more special was that it came to us as a hidden treasure, a surprise we hadn’t dreamed we’d find. Food always tastes best when you’ve cooked it, farmed it, or hunted it yourself. In our case, when you’ve discovered it after you thought you were merely lost in a high mountain valley.

  We staggered back to the car, drowsy and satiated. Our energy for exploring restored, we found the rare-plant nursery nearby. We bought heritage rose bushes and homemade rose-petal potpourri, and we drove back to our hotel in Asheville inhaling the scent of our grandmothers’ gardens and reminiscing about our grandmothers’ cooking. Food and flowers, you see, bring back the spirits of our ancestors. I make meals from my grandmother’s recipes. I grow my grandmothers’ heirloom tea roses and irises and tiger lilies and daffodils in my yard. My grandmothers live in the flour and the flower and the heart and the hearth.

  I never forgot that day in the mountains above Asheville, that meal, that fellowship at the crossroads.

 
And so this book is dedicated to all the mountain grandmothers of the Appalachian South who welcome strangers to their tables, who love the food and the wilderness and the roses and the creek roads and the high ridges only the hungry and the brave will dare to travel for a glimpse and a taste of heaven.

  Thanks to y’all, the Lard really does cook in mysterious, and wonderfully soulful, ways.

  Also, many heartfelt thanks to everyone whose help, encouragement and inspiration made this book possible. My undying gratitude to my good friend Linda Wolfowitz, not just for serving as my consultant on all matters Yiddish, but also for her praise, patience and enduring pen-pal support. To all the readers, booksellers, and librarians who contacted me as I shared the opening chapters of this book via email, many thanks for your enthusiasm and input. I fixed the typos and learned to spell “extrapolate.”

  To everyone at Google: Without you, I’d still be prowling a library for the geologic history of the Appalachians, the breed history of Guernsey cows, the exact route of California’s Ventura Highway, the treatment protocols for burn wounds, a street map of lower Manhattan, and a hundred other details that would not otherwise, I guarantee you, be in this novel. You’re doing God’s work in a world of harried writers.

  To my husband, Hank, thank you, as always, for loving and supporting and waiting and hoping and helping and never, ever losing faith. I love you. To my brother and sister and theirs: Thank you for showing me what a family is, and what a family isn’t. You have transformed my understanding of true family spirit, and, trust me, I will never forget the lesson. To my mother: Thanks for being here now and being there then, the day we made that trip outside Asheville.

  To all the gals who took such good care of the home front in recent years: Sue, Marie, Judy, Sandra and Bobbie. You performed more than a job, and your compassion was much appreciated.

  To my grandmother, Agnes Nettie Qualls Power, who made the best biscuits in the world without ever measuring so much as a pinch of flour or a dollop of lard, thank you for that memory. Grandma baked by instinct and love, and her food nourished more than the body. I was just a child when she died, but my heart still knows the comfort of her meals.

  To my tribe, aka my BelleBooks partners, aka my longtime friends, aka my sisters of the heart—Debra Dixon, Sandra Chastain, Martha Shields and Nancy Knight—this book wouldn’t exist without you. Its foundation and its process would be meaningless. Any success it enjoys would be without merit. In short, I hope we all make a lot of money off it. We’ll buy that BelleBooks beach house, yet.

  But most of all, this book is for Gin Ellis. Gin, we hope you know how much we miss you. Your flowers are blooming, your pottery and art and books and photographs and words of wisdom are spread among us for safekeeping. Not long ago we stood in your empty home and cried and smiled and thought about you. We will never forget.

  We’ll see you later, okay?

  About Deborah Smith

  With more than 2.5 million copies in print worldwide, Deborah Smith is one of the best-known and most beloved authors of romantic, stylish, contemporary Southern fiction. Her novels have been compared to those of Anne Rivers Siddon, Pat Conroy, and other prestigious Southern writers. Among other awards, her work has been nominated for the Townsend Prize for Literature and she has received a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times magazine, which also named her 1996 New York Times bestselling novel, A Place To Call Home, one of the top 200 romantic novels published in the twentieth century. In 2002 Disney optioned her novel, Sweet Hush, for film in a major six-figure deal.

  As partner, co-founder and editor of BelleBooks, a small Southern press owned by her and four other nationally-known women authors, Deborah edits the acclaimed Mossy Creek Hometown Series. She lives in the mountains of north Georgia with her husband, Hank.

  www.bellebooks.com

  www.deborah-smith.com

  The WaterLilies Series

  Novels about a very different kind of Southern family

  by NYT bestselling author

  DEBORAH SMITH

  Forget everything you believe about the mysteries of the ocean. Remember everything you love about the mysteries of the heart.

  ALICE AT HEART

  “This book just knocked me out.

  Absolutely magical and, in my mind,

  a real masterpiece. Kudos to Deborah

  Smith for producing something

  so fresh and so perfect.”

  —Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Diary of a RADICAL MERMAID

  Glamour, mystery, romance, humor and webbed toes are all back in full fin as rambunctious mer-socialite Juna Lee Poinfax invades the dignified coastal world of the Bonavendier clan.

  Non-Fiction

  BRA TALK

  by Susan Nethero

  You’ll learn: • tips on selecting bras

  • wear-and-care instructions

  • how to overcome any figure problem

  • what to expect from a professional fitting consultant

  • where to find bra shops in your city

  • and much more!

  As seen on the Oprah Winfrey show

  No matter what your size, no matter what your problem, you can look great and feel great in the right bra.

  BRA TALK gives you the facts.

  There is no one perfect bra for all women. Your body shape and size isn’t to blame for a poorly fitting bra. The most comfortable bra isn’t the one that fits the loosest. If you’re big breasted, “minimizer” bras aren’t the solution. If you’re small breasted, the right bra can add a full cup size.

  ALL GOD’S CREATURES

  by Carolyn McSparren

  Say hello to Maggie McLain, an unlikely Southern debutante in 1960s Memphis. Gawky, restless, smart and opinionated, young Maggie isn’t cut out to fill the patent leather pumps of a Southern belle. When she ditches a Cotton Carnival ball to save a drowning pup, Maggie realizes her destiny.

  Is the land of mint juleps and Elvis ready for a woman veterinarian? Maybe not, but Dr. Maggie McLain sets out to prove otherwise.

  Over the years, Maggie earns the devotion and respect of crusty farmers, snobby horse breeders and doubtful pet owners throughout western Tennessee. She’s an inspiration to up-and-coming women vets, a loving wife to her proud husband, a patient mother to her demanding kids, and above all, a champion to sick and injured animals.

  When loss and grief knock Maggie off her pedestal, she falls hard. It may take a miracle for her to understand that sometimes even the best doctor must struggle to heal her own heart.

  THE MOSSY CREEK

  MOSSY CREEK

  Book One

  The first book in the series introduces a mayor who sees breaking the law as her civic duty and a by-the-books police chief trying to live up to his father’s legend. We’ve got a bittersweet feud at the coffee shop and heartwarming battles on the softball field. We’ve got a world-weary Santa with a poignant dream and a flying Chihuahua with a streak of bad luck. You’ll meet Millicent, who believes in stealing joy, and the outrageous patrons of O’Day’s Pub, who believe there’s no such thing as an honest game of darts. You’ll want to tune your radio to the Bereavement Report and prop your feet up at Mama’s All You Can Eat Café. While you’re there, say hello to our local gossip columist, Katie Bell. She’ll make you feel like one of the family.

  “MOSSY CREEK is as much fun as a cousin reunion; like sipping ice cold lemonade on a hot summer’s afternoon. Hire me a moving van, it’s the kind of town where everyone wishes they could live.”

  —Debbie Macomber, NYT bestselling author

  HOMETOWN SERIES

  REUNION AT MOSSY CREEK

  Book Two

  This time they’ve got the added drama of the big town reunion commemorating the twenty-year-old mystery of the late, great Mossy Creek High School, which burned to the ground amid quirky rumors and dark secrets. In the meantime, sassy 100-year-old Eula Mae Whit is convinced Williard Scott has put a death curse on her, an
d Mossy Creek Police Chief Amos Royden is still fighting his reputation as the town’s most eligible bachelor. There’s the new bad girl in town, Jasmine, and more adventures from the old bad girl in town, Mayor Ida Hamilton. And last but not least, Bob the flying Chihuahua finds himself stalked by an amorous lady poodle.

  “Mitford meets Mayberry in the first book of this innovative and warmhearted new series from BelleBooks.”

  —Cleveland Daily Banner, Cleveland, Tennessee

  THE MOSSY CREEK

  SUMMER IN MOSSY CREEK

  Book Three

  It’s a typical summer in the good-hearted mountain town of Mossy Creek, Georgia, where love, laughter and friendship make nostalgia a way of life. Creekites are always ready for a sultry romance, a funny feud or a sincere celebration, and this summer is no different. Get ready for a comical battle over pickled beets and a spy mission to recover hijacked chow-chow peppers. Meet an unforgettable parakeet named Tweedle Dee and a lovable dog named Dog. Watch Amos and Ida sidestep the usual rumors and follow Katie Bell’s usual snooping. In the meantime, old-timer Opal Suggs and her long-dead sisters share a lesson on living, and apple farmer Hope Bailey faces poignant choices when an old flame returns to claim her.