Here they were, driving down a two-lane highway to the farm Heaven was born and raised on. Even if her parents hadn’t died in a car accident, Heaven couldn’t imagine coming back here to live. She loved the place. It held good memories. But it had never crossed her mind that she could live out here. “I guess you feel the same way about Kansas City that I feel about this farm,” Heaven said as she pulled onto the gravel road that was the final leg of the journey.
Goldenrod and Queen Anne’s lace bloomed all along the road. A hedgerow of tall bushes protected the road from the Kansas wind that could blow snow into high drifts. Heaven saw ‘Suffolk’ sheep, ‘China Poland’ pigs, a couple of ‘Jersey’ cows. Del, Heaven’s brother, said he didn’t mind getting up to milk them early in the morning, that their rich milk and cream were worth it, and he needed to get up anyway. Now that Del’s kids were out of the nest, Heaven wondered what they did with all that milk. There was the house, with the big wraparound front porch. There were rattan rockers sitting out there, and a sturdy oak porch swing. It looked like Del had put a new red roof on the house this summer.
Iris looked around. “I don’t know how you feel about your childhood home, Mom, but I love Kansas City. It’s just not where I want to live.”
“I know, I know. I don’t want to be on the farm either, honey. But it sure has lots of sweet memories.” Heaven pulled the van up under a big cottonwood tree next to the the drive. Del’s pickup was parked near the house.
Iris stretched her arms, cramped from the drive. “What I remember about our trips out here were getting to ride a horse and Uncle Del’s cows at the feed lot. Boy, did they stink. And I remember going to those farm sales that you love so much. They took all day.”
“But we got some great stuff, didn’t we? That harvest table that you did your homework on, and those dishes with the cattails, and all those old postcards, they were from that farm down by Cottonwood Falls.” Heaven had perked up. She was walking toward the house eagerly now. How lucky to still be able to go to the house you grew up in and visit. She was bounding ahead of Iris, who was trailing behind, lugging their overnight bags. “I wonder what Debbie’s got out in the barn,” Heaven wondered out loud as she walked to the back door.
* * *
“What did you think of that Beringer Knight’s Valley Merlot?” Heaven asked. “It’s allocated to the max. We only got six bottles for the whole vintage, and I wanted you to taste it.” It was long after dinner, but no one wanted to get up from the table.
Del held up his empty glass. “Thanks for sharing the wealth. And I’ve got something I think you’ll like.” He got up and went over to a carved sideboard, and brought out a bottle and some small glasses. “This is a 1994 Taylor Fladgate vintage port. You know it got a perfect score in the Spectator when it was released. Enjoy.”
Heaven smiled as her brother poured some for the four of them. “You’ve become quite a wine snob, bro. I hope I’ve been somewhat responsible.”
Del gave a little tip of the glass to his sister. “Just because we’re down on the farm, doesn’t mean we don’t like French burgundy and vintage port. Boy, this is good stuff.”
Iris was still eating, tucking into a second piece of lemon meringue pie. “Debbie, that was the best beef stew I’ve ever tasted,” she said as she munched happily. Debbie, Del’s wife, yelled her thanks from the kitchen. She had finally, reluctantly gone in to load the dishwasher. Del and Debbie’s children were both in college. Their daughter was in law school in Chicago and their son was taking agribusiness at K-State.
Del looked at Heaven. “Well, I’ve heard all Iris’s news. Now, what’s going on with you, sis? What’s this bread conference you’re a part of? I heard something about it from my neighbor. But there’s always some group coming out here for something or other. I can’t keep them all straight. Last week it was a bunch of fancy architects who were here to look at the old limestone farm buildings. Said we had some of the best in the country. The week before, it was a bunch of German cattle farmers, came to the feedlot.”
Del ran a cattle feedlot near Alma, about fifteen or twenty miles away from the farm, the places that cattlemen sent their herds to get them fattened up before sale. He had a manager for it, but he still had to go over three or four times a week. Del had days as long as Heaven’s.
“Del, it sounds as though Kansas is staging a comeback. Next thing you know, people will be coming here on vacation, it’ll be like a farm theme park,” Iris teased.
Del grinned at his niece. “Oh, I don’t think we have to worry about that. There was somethin’ in the Topeka paper about how Kansas is the last state in preference for tourists. Heaven, I hear you’re going to visit Walter Jinks in the morning. Now there’s a strange case.”
“Like how strange?” Heaven asked.
“Well, farmers are not the most liberal bunch, as you probably remember. If you’d asked me ahead of time, I’d have put a fella that led the peace movement at the bottom of the list of those that would fit in around here. Walter is a good neighbor. Even with all his theories about this perennial polyculture. But he has his detractors and his enemies, that’s for sure.”
“Perennial what? Enemies why?” Heaven asked.
Del grinned. “I don’t want to spoil it for you, and Walter can tell it better, but it has to do with all this topsoil erosion that we’ve got, among other things. The enemies don’t want to think about some of the possibilities for the future, how it could affect Kansas. This group of bread folks, they gonna be interested in Walter’s far-out notions?”
Heaven smiled a smile that said, we’re cool, we know about topsoil. “This isn’t your run-of-the-mill white bread manufacturers. These are the owners of restaurants and bakeries that are trying to bring back old, European hearth bread-making methods. They chose Kansas City for their conference so they could see where wheat grows, touch it, stuff like that. I guess no one at ARTOS remembered that the wheat wouldn’t be in the fields in September, but no one consulted this Kansas girl before they set up the conference for this time of year. The theme is ‘Back to the Earth,’ or something like that. Walter sounds right up our alley.”
“Well, he’s famous for it, I will say that. He got one of those McDowell grants, the ones they call the genius grants, where you get lots of money just for being who you are already,” Del said.
Just then, the doorbell rang. “I bet that’s Ernest Powell. He’s having your bunch over for lunch tomorrow, and he needed to borrow some long tables. We’ve got plenty out in the barn,” Del explained as he went to the door and opened it. A tall, gangly man with the red neck and rough hands of a farmer stood there, wearing a flat brimmed hat that Heaven recognized as the Mennonite style. Del shook his hand and the other man smiled shyly. “Ernest, this is my sister, Katherine. She goes by the name Heaven, but I reckon you’d think that was blasphemous, so you can call her Katy, like I used to. This is her daughter Iris.”
Ernest stepped into the room gingerly, as if he were afraid he would break something. “It must be hard to sin with a name like that,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
Heaven got up from the table. “I wish that had been the case over the years, Mr. Powell. Del tells me you’re going to be our host for lunch tomorrow. I’m a member of ARTOS, the bread group that’s coming out to take a tour.”
Ernest looked at Heaven with renewed interest. “That’s right. Now I remember. You have a cafe in Kansas City?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I’ve been doing some baking, lately. I joined your group myself. Bread is sure a blessing,” Ernest said. He looked like he wanted to sit down and visit, but he didn’t.
As Del pulled on his boots he remembered his manners. “Say, Ernest, I’m real sorry about the Aker’s boy.” He turned to explain to Heaven and Iris. “One of Ernest’s neighbors was killed by a run-in with a train.”
Ernest’s open face clouded over. “Thank you for that. Ben’s folks are really tore up. I better get those tables and
get home. Everyone is having a fit over at my house, cooking for such a bunch as you.”
“Are you making…”
“Mennonite fare, yes ma’am,” Ernest said, nodding to Iris and Heaven. He and Del went out the kitchen door.
In a few minutes, Del came back in, a smile on his face. “You just met the national bread-machine bread-making champion.”
Heaven looked up from her glass of port. Iris was sipping hers now, having finally taken her empty dessert plate to the kitchen. “Wait a minute,” Iris said. “I thought Mennonites didn’t have electricity? How can he be the bread-machine champ?”
Heaven shook her head. “I think that’s Amish, right Del?”
Del nodded. “Amish don’t have anything to do with mechanical gadgets or things that take fossil fuels to run. Mennonites may be like that in some other parts of the country, but these Kansas Mennonites, they went along with the rest of us when it came time to use a tractor instead of a team of horses.”
“You know,” Heaven spoke carefully, not wanting to sound too much like a food snob, “these bakers aren’t exactly the bread-machine type. Most of them won’t even use prepared yeast. They put out crushed grapes and collect wild yeasts, things like that.”
Del chuckled. “I kinda figured that. But I’ll tell you, Ernest is a real cheerleader about this. He thinks the bread machine is a gift from God to bring families back together again. He has a big plan to ask your group to buy a bunch of the dad-blame things and give them to poor folks. Says he’s asking to be heard by the bunch at your big meeting.”
“What a great idea,” Iris said brightly. “They should do it.”
“Yeah,” Heaven said reluctantly. “It is a good idea. But I just hope this group is more openminded than I think they are. I’d hate for Ernest to be, you know, made fun of.”
“Ernest is real serious about this. He’ll be like a dog with a big bone. Until he gets what he wants, he won’t let go. And don’t worry about Ernest, he can handle himself fine,” Del said as he took off his boots. “I’m beat, and we all have to get up early. I’m going to watch the ten o’clock news in bed.” He gave Heaven a big hug and kissed Iris on the top of the head. “Night, sis. I think Deb has already beat me up the stairs.”
Debbie yelled “good night all” from above. Iris got up. “Are you ready to go up to your old room, Mom? We’ll be roomies in your old twin beds.”
Heaven thought about her room and those matching candlestick beds. Del’s daughter had used that room too. “Not yet, honey. I have to read these columns of Murray’s.” Heaven’s voice was tentative. She put her hand on Iris’s arm. “As much as I hated hearing you say you wouldn’t move back to Kansas City, I can’t say I was surprised. I’m glad we had that talk in the car. I’ll try to keep my mouth shut about Stuart, like you have over the years about my men.”
Iris hugged her mother’s neck. “Stuart is wonderful, Mom, and so are you. Night, night, sleep tight and…”
“Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” Heaven said, her heart aching. The first time she’d heard that saying it had been in this house. It seemed like a million years ago. She got out Murray’s articles and started her homework, pencil and post-its in hand.
* * *
Walter Jinks finished putting the last dishes away. Most of the interns and graduate students were spending the night at the farm, including the young lady he was currently sleeping with. They had all enjoyed a lively supper, vegetable lasagna, a big salad, and a bigger argument about a new soybean clone that all the Iowa farmers were crazy about. Then everyone had drifted off to the mill or the library, which would be the living room in a more conventional household.
There were five bedrooms in this big, old farmhouse, plus a guest cottage that Walter had fashioned out of an old stone out-building. That was plenty of room for all the students since his wife had left and their two children were grown and off on their own. Walter thought of his wife fondly, as always. He certainly couldn’t blame her for growing tired of their way of life, constantly trying to raise enough money for the next year’s experiments. She had finally taken a professorship at an agriculture college in Texas, using her botany degree and all she had learned with Walter.
Walter had discovered the foundation officers that liked to come investigate his projects, loved having a separate guest house to stay in. Walter had equipped it with a fax and an extra telephone line so they could hook up their laptop computers to the Internet. The more comfortable the foundation and trust boys were, the better chance Walter had of getting some of their money.
It wasn’t easy trying to sell agriculture to these guys. Medical research, crack babies, help for single mothers, software, all were more popular places to put your dollars. Even culture: experimental theater, ballet, or supporting the local symphony were easier sells.
It had been so long since most folks in America were connected to where their food came from, no one even thought about it any more. The agriculture community had been too successful, that was the problem. Folks in a large city like Atlanta, say, read in the newspaper that the wheat crop in Kansas was wiped out by violent rainstorms, but the loaf of bread still cost fifty cents at the Kroger. How bad could it be?
Walter knew what was going to have to happen before the country would understand. An agricultural disaster was going to have to happen. And he could see several coming in the next few years. He just hoped the death toll could be kept to a minimum. That’s why these celebrity bakers were so crucial. When they talked, people listened, people that read Gourmet magazine, not the obscure journals Walter wrote for.
Walter glanced at his watch. It was ten-thirty. The house was getting quiet. Everyone wanted a good night’s sleep so they would be sharp for the tour tomorrow. He thought wistfully about the pretty red-head waiting for him in his bed. She would fall asleep soon and not know how much longer she slept alone. Walter got his tool bag out of the closet and made sure he had some gloves along. It was time for him to go to work. Quietly, he went out into the Kansas night.
* * *
Heaven fumbled around, looking for the light switch in the barn. After she finished her reading assignment, she still wasn’t tired, though it was close to midnight. She had been “walking the property,” as her Dad used to put it. When her Dad used that term, he meant looking for a broken fence, new weeds in the soybeans, a lamb that had escaped its designated pasture. Heaven had just been wandering aimlessly on the little path that led from one out-building to another. Now here she was in the barn.
When her folks were alive, her Mom had used the barn for an antique business. The hay was stored in an old farmhouse further out on the property, the animals had their own stable. The barn had more important things to do.
Heaven had even had her own little business when she was a teenager. She bought and sold old jukeboxes, before they had become the pricey collectibles they were today. In her house in Kansas City was an old Wurlitzer that she bought when she was fifteen. She’d been offered thousands for it but she wouldn’t dream of selling it. It was some connection to her folks, her childhood.
Heaven’s parents died coming home from an auction in Iowa. A semi driver fell asleep and crossed into the wrong lane of traffic, right into her folks and their van full of antique dolls. Her mother had specialized in antique dolls. In fact, Heaven had a broken doll, with violet glass eyes that were very unusual, that she had picked out of the boxes of debris from her parents’ wrecked van. It sat by her bed and Heaven felt a little of her mother’s spirit watching over her.
When Del and Debbie took over the farm, Debbie wanted to continue the antique business, and she’d done a great job. Her shop was a must-stop for antique nuts from Kansas City when they went out on a westward shopping trip. Debbie didn’t do too much with dolls, though. She dealt in Mission style furniture, quilts and other fancywork, and kitchen collectibles, things that Heaven collected because of Debbie. Heaven had accumulated lots of good stuff for her catering business from Debbie over
the years, antique silver, china serving pieces, beautiful glassware.
Tonight Heaven walked slowly around the barn, looking at the long tables covered with items like antique potato mashers and embroidered kitchen towels that had the days of the week and the appropriate chore for each day depicted in cross stitch. Each object brought back some little memory. Didn’t Aunt Gert have towels like this? I remember Daddy using one of these apple corer things. Heaven picked up and put down a dozen items, each one touching off a remembrance.
Heaven was an emotional mess. The talk with Iris had called up doubts about her own actions through the years. Then to top it off, she was at her childhood home. It was like the memories of every past mistake had jumped to the surface right under her skin and were itching to get loose. “If you had any sense, you’d get out of here right now, go in to bed,” she said sternly out loud to herself.
She walked over to a wicker rocking chair and plopped down instead. Most days, Heaven kept her eyes on the road and took one step at a time, and most days it worked. Sometimes the past caught up though, and when it did, you were lucky if you could find a rocking chair to collapse in and meet those private demons. Heaven started rocking and crying. It felt great.
Borscht
Borscht is the cassoulet of Eastern Europe. By that, I mean each country, and I suspect, city, has its own version of this soup. The real origin of borscht seems to be the Ukraine in the 14th century. This is my hybrid, a version somewhere between the Mennonites of Kansas and the Ukraine. The thing to remember is to balance the sweet (beets, tomatoes, sugar) with the sour (vinegar or lemon juice). You want to be able to taste both sweet and-sour as well as all the richness of the meat and the complexity of the vegetables cooked together.
Bread on Arrival Page 5