“It tells a story, doesn’t it?” Willo asked. “Sort of like my face. Like our orchard. That’s the original recipe—and recipe card—from your great-great-grandmother, Alice.”
She continued: “We have a tradition in this family: my mom passed along her mother’s recipe box to me when I turned thirteen, and I gave your mom her own recipe box on her thirteenth birthday. This box continues that tradition.” Willo took a deep breath and looked at her granddaughter. “This recipe box is the story of our lives, of where we came from, how we got here, and where we are now.” Willo hesitated, her faded blue eyes filling with tears. “These recipes were handwritten and passed down by the women who came before us. These aren’t just recipes, Sam. They’re our family history. There is nothing more important than family and food. They represent our sustenance and our soul. Food represents how we celebrate, how we come together, how we rejoice, how we mourn, and how we remain one.”
Sam looked at her grandma and then at her mom, whose eyes traversed the lighted branches of the fruit trees dancing before her. “The roots of these recipes go back as long as the roots of these trees,” Deana said. “And this gift comes with a sacred pact. No one has these recipes. Only the three of us hold keys. We must protect these and pass them on, because they can never be re-created.”
“And,” Willo added, “the other part of the pact is that the birthday recipient must make the slab pie for the first time alongside those who are passing it along. You’ve helped us crimp pies in the pantry before, but this will be the first pie you make all on your own. Are you ready?”
Sam nodded.
Willo grabbed a flashlight and Deana a bucket, and the three went out into the dark orchards—the light scanning the rows and then the trees as if they were playing a nighttime game of hide-and-seek. They picked fresh peaches and blueberries and made their way to the kitchen of the pie pantry that sat in an old barn on the other side of the orchard.
Willo placed the recipe card in front of Sam and tied a Mullins Pie Pantry apron around her waist, while Deana began to gather ingredients. Finally, the trio started in on the dough.
“Here’s how to use a pastry blender,” Willo said, showing Sam the old utensil with its wooden handle. “Keep cutting in the shortening and butter until it looks like gravel,” she said.
“This is a lot of dough,” Sam said, her face already dusted with flour.
“It is,” Deana said. “Double crust. For a reason. Right, Mom?”
“That’s my cue for a story,” Willo laughed. She put her hands on top of Sam’s, and the two began to form balls of dough. “We nearly lost all of this—our orchards, our home—many times over the last hundred years. The Depression, family illness, the rise of corporate farming, which threatened small family farms like ours,” she said, her voice soft. “And then came the worst winter of our lives: we lost all of our fruit, and many of our trees. We had no way to make a living.”
Sam carefully finished rolling the balls of dough, and then the three grabbed paring knives and began to skin, pit, and slice peaches.
Willo continued: “But your great-grandma and I refused to give up, despite the odds. We took all the frozen and preserved fruit we had from the year before and began to make pies. We sold them out of the barn and to churches and local restaurants, and then tourists started showing up. Then we got orders for holidays, and it kept going. It allowed us to get through that horrible year and keep the farm. A few years later, we opened the bakery in the barn and started the U-Pick.”
Willo stopped, set down her knife, and picked up the recipe box. “This saved our orchard,” she said. “The women in our family saved our legacy.”
Willo then picked up the index card for the slab pie. “And this was one of the first desserts we made. Did you know your great-great-grandfather started as a baker in Chicago after he emigrated from Germany?”
Sam shook her head.
“Our love of baking is in our DNA. He made this slab pie because it was what the women in his family made for the men when they worked in the mines and the factories,” she continued. “They didn’t need a fork or spoon to eat it. They could just eat it with their hands, like a sandwich. And the workers in Chicago—especially the firefighters and cops—loved it for the same reason. I had to translate many of these recipes, including this one, from German.”
Willo picked up the knife and began to peel a peach in quick, deft motions, finishing one and starting on another before Sam had even gotten halfway around hers.
“But the amazing thing is this pie represents the essence of summer in the Great Lakes,” she said. “It is simple and yet so, so rich. It celebrates our bounty in the most delicious way. And the glaze that goes on top … it’s truly the icing on the pie! It’s one of my favorites, and your grandpa just loves it. Now, I’ll show you how to roll out the dough. It’s not as easy as it might seem.”
When they finished, Willo and Deana handed Sam a paring knife and said, “Time to vent the crust. You have to do this so the pie won’t explode and run over into the oven. But you have to create your own design.”
Sam thought for a moment about creating her own design, but instead she carved an M into the middle—like the Mullins pies always featured—before adding her own mark: three vertical lines underneath the M.
“What do those represent?” her mom asked.
“Us,” Sam said. “The three of us.”
As the slab pie baked, and Willo and Deana cleaned up the kitchen, Sam picked up the recipe card and ran her fingers over the words. She looked around the old kitchen—the stoves, the industrial-sized mixers, the vintage enamel mixing bowls, the worn rolling pins with red handles, the mason jars for jellies and jams, measuring cups stacked everywhere, seared oven mitts hanging off old nails—seeming to see it for the very first time.
When the pie came out of the oven, Sam sliced three pieces and topped them with vanilla ice cream. Just as they were about to slide their forks into the pie, Sam asked, “Can I make one more wish?”
“Of course,” her mother said.
“I wish to be the best baker in the world,” she said.
Willo and Deana beamed and then took a big bite of pie, their faces exploding in smiles.
“I think you will,” Willo said. “I think you just might outdo all of us.”
Willo looked at Sam and asked, “Promise me one thing?”
Sam nodded tentatively. “OK.”
“Promise me,” she said, thinking of her granddaughter in the tree earlier in the day, seeming to read her thoughts, “that even if you leave to go out into the world, you will make this pie whenever you want a taste of home and a reminder of our family and our history.”
Willo hesitated and continued. “And promise you will make this if you want to prove to somebody it doesn’t matter what anything or anyone looks like, but that it’s what’s inside that counts. Promise?”
“I promise,” Sam said, before her face fell. Her eyes scanned the recipe card. “Oh, no. I got a big blueberry stain in the middle of the card.”
Willo picked it up and showed it to Deana, and the two women smiled.
“Now it has your history on it,” she said, her voice emotional. “Now the recipe has new memories. Blue ones.”
Sam laughed.
“Just like your teeth, Grandma.”
Three
Sam pulled the slab pie out of the oven, testing it with a toothpick.
“Comes out clean,” she said to herself. “It’s done.”
She looked at Suzette, crossed her fingers, and sighed, just as Chef Dimples stormed into the kitchen, followed by a cameraman and producer.
“What’s that?”
“A peach-blueberry slab pie,” Sam said, nervously straightening the apron over her chef’s whites. “It’s a family recipe.” Sam thought of her grandfather. It had been one of his favorites, and her grandma had made it for him on every special occasion.
“Why isn’t it one of my family recipes?” Chef D
imples asked.
You don’t have any family recipes, Sam wanted to yell. There isn’t one recipe written down. Your family owned banks. You had a full-time cook. Sam’s stomach clenched. She knew what he was going to say next, the line he told everyone.
“My family invented blueberry pie,” he said, staring at her.
That’s not just a line, Sam thought. That’s a bold-faced lie.
“I know, Chef Dimples,” Sam said.
“And what is this?” Chef Dimples asked, pointing a finger, which Sam couldn’t help but notice had clear polish on it—so not the hands of a baker, she thought—at the M and the three dashes she had cut into the crust to vent it.
“It’s supposed to be dimples,” Sam lied. “I’m a terrible artist. My apologies, Chef Dimples.”
He glared at Sam, his green eyes flashing in the lights the cameraman was testing in the kitchen. “I’m not eating that,” he said. “It’s ugly. It will look terrible on TV.”
“Taste it,” Sam pleaded. “Please.”
He continued to stare at her.
“Please, Chef Dimples,” Sam corrected.
He smiled like a snake, his dimples flashing, and glanced at Suzette, who immediately rushed over carrying some plates.
Sam cut three slices before topping it with whipped cream—“Homemade,” she said—the cream melting on top of the golden crust, the steaming fruit sliding across the pink Depression glass. Suzette handed out forks, and Chef Dimples slid his into the pie.
With the very first bite, his eyes widened and for the briefest of moments, he shut them, savoring the taste.
Sam’s heart leapt as she immediately recognized the reaction.
It’s the same one I had when I was thirteen and tasted the pie for the first time, she thought, containing a smile. He knows it’s good.
Chef Dimples held out his plate to Sam.
“I can’t serve this,” he said, unable to look at her. “It won’t look good on camera. Hurry up and bake me a blueberry pie … and don’t vent it. Put one of those cardboard cutouts of my face over the pie.” He turned to the producer. “Have Lara Spencer say something like, ‘That looks way too good to eat. People will eat that up. Literally. And let’s shoot in the bakery. It’s too dirty back here.”
He turned to Sam. “Get my pie ready,” he said. “And clean this mess up.”
The producer and cameraman didn’t move as Chef Dimples exited the kitchen. They were finishing their pie.
“Can I get another slice?” the burly cameraman asked. “Been up since four. This is crazy good.”
Sam nodded, still in shock, and began to cut him another piece.
“This is the best pie I’ve ever had,” the producer—a middle-aged woman in jeans and a blazer—agreed, her lips and teeth tinged blue. “Seriously. This is amazing. Tastes like … heaven. Like something my grandma would have made.”
“Thank you,” Sam said, suddenly picturing herself as a girl high in the peach tree.
“Where did you learn to bake?” the producer continued, holding out her plate for another piece. “You just can’t learn to make this kind of recipe, or bake like this. It’s a gift. It’s been handed down to you.”
The sincerity of her words caused Sam’s eyes to well with tears. “Thank you,” she said. “The women in my family taught me. This is a recipe from…”
“Clean this mess up now,” Chef Dimples shouted, rushing into the kitchen once again when he realized no one was following him. He grabbed the dish out of Sam’s hand. “And throw that pie away. Nobody wants to eat that.”
He reached for the cameraman’s plate, but the stocky man squared up his shoulders and gripped the dish even more tightly. “You’re not taking this away from me,” he said, his mouth full.
Without warning, Chef Dimples picked up the slab pie and slid it into the trash as everyone watched in shock.
“Ow!” he yelled, forgetting the tin was still hot from the oven and rushing over to the sink to rinse his hand in cold water. “Now make my blueberry pie.”
Sam looked into the trash, her pie a heap of blue and peach rubble. Suzette slinked into a corner, while the producer and cameraman watched, their mouths—still full—open wide.
Sam could feel her spirit leave her body. Her eyes seemed to go blank in front of her. Her ears began to ring loudly as they had earlier when the trash trucks went by, but—just as quickly—they went silent, and she could hear her grandmother say the following very clearly, as if she were standing beside her in the pie pantry:
Promise me that even if you leave to go out into the world, you will make this pie whenever you want a taste of home and a reminder of our family and our history. And promise you will make this if you want to prove to somebody it doesn’t matter what anything or anyone looks like, but that it’s what’s inside that counts. Promise?
“You didn’t invent blueberry pie.”
Sam heard the words leave her mouth, but she couldn’t feel herself saying them.
“What did you say?”
“Have you ever even picked a blueberry?” Sam continued. She could feel her mom and grandma beside her, giving her strength. “Have you actually ever cooked something for someone simply because you loved them and wanted to give them a piece of your heart?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a fraud. You’re a flaky crust with nothing inside.”
Sam stopped, took off her apron, and tossed it on the floor.
“I quit,” she yelled, walking toward the swinging doors leading to the bakery. “Make your own damn pie.” Suddenly, Sam stopped cold and turned.
“I’m sorry,” Sam added. “I should have said, ‘I quit, Chef Dimples.’”
And, with that, Sam exited, the scent of the slab pie trailing behind her, out the bakery and onto the streets of New York.
peach-blueberry slab pie
Ingredients for Pie
3¼ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup butter, cold
1 large egg yolk
¾ cup plus 1 to 2 tablespoons 2% milk
1 cup granulated sugar
3 tablespoons cornstarch
5 cups sliced fresh peaches
3 cups fresh blueberries
Ingredients for Glaze
1¼ cups powdered sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
5 to 6 teaspoons 2% milk
Directions for Pie
In a large bowl, combine the flour and salt; cut in the butter until crumbly. Whisk the egg yolk with ¾ cup of the milk; gradually add to the flour mixture, tossing with a fork until the dough forms a ball. Add additional milk, 1 tablespoon at a time, if necessary.
Divide the dough into two portions so that one is slightly larger than the other; wrap each in plastic wrap. Refrigerate 1 hour or until easy to handle.
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Roll out the larger portion of dough between two large sheets of lightly floured waxed paper into an 18 × 13-inch rectangle. Transfer to an ungreased 15 × 10 × 1-inch baking pan. Press the dough onto the bottom of the pan and up the sides; trim the pastry to the edges of the pan.
In a large bowl, combine the sugar and cornstarch. Add the peaches and blueberries and toss to coat. Spoon into the pastry.
Roll out the remaining dough and place it over the filling. Fold the bottom pastry over the edge of the top pastry; seal with a fork. Prick the top with a fork to vent.
Bake 45 to 55 minutes, or until the crust is golden brown. Cool completely on a wire rack.
Directions for Glaze
Combine the powdered sugar, vanilla, and enough milk to achieve a drizzling consistency; drizzle over the pie. Cut the pie into squares.
(Note: Your favorite seasonal fruits may be used for this slab pie. Raspberry-rhubarb is particularly delicious. Some fruits, such as raspberries and rhubarbs, will require more sugar in the filling.)
part two
Cider Donuts
Four
Summer 2017<
br />
Sam checked her boarding pass, smiling at the fruitful irony of the words stamped on it, indicating her final destination: Cherry Capital Airport.
She was heading home—Tail between my legs, Sam thought. I feel like a complete failure. How did the job of my dreams turn into such a nightmare?
As the plane took off and Sam watched New York City grow smaller, she recalled how big it had seemed when she arrived to start culinary school. The city had even made her bigger-than-life grandma—who had accompanied her to New York to get her settled—seem tiny and out of place.
Sam remembered that after her mom and grandma had left Sam on her own, she had pulled down the creaky Murphy bed in her studio apartment, which was one quarter the size of her bedroom at home, and begun to cry. Sirens wailed, people screamed, taxicabs honked, construction noise echoed. As Sam sobbed, a scent—so powerful, so familiar, so reminiscent of home—enveloped her tiny apartment. She stood, sniffing, trailing the scent like Doris used to do in the orchard when she was tracking a varmint. Sam followed her nose until it led her to one of the two cupboards that stood guard over a small sink, two-burner stove, compact refrigerator, and oven barely big enough to hold a frozen pizza. A grease-stained bag, emblazoned with the orchard and pie pantry’s logo, sat atop the set of new mismatched plates her mom had just bought her at Fishs Eddy, an adorable home-goods store they had stumbled on while wandering the city. The vintage-inspired dishes, glassware, and linens reminded them of the dishes they used in the pie shop and bakery back home.
The bag was tied with string, and a handwritten tag dangled. Sam untied the package and lifted the tag to her eyes. Her grandmother’s looping handwriting read, Know your heart feels it has a big hole in it right now. So does ours. Here’s a taste of home. These should help fill it. You will never be a misfit as long as you follow your heart. We love you and are so proud of you. Mom & Grandma.
Sam opened the bag and screamed in delight to see that it was filled with one of her favorite treats: homemade apple cider donuts and donut holes. The bottom of the package was scattered with donut remnants, misshapen pieces of dough that fell apart in the fryer that the pie pantry had nicknamed “misfits.” A recipe card for the donuts, written in her grandmother’s same looping cursive, was inside. Sam lifted the recipe card and ran her fingers over the writing, remembering her thirteenth birthday. The card smelled like cinnamon, sugar, apples, and fried dough. She popped a donut hole into her mouth and shut her eyes, savoring the sweet dough, which melted in her mouth.
The Recipe Box Page 4