The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  How did they sneak this here without me knowing? Sam had wondered.

  Sam had made the donuts for her schoolmates one evening after they’d had too much wine and sneaked back into the school’s kitchen to make something to quell their munchies.

  “These are amazing!” her friends had all said, as she made and fried the donuts. “Why didn’t you ever make these before now?”

  Sam couldn’t admit to them that she was a bit embarrassed by many of her family recipes: the donuts and dump cakes, the slab pie, the penchant for either too much sugar or too much rhubarb. Her goal was to be a pastry chef, a first-class baker, not …

  Sam winced at the thought that always crossed her mind, the one that made her feel like a traitor: a self-taught pie maker.

  “Would you care for something to drink, ma’am?”

  The flight attendant’s voice shook Sam from her memory.

  “Water,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Sam smiled, once again paralleling the irony of the flight attendant’s words and her final destination: Michigan. The Great Lakes, Sam thought. Water, water, everywhere.

  Sam sipped her water and suddenly sat up straight, one thought she’d never had before suddenly filling her mind, making her heart beat faster.

  How hard must it have been for my mom and grandma to leave me in New York, alone, all on my own? I wasn’t the only brave one. They were, too. They wanted me to fulfill my dreams.

  Sam looked down at her water, and then at the words Cherry Capital Airport on her boarding pass, jutting from the seatback pocket in front of her.

  Even if it meant leaving home and never coming back.

  Sam felt her cell vibrate, and she reached into her jacket pocket to fish it free.

  Miss you, Unicorn! Lily, one of her two roommates, texted. It’s already too quiet.

  Miss you, too, Sam texted back immediately.

  And we’re hungry!!!! Fiona, her other roommate, added to the group text.

  Sam laughed. The two girls, who were born and raised in New York City, couldn’t microwave a bowl of soup or fix a grilled cheese sandwich. Lily and Fiona were so used to eating out their whole lives, they believed food simply arrived in front of you whenever you wanted. When Sam began to cook for them, they were astonished to see an actual meal prepared from scratch.

  You’re like a unicorn, Lily had said, wide-eyed, the first week after they’d moved into an apartment together in Brooklyn, Sam thrilled for the company and more square footage than her studio had provided. They were drinking wine, celebrating new jobs and their new place, and Sam was making roasted whitefish with capers and lemons and an apple pie. The three had cracked up at Lily’s statement, more so after a few drinks when Fiona made a tinfoil horn and attached it to Sam’s forehead. The nickname had stuck, just like the horn.

  I’ll send food, Sam texted, and money to help with rent until I get my head on straight and am ready to look for another job. I promise!!

  No worries, Lily texted. My dad said he’ll kick in extra because you saved him so much $$$$ cooking for us all the time! Have you told your family yet?

  Sam’s heart quickened. No, she texted. Will be a big surprise.

  Next time it will be your shop, your rules, your pie, Fiona added. Pie = Love. WE WILL SEE YOU SOON! HAVE A GREAT VACA WITH THE FAM!

  Sam’s eyes filled with tears. ♥ ♥ ♥, she texted.

  She wiped her eyes with her jacket sleeve and felt her cell vibrate again.

  C’mon, girls, Sam thought, before looking down at her phone. You’re killing me.

  Trish told me what happened and gave me your number. I’ll miss you but don’t blame you. Let me know where you end up. And I’ll root for the Tigers this fall in the playoffs.

  Sam’s heart quickened. A text from Angelo?

  She was still staring at the phone, and a photo of Angelo wearing a Tigers ball cap popped up, with a text that read, Mets vs. Tigers! He was standing in front of Citi Field, pointing at the Detroit logo on his head, laughing like a kid, his dark eyes twinkling, his dark curls bouncing.

  And those dimples, Sam thought. Now those are some dimples.

  Looks good on you! Sam texted. I’ll make you a Tigers fan yet!

  My friends said they’ll kill me if I wear this the whole game, Angelo replied. People are yelling bad names at me, Sam! I blame you! Lol.

  And then: Keep in touch. Please.

  Sam’s heart again quickened.

  Please, he wrote. Please. What do I say?

  Without thinking, Sam found a thumbs-up emoji and hit send. As soon as she did, she immediately began to beat herself up.

  You idiot, Sam thought. An emotionless emoji?! A thumbs-up? Am I a ten-year-old?

  Angelo sent a matching thumbs-up back, and Sam’s stomach sank, even more so as the plane began to descend.

  “We need to take your cup of water, ma’am. We’ll be landing soon.”

  Sam jumped again at the flight attendant’s voice. She handed her the cup and then looked out the airplane window at all the water below.

  “Lake Michigan,” Sam sighed, her breath fogging the window. “Truly a great lake.”

  She snapped a photo and texted it to her roomies, who immediately responded, Is that the ocean? Where are you?

  Most East and West Coasters had the same reaction to Lake Michigan: it was so grand in size, so beautiful, its beaches so sandy, its dunes so spectacular, it had to be an ocean.

  About to land, Sam texted. Not an ocean. Lake Michigan. This used to be my swimming pool.

  The plane banked left and started its final descent. As it did, the entire coast of northwestern Michigan’s Lower Peninsula came into view. It was early morning, and the summer sun made the water sparkle as if the state were wearing a rhinestone gown. Water not only surrounded the state but also ran through it: big bays and winding rivers, little creeks and ponds, marinas filled with bobbing boats and sailboats whose white masts matched the gulls that soared overhead.

  Sam held up the cell to snap another picture and, as she did, realized her hand was much like her state. Not only was Michigan called the Mitten because it was shaped like a hand, with Traverse City and Suttons Bay sitting where the pinkie was located, but its water resembled the veins in Sam’s hand, traversing the state, giving Michigan—its people, its produce, its land, its bounty—life. Water was Michigan’s lifeblood.

  Sam looked at her hand—dry, red, nails boyishly short from her work.

  They look more and more like my mom’s and grandma’s hands every day, Sam thought. When did that happen?

  When the plane landed, Sam waited to grab her tiny bag from the overhead bin, suddenly realizing how little she had truly accumulated during her time in New York. Sam always wore a uniform to work, and had little money for extras and nowhere to store anything if she bought it. She lived mostly outside her apartment, spending time either at work or in the city after spending most of her time at school. Her only big acquisitions had been a few expensive pieces of bakeware and cookware she’d picked up at specialty shops in the city.

  I was Tiny House before people thought it was cool, Sam thought. She immediately pictured her family’s home and orchard, grand, wide open, breathtaking.

  Distracted in thought, Sam pulled the small suitcase from the overhead compartment, bumping a man behind her and knocking his reading glasses from the bridge of his nose. She waved an embarrassed Sorry at him and began to wheel her small bag off the plane.

  So cute, so small, so clean, so quiet, Sam thought, walking into the terminal. So not LaGuardia.

  Indeed, the little airport was the perfect Welcome to Pure Michigan! hug for first-time visitors. The terminal was an Arts and Crafts–inspired design, which encompassed the openness and natural setting of the Grand Traverse region. A welcome area reminiscent of a northwoods lodge, complete with a glowing stone fireplace, greeted visitors, and the airport’s homage to Frank Lloyd Wright was visible in the cherry wood, copper light fixtures, stone wainscotin
g, and stained glass.

  I gotta give it to you, Michigan, Sam thought, her face breaking into a slight smile. You have the trademark on quaint.

  Michigan, Sam repeated in her head, this time hearing Angelo’s voice saying the word to her.

  Sam stood in a small line, waiting to get her rental car, and exited a few minutes later to find it, one of many compacts lined up in the lot. She tossed her suitcase into the trunk, jumped in, started the car, began to back out, and then suddenly braked, her heart racing.

  I think I’ve not only forgotten how to get to the highway but also how to drive, Sam thought, her hands clutching the wheel. What’s it been? Two years?

  Sam suddenly remembered her thirteenth birthday, when her brother had begged her to grow up so she could drive him around town, free them both of being reliant on their bikes, their legs …

  Our imaginations, Sam added. We wanted to be anywhere but here.

  A car honked and Sam jumped. She looked in the rearview mirror, and her rental was still in park, halfway out of the parking spot and jutting into the lot’s driving lane. She quickly put the car into drive and hit the gas too fast, and the car jumped forward. Sam slammed on the brakes and then put her face into her hands and started to laugh. When she lifted her head, Sam caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, long wisps having worked loose and trailing down her neck and the side of her face. She blew her bangs out of her eyes, an annoying habit she had acquired from having her hair controlled underneath a chef’s hat or hairnet for so long. She was paler than she had ever been, especially during the summer, and red rimmed her blue eyes from the recent stress and early morning flight.

  But there was also something different about her appearance that Sam couldn’t quite put her finger on. She looked at herself in the mirror, staring intensely for so long that she scared herself.

  Do I look different? she thought. Or do I just look different in a different setting? Have I changed that much? She averted her eyes but looked at herself one more time. Who am I?

  Sam shook her head, nabbed her cell, pulled up her map app, and waited for the voice to navigate her to the highway.

  As Sam drove through Traverse City, she immediately noticed there was also something different about the largest city close to where she had grown up. Summer traffic was snarled, cars barely moving, and the city’s once-empty blocks were filled with ethnic restaurants, wine bars, craft breweries, and ritzy condos. It wasn’t New York City—nothing was—but it was bustling, alive, energetic.

  Sam slowed in traffic, her head bobbing left and right like one of those dogs people put in their back windows, and again caught her reflection in the mirror.

  Maybe the city’s just grown up, Sam thought. Like me.

  Sam neared the coastline and looked at the endless blue water. She opened the car window, inhaled, the smell of water filling her lungs, then stuck her head out of the window like her grandparents’ happy Lab, Doris, used to do and said, “Hello, Michigan!”

  She turned onto M-22 and headed north toward home, Suttons Bay.

  M-22 was the name of the old highway that looped along Lake Michigan and through many of its prettiest resort towns. The road, which ran directly alongside the water, offered breathtaking views of the lake and its bays and was a popular drive for tourists. The moniker itself—M-22—was now a popular Michigan trademark and was featured on bumper stickers, T-shirts, sweatshirts, and ball caps. For many Michiganders and tourists, though, the symbol represented something even deeper, something nearly spiritual: that this was as close to heaven as they might actually come every year, in terms of both northerly direction and beauty. The resort towns that dotted M-22, like Northport, the summer home of chef Mario Batali, and Leland, known as Fishtown, were throwbacks, as quaint as Mayberry and as pretty as a vintage postcard.

  Sam continued to drive in slow-moving traffic, her jaw dropping as billboard after billboard screamed the area to be one of the nation’s most beautiful and popular tourist destinations.

  TOP 10 MUST-SEE!

  NEW YORK TIMES

  YOU HAVEN’T SEEN SUMMER UNTIL YOU’VE SEEN MICHIGAN!

  USA TODAY

  HEAVEN ON EARTH!

  GOOD MORNING AMERICA

  The world is now screaming our praises, Sam thought, chuckling, before realizing her choice of pronoun. Our? Do I have the right to say our any longer after leaving?

  Sam turned on the radio to distract her mind, and an oldies song blared through the speakers. She looked down to see that the radio was tuned to Oldies 101.

  No, Sam thought. It’s a sign.

  She gripped the wheel.

  Or a warning.

  Oldies 101 was the station that filled the pie pantry every day of Sam’s life. The music—Elvis, Rosemary Clooney, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra—was the soundtrack to her childhood. Her grandma used to sing nearly every old tune out loud—and out of tune, Sam thought—as she made pies, swaying her hips and dancing as she crimped crusts.

  Sam held her hand over the radio dial, nearly changing the station, but she turned it up instead when the song changed to “Tutti Frutti” by Little Richard.

  How appropriate, Sam thought. Do you sense I’m in the area, Grandma?

  Drivers began to pull off the highway to take photos or get gas, and the traffic slowly thinned. Sam picked up the pace, the wind sending her hair flying, and, before she knew it, she was singing along, suddenly feeling like a tourist.

  The sights were familiar to Sam, but they seemed new to her, brighter, prettier, quainter. As she neared Suttons Bay, she slowed her car and, like other tourists, pulled off to the side of the road to enjoy the view.

  The water in the bays that sat inland from Lake Michigan were the color of the Caribbean: emerald green fading to aqua near the shoreline, which darkened to navy as the water deepened. Sunlight illuminated the flat, sandy bottom of the bay, and docks jutted straight out past the shallows—hundreds of yards into the water—and held boats, big and small, moored in the deeper water, alongside Jet-Skis and kayaks. Some homeowners had built little bars in the water, where they could sit and watch the sunset, while others had blown up giant rafts big enough to hold ten people.

  As if pulled by a magnet, Sam suddenly got out of the car and went running toward the water. She kicked off her flip-flops and walked into the bay, forgetting how cold the water was even in summer, letting out a surprised yelp. Though this water was chilly, the bay was still warmer than Lake Michigan and significantly warmer than Lake Superior, where reaching seventy degrees was considered spa-like. The bay water got a chance to warm, especially in the shallows. Sam dipped her hand into the water and watched it run through her fingers, little diamonds sifting through them. Minnows, no bigger than a comma, nibbled at Sam’s toes. Sam looked out over the bay and her heart leapt.

  It’s so beautiful, she thought. So pretty it almost looks fake.

  Sam stepped out of the water, let her feet dry on the sand, picked up her shoes, and headed back to the car, driving north until she finally turned away from the water and onto Bayview Point. The little two-lane road disappeared at the top of a winding hill, which was deceptively tall. Her tiny rental slowed, chugged, and groaned as it drove up, up, up until the view opened up to a 360-degree panorama: the little town of Suttons Bay sat in the near distance at the bottom of the hill, while farmland and vineyards stretched out around it like a patchwork quilt. The blue-green bay sat in the foreground, with the tip of Suttons Bay pointing into the water as if it were hitchhiking. Glacially formed Old Mission Peninsula separated Traverse Bay into east and west bays, and the tourist haven, which was filled with top-notch wineries, sat in the distance. Sam smiled.

  Old Mission Peninsula resembles a sea horse swimming, she always thought as a kid.

  On the other side, Lake Michigan shimmered in all its glory, sparkling in the summer sun, stretching to infinity.

  Sam slowed her car, and dust swirled, as if Pig-Pen had
come to greet her. The pavement suddenly ended at the top of the hill and became a dirt road.

  I’m home, Sam thought, looking at the sign directly in front of her car. Nothing’s changed.

  Welcome to Fruit Heaven!

  Very Cherry Orchards—First Right

  Mullins Family Orchards and Pie Pantry—Straight Ahead

  Bayview Point was filled with orchards; the glacier-formed ridge was the ideal spot—in terms of temperature, moisture, and location—in which to grow the very best fruit.

  God took His time to carve out the perfect place, Sam remembered her grandma always saying.

  Indeed, the hilltop was akin to a real cherry on top of a stunningly picturesque sundae. Bayview Point was home to two of northern Michigan’s most popular orchards and tourist stops: Very Cherry Orchards and her family’s Orchard and Pie Pantry. The first half of the hill was dense with rows of tart cherry trees, and the limbs of the small, bushy trees were bursting with cherries, red arms waving at Sam as if to greet her home.

  In the spring, these trees were filled with white blossoms that slowly turned as pink as a perfect rosé, their beauty so tender that it used to make Sam’s heart ache when she would run through the orchards as part of her high school cross-country training.

  Often, when Sam ran, the spring winds would tear at the tender flowers and make it look as though it were snowing in the midst of a beautiful warm day.

  Like every good native, Sam knew cherries had a long history in northern Michigan. French settlers had cherry trees in their gardens, and a missionary planted the first cherry trees on Old Mission Peninsula.

  Very Cherry Orchards grew nearly 100 acres of Montmorency tart cherries in addition to Balaton cherries, black sweet cherries, plums, and nectarines. They sold their fruit to U-Pickers as well as large companies that made pies, but they had also become famous for their tart cherry juice concentrate, now sold at grocery and health food stores across the United States. People loved it for its natural health benefits, rich in antioxidants. When Sam was growing up, all the old locals used to sit around the pie shop drinking coffee and gossiping about how the cherries made their joints feel better, whispering how they hoped “the outside world” never discovered their secret.