The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  Sam would refill their cups, silently scoffing at such insular thinking.

  A car honked, and Sam jumped. She looked in the mirror, and a snaking line of traffic disappeared down the hill. Sam checked her watch; it was only ten A.M.

  Maybe they were right, Sam thought, easing her car into drive. Maybe some things should remain a secret from the outside world and stay as they were.

  Sam eased her car down the dirt road. Her mouth fell as she took in the natural beauty, her mind used to the concrete and steel of New York City.

  It was an achingly beautiful day: the red cherries on the green limbs set against a backdrop of blue skies that only a lack of humidity could create and, in the distance, clear water as far as the eye could see.

  Sam drove past Very Cherry’s orchards, still taking in the scenery, and that was when she saw it, the scene causing her to hit the brakes too quickly, her rental spitting gravel.

  Her family’s orchard and pie pantry stood before her, and Sam felt herself catapulted back in time.

  Greeting visitors was a mammoth, wood-carved sign, MULLINS FAMILY ORCHARDS AND PIE PANTRY, the name appearing in the branches of a large tree, accented with smiling apples. The sun over the tree was a pie. Pie = Love was written in the roots of the tree’s underground.

  Set back from the driveway, behind the sign, was a tiny log cabin and an ancient Ford Model T truck that still looked brand-new. The back of the truck was overflowing with baskets of fresh apples and peaches, along with petunias trailing over the side. The log cabin, with its lopsided front door and old wood bleached gray from the weather, was Sam’s great-great-grandparents’ original home, the one they had lived in when they began to settle this land.

  At the edge of the entrance sat a small shed. The shed was actually an old bus barn that Sam’s mother and grandmother used to take cover in when waiting for the school bus in the never-ending snow that blanketed northern Michigan from November through April. The shed had been salvaged and restored, and high school kids now served samples of apple cider and homemade donuts to the snaking lines of tourists waiting to park.

  “Misfits!” two smiling teenagers in aprons called from the shed as the cute curtains—made from vintage fabric featuring cherries, pine trees, happy deer, cardinals, and boats bobbing on the water—fluttered in the breeze. “Who wants a misfit?”

  Sam smiled, slowed, and waved at the teenagers.

  “Want a misfit?” a boy with braces yelled from the shed.

  They have no clue who I am, Sam thought. Before she could say a word, the boy sprang forth like a baby deer, his legs too long for his body, making it seem as if he might tumble at any moment. He was carrying a red plate lined with a paper towel. As he got closer, Sam could see that the plate was filled with odd-shaped pieces of dough covered in cinnamon and sugar.

  “Misfit?” the boy asked with a smile and slight lisp, the sun glinting off his silver teeth.

  “Sure,” Sam said, taking a piece that was shaped like a parenthesis. Sam put the warm fried dough into her mouth, and it melted. She licked the cinnamon sugar off her lips. “Thank you.”

  “Delicious, right?” the boy asked. Sam had to force herself not to chuckle at the boy’s braces-induced lisp. “They’re making the apple cider donuts fresh right now. You can park in the Fuji Apple lot near the door.”

  Sam knew what he was going to say next, and she said it out loud and in unison with the teen.

  “Follow your nose,” they said together.

  “How’d you know that?” the boy asked.

  “ESP,” Sam laughed, nabbing another piece of misshapen dough.

  Sam pulled forward. How many times did I say that, she wondered, thinking back on her high school summers when she did anything and everything: giving out samples, crimping pies, handing out baskets, weighing fruit.

  Sam parked in the Fuji lot—every parking area was designated by a different type or variety of fruit—and when she emerged from the car, the smell of fresh, frying donuts filled the summer air.

  Sam checked her appearance in the mirror, took a deep breath, and headed inside. Picnic tables sat on a large concrete patio underneath a bright awning outside the pie pantry, an old barn painted, appropriately enough, barn red. Sam opened the heavy, old wood door with a grunt, and the smell of donuts intensified. The corridor that led to the pie pantry was lined with antiques and memorabilia from the orchards and the bakery: vintage cooking utensils, farming equipment, baskets, old photos, antique orchard ladders. Uneven wooden shelves were filled with mismatched cups and saucers, as well as empty Ball jars, which the pie pantry used to serve their apple cider.

  Sam walked into the pie pantry, a cavernous space with a concrete floor. A mix of Formica and wood tables filled the space, along with even more memorabilia covering the walls and hanging from the ceiling. The tables were filled with visitors and locals eating donuts, drinking coffee and cider, steeling themselves with sugar before they headed to the U-Pick or walked out with pies for their summer visitors.

  The cement floors were painted with childlike images of smiling apples, dancing peaches, waving trees, and happy pies, all forming a Yellow Brick Road–esque path leading to the back of the barn, where the pie pantry and kitchen were located. Sam followed the cartoonish path, which always made her feel like a little girl playing hopscotch, and into another huge, open space, separated by an ancient barn-wood counter that spanned some thirty feet. A series of girls were stationed behind cash registers, and the counter was lined with free samples of desserts: apple pie, peach pie, jams, and apple cider donuts. A sign overhead read: EVERYTHING IS HOMEMADE! BY HAND! JUST LIKE GRANDMA MAKES!

  Another large, hand-painted sign reading DON’T LEAVE WITHOUT A SLICE OF HEAVEN! hung over a doorway that led to a room filled with desserts, just baked and ready to take home, lined up on wooden shelves and labeled FRESH APPLE, FRESH CARAMEL APPLE, FRESH APPLE CRISP, FRESH APPLE TURNOVERS, FRESH APPLE CIDER while freezers were filled with frozen pies. More shelves were filled with the pie pantry’s jams and jellies as well as their famed homemade caramel and chocolate sauces. And wood crates and cute baskets were overflowing with apples, peaches, and plums.

  Women worked in a kitchen behind the registers, rolling dough, crimping pies, slicing apples, frying donuts, proving that every single thing was, indeed, handmade, just as the sign said.

  This might have been one of the first open kitchens, Sam finally realized, thinking of how trendy it was in New York restaurants for diners to see their food prepared in front of them.

  That was when Sam saw her grandma, shimmying to an old song as she fried donuts, her behind moving, her head bobbing. A big smile engulfed Sam’s face, and she watched her in silence for a moment.

  The women making and baking pies worked separately but in unison, an assembly line of humans instead of parts, each handling a different task expertly. Oldies music played in the background, and, from a distance, the scene resembled a beautifully choreographed routine by Pilobolus, a dance group Sam had seen in the city.

  The women all chatted and laughed as they worked. The workers were as varied as the pies they made: some were round and red, some blond and peach complexioned, some as long and firm as a rhubarb stem.

  They seem so happy, Sam thought, watching them work. Was I ever this happy at my job?

  “May I help you, ma’am?” a teen asked Sam.

  “No,” Sam started. “I’m here…”

  Before Sam had even gotten the first few words out of her mouth, she saw her grandmother stop cold, and, without turning, she called, “Sam? Is that you?”

  “Hi, Grandma,” Sam called.

  Willo turned and blinked in disbelief, before plopping a pile of dough she was holding onto a table dusted with flour. The flour rose into the air like a ghost. “Our baby’s home!” Willo yelled, running toward her granddaughter, arms wide. “What a surprise!”

  Willo hugged Sam, squeezing her until Sam had to say, “I can’t breathe, Grandma.”


  They both laughed, and Willo held Sam at arm’s length and studied her closely, her eyes filling with tears.

  “You look tired,” Willo said.

  “Got up before dawn,” Sam said. “Early flight.”

  “How’s your job?”

  “Fine,” Sam lied.

  “Is he treating you OK?”

  “Yes, Grandma,” Sam lied again.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I got some unexpected vacation time,” Sam said. She hesitated. “Chef Dimples said I had earned a few days off.”

  Willo eyed her granddaughter warily. She opened her mouth but then clamped it shut, inhaled, and smiled.

  “Chef Dimples,” she muttered under her breath. “What a name.”

  Willo studied her granddaughter’s eyes.

  “Am I on trial, Grandma?” Sam said with a laugh. “This feels like the time everyone thought I made that peach pie for Jimmy Jenkins.”

  “And didn’t remove the pits,” Willo interrupted. “Or add sugar. But did add lots of salt. And put pieces of newspaper in the crust…”

  “Why would I do that?” Sam asked, eyes wide, hands in the air.

  “Because he stole your bike, remember?” Willo said, a smile crossing her face.

  “OK, Grandma, OK,” Sam said. “But I’m not lying this time.”

  Willo nodded. “Good. Well, it’s a wonderful, unexpected surprise.” She stopped. “How long are you here for?” Before Sam could answer, Willo said, “Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know how long, I just want to celebrate every moment you’re here.” She stopped again. “My baby,” she said in a voice choked with emotion. “My baby’s home.”

  For a moment, the two studied each other closely, no words spoken, as if they were at a museum and standing before a painting they had never seen. Willo was dressed in a version of her standard attire. She wore a crocheted cap that resembled a cherry pie resting on her head, complete with a lattice crust and crimped edges. A too-big apron engulfed her body and hung like a drape down to her shins. As always, a colorful pair of sneakers—these, white with pink laces—adorned her feet.

  Her grandmother was cute as always, but Sam noticed she looked different, too: Willo’s eyes were faded blue now, the color of blueberries picked too early, and her shoulders were slumped, her back hunched, the years of labor showing on her tiny frame. And yet there was a strength in her presence, a light that seemed to shine forth, and Sam could feel her grandmother’s love and energy vibrate and shimmer like the light that filtered in through the wavy glass windows of the barn.

  Sam glanced at her grandmother’s hands, red and dry. Arthritis and hard work had made the knuckles resemble tree roots and yet her ring finger remained largely unaffected, as if she’d made a secret pact with it so she would never have to remove her wedding ring.

  How long has it been since Grandpa died? Sam thought, doing quick math in her head. Can it be six years already? Sam’s heart dropped. She thought of all she’d done in the past six years, the friends she’d met, the places she’d been, everything she’d experienced, all new, exciting. I’m just starting, Sam thought, looking closely at her grandma, before glancing down. She’s continuing without the love of her life.

  Willo caught Sam looking at her ring. “Anyone special in your life?” she asked. “Besides Chef … Oh, I can’t even say his name without rolling my eyes.”

  Sam immediately thought of Angelo.

  His dimples, Sam thought, her heart racing. I wonder if he texted me again?

  “No,” Sam said. “Too busy between work and insane roommates. Not lots of time for love.”

  “Always time for love,” Willo said with a wink, before changing the subject. “I wish I had known you were coming. I would have planned a party, or made all your favorites.”

  “I think you have your hands full with the big party coming up,” Sam said.

  “I hope you stay for it,” Willo said.

  Sam didn’t answer.

  Willo turned, her eyes searching the bakery. “Your mom must be in the office. We have a lot of restaurant deliveries scheduled today,” she continued. “Want to go find her? And your dad is in the orchards. And your brother just left again for college last week. He started school already.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “He’s so excited to move into the fraternity house at Michigan. Been texting me pictures. His room’s already trashed. Don’t tell Mom and Dad after all the cleaning and decorating they did for him. It’ll have to be fumigated in May.”

  Willo laughed. “Are you tired? Do you want to go unpack and rest for a bit?”

  “No, I’m sort of jazzed from the drive, the coffee, and the sugar I just had eating the misfits.”

  “Speaking of which,” Willo said, nodding toward the kitchen, “I have to finish donut duty. Do you want to help?”

  “I’d love to,” Sam said.

  Willo grabbed Sam’s hand and walked her back to the open kitchen. A group of women who had seen Sam grow up before their eyes swooped in for hugs, asking about her job and life in the big city.

  Sam began to share stories of her life, the women listening as they made dough, cored apples, and deep-fried donuts.

  “Remember how to make these?” one of the women asked Sam.

  “You eyeball the cider,” Sam said in unison with a half-dozen women, who all broke into a fit of giggles when Willo said, “Hey, that’s not funny.”

  “Your recipe was never detailed,” Sam joked. “And you must have repeated that line to all of us a million times.”

  “That’s how it was written in our recipe box,” Willo protested, stopping and looking around at the group, who were still chortling. Willo turned and looked at Sam. “You know, sometimes that applies to life, too. You think you need to live it as precisely and as detailed as how we often bake, but sometimes you just have to eyeball it, follow your gut, change a recipe or ingredient or direction because you know it will turn out better.”

  Sam stopped and stared at her grandmother. Does she have ESP? Sam thought again, feeling guilty for lying.

  “Remember how to fry these?” another woman called to Sam, waving her over.

  “I was never very good at this,” Sam said.

  “Don’t you worry about the misfits,” Willo said, looking up from a fryer. “Mistakes happen.”

  Again, Sam’s heart pinged. She picked up a donut and dropped it into the sizzling oil, the delicate dough falling apart and creating a series of misshapen pieces.

  “Lots of misfits,” a woman said, and laughed. “Kids out front got lots more to sell now.”

  Sam stared into the oil, which hissed and spat, and watched the misfits float around like deflating life rafts.

  Five

  Summer 2010

  “Misfit?” Sam called out the front door of the tiny shed.

  A father in a minivan slowed as he pulled into the drive of the Orchard and Pie Pantry and rolled down the windows. Screams, music, and the sounds of video games rolled forth, and four kids scrambled to the windows, hands reaching into the air.

  “A little more sugar can’t hurt, right?” he called to Sam, giving her an exhausted smile.

  Sam jogged out and held a plate of apple cider donut pieces up to the windows.

  “Yeah!” the kids screamed, grabbing for the donuts and shoving them into their mouths, sugar and cinnamon ringing their lips and coating their fingers.

  The mother removed sunglasses, revealing dark rings under her eyes. “They look forward to coming here every year,” she said. “The beach, the lake, the sweets.”

  She leaned toward her husband and whispered to Sam, “I think I’ll enjoy it more when they’re all in college.”

  Sam laughed.

  “How do you stay so thin?” the mother asked.

  “You must love it here,” the father said, grabbing another misfit.

  Sam nodded politely.

  A honk blared behind them, and the children screamed. The father looked into
the rearview mirror: a group of teenagers in a shiny red convertible, top down, engine revving, music blaring, were waiting. The driver raised his hands in the air as if to ask, What’s taking so long?

  “You can park in the McIntosh lot,” Sam said.

  “See you next summer,” the father said. “We’re off to pick apples and buy a hundred pies.”

  “Yeah,” the kids screamed. “Sugar!”

  “Follow your nose,” Sam called.

  The minivan slowly pulled forward, and the convertible roared to life, racing ahead before suddenly braking so hard, the car fishtailed, spitting gravel, a cloud of dust engulfing Sam.

  As the dust dissipated, Sam heard, “Aren’t you going to say it to us?”

  Sam stood a few feet behind the convertible and slowly began to approach it. When she got within arm’s length, the convertible again sped forward a few feet, leaving Sam in another dust cloud.

  She stood there and watched the car slam its brakes yet again. Two young men in the front seat were laughing, and the two young women in the back were giggling wildly as they played with their hair.

  “Just playin’ with you,” one of the guys yelled. “Come here.”

  The convertible gleamed in the summer sun. It was foreign and expensive, and looked as if it had just been washed and waxed. The four passengers looked the same, too: they were tan, drinking iced lattes, wearing colorful shorts and trendy T-shirts. Everything to Sam resembled a mirage as the dust continued to settle.

  “We just wanted to hear you say it,” the driver said, running a tan hand through his long, gleaming dark locks, which slid through his hand and fell into his eyes.