The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  “Say what?” Sam asked.

  “Ask us if we want a misfit?” the passenger said, turning his ball cap around backward on his head and looking directly at Sam.

  “Do you want one?” she asked.

  “Want one of what?” the driver asked innocently.

  “A misfit?” Sam asked.

  “Looks like there’s a big one standing right in front of us,” the driver said, an evil smile crossing his face, peals of laughter echoing from the car. The driver high-fived the guy in the passenger seat and again sped off, leaving Sam in the dust as the girls snapped photos with their cell phones.

  “Follow your nose,” they yelled at her.

  Sam stood there in shock, unable to move, her eyes filling with tears. She realized the platter of donuts was shaking in her hands, the little pieces rolling to and fro as if they were passengers on a life raft who suddenly got caught in a storm.

  She zombie-walked back to the shed, set down the tray, and tried to calm herself. Sam caught a reflection of herself in the window. Everyone told her she was a pretty girl—“naturally pretty,” they always said.

  But what does that even mean? Sam thought now.

  She was wearing an oversized apron with the pie pantry logo on it that hung almost to her knees and an old pair of tennis shoes already dirty from the endless dust, mud, flour, and cider. Her hair was in a ponytail; she wore no makeup or jewelry, just a bright red coiled key chain around her wrist that resembled an old telephone cord and held an assortment of keys to the bakery, freezer, U-Pick, Kubota, and van.

  She leaned into the window and could see that her face was already dusty and her teeth were flecked with blueberries that she kept in the shed as a snack.

  I am a misfit, she thought.

  A car honked in the drive.

  I live in the middle of nowhere working on a stupid orchard that people visit and then immediately leave to go back to the city to a normal life. I have a boyfriend who will eventually take over his family’s charter fishing business, just like I’ll take over my family’s business. Where am I even going to be in five or ten years? Right here? Doing the same thing? Doling out donuts and baking pies the rest of my life?

  Sam suddenly tore off her apron and tossed it on the floor, rushing out of the shed, the keys around her wrist jangling.

  She took off running as cars continued to honk, and ran until she was out of breath, in the middle of the orchards, away from the crowds. She found an apple tree and lay underneath its arcing branches. She looked up at its green leaves, the limbs heavy with apples.

  I can’t escape my family, Sam thought, as the apples bobbed softly on the trees. They were cartoonishly red and shiny, like the apples her grandmother painted all over the pie pantry. I am a misfit.

  Sam closed her eyes, shiny apples still floating in her eyes.

  All summer long, teenagers from Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, and Cleveland would roll into town, their families with summer homes right on the beach. “Cottages” they called them, though many were like compounds. They drove their huge SUVs and sporty convertibles; everything was perfect, polished, and shiny, from how they looked and spoke to their futures.

  What’s it like out there? Sam thought. What’s it feel like to have your own identity, to reinvent yourself?

  Sam worked most summer days from sunup to sundown. When she was in school, she worked weekends when she wasn’t studying or running cross-country. Life here followed the seasons, but it never really slowed: while the orchards hibernated, the pie pantry came to life, hiring even more seasonal bakers to help make pies for the holiday rush.

  Sometimes I feel like I’m suffocating, Sam thought.

  “Need a little room to breathe?”

  Sam jolted upright. Her mother and grandmother were standing in front of her.

  How do they always know what I’m thinking and where I am?

  She nodded.

  “Wish you had told us,” her mom said, folding her arms. “Had a line of cars a mile long waiting for donuts and parking.”

  “Oh, it’s OK,” her grandmother interrupted. “Mind telling us what happened?”

  Sam shared the story, and then Willo and Deana took a seat on the grass beside Sam.

  “Same thing has happened to us both,” they said in unison, before sharing similar stories of run-ins with rude people.

  “Unfortunately, that’s just part of life in the service industry,” her mom said, rubbing her leg.

  “Unfortunately, that’s just part of life,” Willo added.

  “How did the name misfit even come about?” Sam asked. “It’s so … dumb.”

  Willo laughed. “Well, it’s really not,” she said. “We used to call them all sorts of slang terms: kooks, greasers, killjoys, chumps, and we had to keep changing the name as times changed. We used nerds for a long time, and then we started calling them dweebs.”

  Willo hesitated. “And then a group of kids wasn’t so nice to your mom.”

  “I had braces,” Deana said. “I had pimples. I had a perm. You do the math.”

  She smiled briefly, but Sam could tell the pain was still there. Deana continued: “And I worked here most of the time so I didn’t really get a chance to do a lot with friends after school. It was hard.”

  This time, Willo reached out to rub her daughter’s leg. “Your mom was pretty down one Christmas,” she said. “All of the kids were going on a ski trip to a resort in Boyne City, but she had to stay here and work during the holiday rush. She was moping around one night, lying on the couch and watching TV…”

  “… stuffing holiday cookies in my mouth,” Deana added.

  “… and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer came on. She was about to change the channel, but I made her sit back down and watch it with me. Remember the part about the Island of Misfit Toys?”

  Sam nodded.

  Willo continued. “All of those toys that were tossed away and didn’t have a home because they were different: the Charlie-in-the-Box, the spotted elephant, the train with square wheels, the cowboy who rides an ostrich…”

  “… the swimming bird,” Sam added with a laugh.

  “And I told your mom that all of those toys were magical and perfect because they were different,” Willo said. “What made them different is what made them unique.”

  Sam looked at her mom, who gave her a timid smile.

  “I walked in early the next morning to open the pie pantry, and your mom was already in there making donuts,” Willo said. “She had a big plate of donuts that didn’t turn out perfectly, and she looked up at me and said, very quietly, ‘I want to start calling them misfits.’ When I asked her why, she said, ‘They’re as good as all the others, even if they look a bit different.’ We haven’t changed the name since.”

  Without warning, an apple fell from the tree and landed with a great thunk just inches from where they sat.

  “Is that a sign?” Willo laughed.

  “A warning perhaps?” Deana added, reaching over to grab the apple. “You know, this may look perfect on the outside, but you don’t know what’s happening to anyone on the inside, unless you ask. That’s why people act the way they do.”

  Deana stood, Willo stretched out her hands, and Deana helped pull her mother to her feet. Willo again reached out her hands, and Deana playfully tossed the apple to her.

  “You know what they say?” Willo asked, showing Sam the fruit. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  She looked at Sam, who rolled her eyes with great drama as she stood up.

  “I think I’ve heard that one before, Grandma,” Sam said, beginning to walk away. “Especially here.”

  “I know, I know, it sounds so—what do you kids say—lame?” Willo continued. “But we all think that’s such a bad thing when we’re young. And then we get older, and you know what? We realize it’s really not.”

  Six

  “How’s it going?” Willo asked Sam, knocking her from the memory.

  Sam checked
the fryer. “Oh, my gosh,” she said. “These don’t take very long to fry, do they? Hope they’re not too brown.”

  Willo grabbed an ancient metal strainer from the counter and fished out the donuts. “Perfect,” she said. “Golden. Brown as a berry. Like me.”

  Sam laughed. The summer sun turned everyone who worked at the orchard “brown as a berry.” Sam had no idea where that phrase had originated, but her grandma used it all the time, and it seemed fitting for a family who grew fruit. Indeed, her grandma’s face was tan, but it couldn’t cover the dark circles under her eyes, and it made the skin on her hands look even more translucent when she touched her own cheek.

  “I have so many questions for you,” Willo said, catching Sam watching her.

  “I bet you do,” Sam laughed.

  “But we’ll let those slide for now,” she continued. “You look … well … a bit lost.”

  “I’m fine, Grandma,” Sam said, pulling her shoulders straight and raising her voice. “I’m home, aren’t I?”

  “Are you?” Willo asked, walking away to take some fresh donuts to the front of the pie pantry before returning and kissing her granddaughter softly on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I love you,” she said.

  “Me, too,” Sam added.

  The two let the remaining donuts drain for a few seconds on thick paper towels and then began to toss the hot donuts in cinnamon and sugar. For a few moments, Sam worked in unison with her grandma, and she watched the other women do the same.

  Some were making the dough, mixing cake flour, sour cream, cinnamon, and nutmeg, before pouring in the sweet apple cider, eyeballing it just so, until the dough was moist but not wet. They rolled the donuts and then put them on trays under plaid dish towels to rest.

  Sam wondered how much things had changed since Willo’s own mom and grandma had worked on the orchard.

  There was a beauty in working silently. No one felt a need to talk; just knowing that friends were nearby filled the silence and Sam’s heart. As she began to fry more donuts, she felt a peace in baking that she hadn’t experienced in a long while.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Sam finally asked.

  Willo stopped, raised her eyebrows, and then squared her shoulders as Sam had done moments earlier. “Depends,” she said. “I’m just teasing. Of course.”

  “Why did you and Mom decide to smuggle donut holes and misfits into my first place in the city when I started school?” Sam asked, before turning and looking around the pie pantry. “Of all the desserts you could have brought as a surprise. I’ve always wondered.”

  Willo didn’t even consider the question before answering. “The donut holes were because we had huge holes in our hearts because you wouldn’t be here anymore,” she said. “And the misfits were because I never wanted you to change to be anything or anyone other than who you are and who you were meant to be.” She hesitated, and her voice broke. “Even if it meant that hole in my heart would never be filled again. We only want what’s best for you, Sam.”

  Sam’s heart leapt into her throat, and all she could do was nod. The two set to making donuts once again, working quietly, but the silence was filled with the sounds of women chopping, mixers whirring …

  And love, Sam thought.

  She thought of working for Chef Dimples and of working here right now, and her heart again expanded.

  Ironically, for the first time in a long time, Sam thought, I don’t feel like a misfit.

  Or maybe I do, she reconsidered, looking around at all the women in the bakery before sneaking a glance at her grandma. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe there’s a reason apples fall close to the tree.

  lue crane’s old-fashioned fry cake cider donuts

  Ingredients

  3 cups granulated sugar

  1 stick unsalted butter, melted

  2 tablespoons baking soda

  2 tablespoons salt

  ¼ cup ground cinnamon

  2 teaspoons ground nutmeg

  6 eggs, cracked and beaten

  9½ cups bread flour

  2 tablespoons plus 2 teaspoons baking powder

  1 cup whole milk

  3 cups sweet apple cider

  1 quart oil

  Directions

  Cream the first seven ingredients for 3 minutes in a mixer on medium-high.

  Turn the mixer to low and slowly add the bread flour and all the baking powder to the creamed ingredients until evenly blended (do not overmix).

  Slowly mix the milk and cider into the dough until smooth. Dough will be thick. Let dough rest for 20 minutes.

  Turn dough onto floured surface after it has rested. Using flour as needed, pat or roll dough out to a thickness of half an inch. Cut with a donut cutter. Heat one quart of oil in an electric frying pan to 375°F. Drop donuts in hot oil, about 8 at a time. Fry for about 2 minutes then flip over and fry until done. Remove donuts with a slotted spoon and place onto paper towels to drain.

  If the dough is too hard to handle, just drop small spoonfuls into the hot oil for donut balls.

  Dust with powdered sugar or cinnamon-sugar when donuts are almost cool. Eat with abandonment!

  Yields about 2 dozen donuts

  part three

  Cherry Chip Cake

  Seven

  Summer 2017

  As twilight began to flicker, summer resorters scurried to the ends of their docks toting bottles of wine and picnic baskets. From Sam’s vantage point on her family’s deck on a hill overlooking the bay, the scene resembled a live-action animated cartoon of ants.

  I need some perspective right now, Sam thought. I feel pretty small, too.

  People flocked like lemmings to the water’s edge all across Michigan’s vast coastline every pretty summer evening to watch the spectacular sunsets. They were marvelous spectacles, a fireworks display most nights—a kaleidoscope of color and light in the sky, white clouds turning cotton candy pink, Superman ice cream blue, and plum purple, the sun a giant fireball that seemed to melt in the water as it began to slink behind the wavy horizon.

  Sunsets are one of our simplest and most profound gifts, Sam remembered her grandma telling her years ago as they walked the shoreline looking for witches’ stones—the ones with holes in them—or pretty Petoskeys to make matching necklaces. They remind us that we were blessed to have enjoyed a perfect day, and they provide hope that tomorrow will be even better. It’s God’s way of saying good night with His own brand of fireworks.

  Sam could feel someone staring at her, and she turned her head. Her dad—tan but tired—was watching her.

  “It’s so good to have you home, Sam,” he said, though his serious tone belied his words.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she said.

  She turned, and her mom and grandma were watching her closely, too.

  “Where’s my wine?!” someone yelled in the distance, and Sam’s family laughed nervously.

  The family had hurriedly gathered for dinner to celebrate Sam’s surprise return—asking employees to stay on to cover the long summer shifts at the Orchard and Pie Pantry—but there was a palpable unease. No one seemed to be buying Sam’s explanation that Chef Dimples had rewarded her with a sudden vacation.

  “Why didn’t you call us?” her father had asked. “We would have picked you up from the airport, so you didn’t have to rent a car.”

  “You just told me that you wouldn’t have any time off until next year,” her mother said. “You didn’t even know if you’d make it for the holidays.”

  “Or my or the orchard’s big birthday parties,” her grandmother had added.

  “Am I on trial?” Sam asked. “Isn’t anyone happy I’m here?”

  Silence ensued.

  “Now where’s my wine?” Willo suddenly asked to break the tension, and everyone laughed a bit more easily.

  “I’ll get another bottle,” Sam said too quickly, jumping up from her deck chair.

  She walked into the cottage, shutting the screen door to keep out th
e mosquitoes, and headed to the kitchen. Sam opened the refrigerator, scanning every shelf.

  What? she thought. No wine?

  Sam turned, and hidden under the expansive island sat a wine fridge, hunkered away like a stainless steel chipmunk.

  When did my family get so fancy? Sam thought. A wine fridge? We used to drink out of Solo cups.

  She kneeled down, opened the wine fridge, and scanned the shelves, filled with a variety of white wines. Sam began to pull each bottle out and read the labels; all of the wines were products of the dozens of vineyards that dotted northern Michigan, including the two peninsulas that ran north from Traverse City into Grand Traverse Bay. There was a wealth of whites—chardonnays, sauvignon blancs, Rieslings, rosés, and dessert wines.

  All of these were produced within a few miles of here, Sam thought, a feeling of pride filling her soul.

  Sam pulled out a pinot gris and stood. A few bottles of red gleamed in the fading day’s light: a cab franc, a pinot noir, a merlot. Robust reds were a bit harder to come by in northern Michigan because of the weather and growing season, but Sam was happy to see such a selection.

  Sam had had the pleasure of meeting famed Italian chef Mario Batali at culinary school, and the two had bonded over Michigan. Batali owned a summer home in Northport, not far from Suttons Bay, and he had been influential early on in touting Michigan’s summer produce and fruit, fresh fish, and local farms and wineries. When someone in class had mocked Michigan wines, saying they believed it was too cold to grow grapes, Batali had pointedly reminded them that Michigan was on the forty-fifth parallel, just like Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Alsace.

  Sam had then added that Lake Michigan acted like a big blanket or air conditioner along the state’s coastline, and the effect created perfect temperatures and growing conditions for grapes and, of course, apples, cherries, asparagus, and so much more. Batali had winked at her, and Sam had purchased a pair of orange Crocs not long after in his honor.

  Sam opened the drawers and scanned them for a corkscrew.