The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  Willo stiffened, and she bristled. “Of course not,” she said. “I would never. I broke it off with Fred and dated Gordon for a long while before we married. Fred actually ended up meeting and marrying a very nice woman, and they were married over fifty years, like your grandfather and I were. It turned out to have a happy ending for everyone.”

  “Is that why you told me this story? So I would believe in happy endings?” she asked. “Or did you just want me to be scared of ghosts forever?”

  Willo looked into her granddaughter’s eyes and shook her head. “I want you to understand that change can be good, and it’s sometimes completely unexpected.” Willo hesitated. “One of my greatest hopes is that you find love like I did.”

  Sam matched her grandmother’s concentrated stare. She nodded but said very firmly, “I just don’t think I need a man in my life, Grandma. I don’t need someone telling me what to do, how to act, where to live.”

  “No, you don’t,” Willo said. “You need someone who complements you, challenges you, brings out the very best in you, and adores even the most irritating qualities about you. Love isn’t a game in which you give up control. It’s a partnership.”

  Sam stopped and dropped her head, her eyes searching the wood planks in front of her. “But that story? It sounds like you fell head over heels for Grandpa, but you altered your life for him. You didn’t leave Michigan and explore the world. You didn’t have a career. You stayed right here on the orchard. You altered your life for a man. Same goes for Mom.”

  Willo tsk-tsked under her breath. “Oh, Sam,” she said, her voice filled with sadness. “I never realized you felt that way.” She stopped. “But you’re wrong, my dear.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes,” Willo said, her voice stern. “Completely. And completely out of line, too. I didn’t bend to meet your grandfather’s needs.”

  “But you stayed here.”

  “I wanted to,” Willo said, her voice rising. “That’s what you’re missing.” She took a deep breath and slowed her words. “I had a challenging career … I still do. Women saved this orchard. Women made this a successful business. Your mother and I changed your history. You are a chef because of the decisions we made. Are you unhappy with that?”

  Sam looked at her grandmother. Her heart raced. “No,” she said, her voice suddenly shaky. “I’m just … unhappy right now.”

  Willo put her arm around Sam and drew her close. “We can all see that,” she said. “But for now, we’re not asking. Your happiness is of the utmost importance to all of us.”

  She squeezed her granddaughter. “The reason I shared that story with you is that only you can decide what makes you happy. Don’t let anyone else do that for you, or you never will be happy. And promise me you’re running to something and not from something.”

  “I promise, Grandma,” Sam said.

  “Falling in love is like looking in a mirror,” Willo said. “It’s a reflection of who we are. Choose wisely and you’ll cherish seeing your reflection, no matter how much it changes over the years. Because all you’ll see is joy.

  “No more moping then,” Willo concluded, standing slowly and extending her hand to Sam. “Oh, my legs are a little shaky from the wine.” She laughed. “I better make dinner,” she added, nodding toward the deck. “They will turn into an angry mob if they don’t get some food soon. How’s goop sound? I know how much you all love it.”

  Sam winced but didn’t say a word.

  Willo’s “goops” were essentially what Sam’s mother called “everything-but-the-kitchen-sink casseroles” in confidence to her daughter. Willo’s goops consisted largely of Velveeta cheese, white rice, and cans of alphabet and cream of mushroom soup, and the end result did resemble, well, a glob of goop.

  And tasted like it, too, Sam thought, forcing a smile and a nod at her grandmother.

  To Sam, the biggest irony surrounding Willo was that she was a wonderful baker but far from even an average cook. For decades, the family had to endure dinner in order to get to dessert.

  Sort of the way kids have to endure math to get to recess, Sam thought.

  “Why don’t I make dinner?” Sam asked.

  “You sober enough?” Willo teased.

  “I’m a city girl now, Grandma,” Sam joked back. “It takes more than a few sips of wine to throw me off my game.”

  “Show me your skills,” Willo said.

  “Skills?” Sam asked. “You’re very hip, Grandma.”

  “I work alongside a lot of high school and college kids,” she said. “I have to stay up on my lingo.”

  “You show me your skills then,” Sam said. “How long does it take to make the cherry chip cake?”

  “A while,” Willo said.

  Sam suddenly zipped around the kitchen, a spring in her step. She opened the refrigerator, filling her arms with a variety of produce, and then scanned the counters.

  “I’ll whip up a fast dinner,” she said, eyeing ingredients she haphazardly tossed onto the island. “I’ll roast this peaches-and-cream corn with a fresh herbed butter alongside some foiled potatoes with chopped onion. While those grill, I’ll prep this yummy salmon Dad caught with lots of lemon and herbs, and I’ll make a salad with fresh tomatoes, radish, carrots, and some chèvre. Will take a few minutes to pull together if you help me.” She turned to Willo. “And then I can help you make the cherry chip cake.”

  Willo’s face broke into a wide smile. “I’d be honored,” she said.

  Willo walked to the stove and pulled her daughter’s recipe box off a pretty shelf. She pulled a necklace from around her neck and grabbed the key that hung at the end. “I got one just like yours,” she laughed. “And it fits every recipe box.” She put her finger over her mouth. “Sssshhh. Your mom doesn’t know.” She looked at Sam and touched her key. “Nice to keep this close to your heart, isn’t it? Makes you feel safe and protected, even when you might not, huh?”

  Sam’s mind was immediately flooded with the scene of her walking out on Chef Dimples. She nodded.

  Willo flipped through the index cards in the recipe box. “Here it is!” she said, pulling a card forth.

  Sam walked over and studied the card, flecked with pink spots.

  Willo watched her granddaughter and smiled. Maybe one day I’ll make this for your wedding, she thought.

  “This is going to take some time,” she said, studying the ingredients and directions.

  Willo nodded toward the wine fridge and then toward the deck. “We’ll just give them another bottle of wine … no, make it two … that way they won’t care when everything is ready.”

  Sam laughed and grabbed some wine.

  “You don’t like my goop, do you?” Willo asked.

  “What?” Sam asked, tilting her head, acting as if she couldn’t hear her. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Willo said.

  “What do you mean?” Sam asked, lifting her shoulders, acting innocent.

  Willo laughed. “I always had a hunch,” she said, “since I found so much of it hidden in napkins.”

  Sam chuckled. As she turned, light poured through the kitchen window, a ghostly beacon of pinkish red as it filtered through the clouds on the horizon.

  I wonder if that is the same light my grandma saw on Beaver Island? Sam thought. She shook her head. Wine has gone to my head.

  The only constant in life is change, Sam then heard a voice whisper to her.

  She looked again at the light, searching it, her heart racing.

  “Did you say something, Grandma?” Sam asked.

  Willo shook her head.

  Someone is definitely trying to tell me something, Sam thought.

  cherry chip cake with cherry vanilla buttercream

  Ingredients for Cake

  1 10-ounce jar maraschino cherries (about 30 cherries)

  10 to 15 large fresh cherries, pitted and finely chopped

  ½ cup unsalted butter, room temperature

  1½ cups granulated sugar
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  4 large egg whites

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ¼ teaspoon almond extract

  2 cups cake flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  11/3 cups buttermilk

  4 tablespoons maraschino cherry juice

  Ingredients for Frosting

  ¼ teaspoon vanilla extract

  ¾ cup salted butter, room temperature

  3½ cups powdered sugar

  ¼ cup heavy whipping cream

  4 tablespoons maraschino cherry juice

  Ingredients for Garnish (if desired)

  Pitted fresh cherries and maraschino cherries

  Directions for Cake

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter and flour two 8-inch round cake pans and line the bottoms with parchment paper.

  Drain the maraschino cherries, reserving the juice. In a food processor or with a sharp knife, finely chop the fresh cherries. Set aside.

  In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, or in a large bowl using a handheld mixer, beat the butter and sugar at high speed until light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Scrape down the bowl and add the egg whites one at a time, mixing after each. Add the vanilla and almond extracts and mix until combined.

  In a separate bowl, combine the cake flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. In a smaller bowl, combine the buttermilk and cherry juice. Add the flour mixture to the mixer in three additions, alternating with the buttermilk mixture. Mix after each addition and scrape down the bowl as necessary. Stir in the chopped cherries and maraschino cherries.

  Divide the batter evenly between the cake pans and bake 30 to 35 minutes, until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out with a few moist crumbs. Let cool in the pans 10 minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

  Directions for Frosting

  In the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, beat the vanilla and butter about 1 minute at medium speed. Add the powdered sugar and mix at low speed until the sugar is completely incorporated. Add the whipping cream and cherry juice. Increase the speed to medium and beat 1 to 2 minutes, or until light and fluffy.

  Assembly

  Place one cake layer on a plate or cake stand. Cover with ½ cup of the buttercream frosting. Place the second cake layer on top and cover the top and sides with the remaining buttercream. If desired, ring the top of the cake with pitted fresh cherries or maraschino cherries (or both).

  Let the cake firm for a few minutes at room temperature before serving.

  Yields one 8-inch layer cake

  part four

  Triple Berry Galette

  Ten

  Summer 2017

  The early-morning light illuminated Sam’s childhood bedroom in a shocking, too-bright glow, as if she were waking up in the middle of Times Square.

  Sam opened her eyes, the light blaring directly into them. She shut her eyes again quickly and rubbed her head, which was aching slightly from the previous evening’s wine. She leaned up and looked over at the pink Hello Kitty clock that still sat on her nightstand: 5:37 A.M.

  That’s why, Sam thought, rubbing her eyes. Stupid light in Michigan. Comes up too early.

  She sat up on her elbows, and a photo of her on the wall as a little girl in a little chef’s hat and Mullins apron crimping pies in the bakery seemed to be staring at her.

  Too early to wake up, she thought. Too late to grow up.

  Summer’s dawn broke in Michigan around five A.M., and dark didn’t descend until well after eleven P.M. The state was constantly glowing in light, a contrast to its long winters of dark hibernation.

  Which is nice when you’re not exhausted, a little depressed, and hungover, Sam thought.

  She heard a rustling in her parents’ kitchen—the faucet running, the crinkle of a coffee filter, the grinding of beans—and, after a few seconds, she could hear the pot percolating and the smell of freshly brewing coffee filled the air.

  She finally eased herself straight up in bed, stood, stretched, and walked to her window. For a moment, she experienced a flashback from her routine of just a few days ago. Sam expected to smell the spices from the Indian restaurant, Naan Better, that occupied the ground floor of her Brooklyn apartment building and to see a brick wall across the narrow street that served as a sort of Broadway backdrop to the choreographed chaos of the city streets that greeted her every morning: people scurrying to work, cab horns blaring, sirens whirring, a world of music echoing up to her.

  This is a different world, Sam thought, the serenity of Suttons Bay greeting her instead.

  The bay was quiet, save for the fishermen whose johnboats were already positioned in their lucky spots: the glacier rocks that jutted out on the east side of the bay, the shallows near Old Mission Peninsula, the clear, deep spots in the middle where the bay merged into Lake Michigan.

  I’d forgotten how beautiful this is, Sam thought. It looks like a painting. One my grandma might do.

  Sam’s mind suddenly went to her grandmother, to the story she had shared.

  How well do I know the women in my family? Sam wondered.

  All of a sudden, she checked her childhood clock again.

  No, Sam thought. She couldn’t still be doing that, could she?

  Sam quickly scoured through her suitcase, yanking out a Tigers T-shirt and pair of running shorts, clothes tumbling onto the floor. She plucked a pair of running socks off the carpet and grabbed her tennis shoes and went scurrying out of her room and down the stairs, running a hand through her blond hair and blowing her bangs out of her eyes.

  She rounded the stairs and headed into the kitchen. It was quiet, the coffeepot still on, sputtering every few seconds. Sam walked to the kitchen window, leaned forward over the sink, and scanned the hillside that led up to the orchards. Sam’s house and her grandmother’s home both shared views of the orchard, albeit from opposite ends and different perspectives.

  From this vantage point, Sam’s view was pastoral. Rabbits and squirrels scurried on the hillside, while birds darted in and out of the orchard’s trees and bushes. The morning’s low light illuminated the world from one side in a dramatic way: apples were split in two, red and black; halves of trees were luminescent and green, while the other halves were dark and brooding.

  Life is divided into shadow and light, Sam thought. You can see it either way, based on your own perspective. Sam stopped and considered that, before adjusting her thought. Based on your own light level.

  Two long figures, shadows cast down the hillside and as tall as giraffes, caught Sam’s eye. She scanned the orchard to see her mother and grandmother walking.

  A smile crossed Sam’s face, and she hurriedly found a travel mug in the back of a kitchen cupboard, filled it with coffee, pulled on her tennis shoes, and went running out of the house.

  Although Sam was tired, the sight of her mom and grandma walking filled her soul. For as long as Sam could remember—and as long as Deana could recall—Willo and Gordon had walked the orchards every single morning at dawn, no matter the weather. They trudged through the snow, in boots, on snowshoes, or sporting cross-country skis. They slogged through the rain and mud in waders and wellies. Sam’s grandfather used to joke that he and his wife were personally responsible for tucking the orchards into bed for the winter, waking them up in the spring, and playing with them in the summer and fall.

  After her grandfather had died, Sam had wondered if her grandmother’s routine would continue.

  “Hey,” Sam said, jogging up behind her mom and grandma, out of breath and trying to keep her coffee level.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Willo said, her face breaking into a big smile.

  “Especially after all that wine,” Deana joked, the two chuckling.

  “It wasn’t that much wine,” Sam said, before her mom added, “For a rhino.”

  “I pulled off dinner,” Sam protested.

  “It wa
s marvelous, honey,” her mom said.

  “And Grandma, the cherry chip cake was”—Sam searched for the right word—“magical. I might have to steal it.”

  “No need to steal it. It’s in your recipe box,” Willo said. “Just promise me you wouldn’t dare ever give it to that evil chef of yours.”

  The outside world suddenly came tumbling into this one, and Sam nervously took a sip of coffee. “I would never,” she said quietly.

  Willo glanced at Deana, and the three walked in silence.

  Dew dampened the grass and shimmered on the apples. From a distance, the blueberry bushes glistened as if encased in frost, and the trees looked as if they had been cloaked in ice.

  Walking through the orchards was comforting to Sam, nearly as comforting as baking. There was a precision in both endeavors, which brought a sense of order to the world, and yet each was filled with new surprises and revelations every day.

  The trees lined up like hunchback sentinels, seeming to protect the women as they walked the land. The paths between the trees were grassy but worn, showing where tourists and U-Pickers had trod in straight lines before veering left or right. Every so often, the earth had been upended by moles, muddy earthquakes left in the wake of their own underground walks.

  “Grandpa hated moles, didn’t he?” Sam asked out of the blue.

  “With a passion,” Willo said, touched that Sam remembered an innocuous fact about her grandfather from long ago.

  It was even cooler as the three went deeper into the heart of the orchards, mist dancing in between the rows of trees and the lake glistening beyond like a mirage. It was magical, mysterious, a lost world.

  I always feel like I’ve been transported to the world depicted in Lord of the Rings, Sam thought.

  Sam slowed to take a sip of coffee, dropping slightly behind her mom and grandma. She smiled as she watched the two of them walk.

  They look so much alike, she thought. She tried to stop the next thought from entering her mind but couldn’t. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  Sam looked at the ground, at their shadows moving through the orchards, this ground that had connected generations, served as the foundation of family, produced fruit that helped feed countless people.