The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  Sam inhaled deeply, the smell of apples and grass, wood and water filling her senses. A cloud of fog danced in the orchards, a ghostly image that seemed to hug every tree. The sun suddenly clipped the edges of the orchard, brightening the world inch by inch. Sam watched the fog dissipate in front of her eyes, vanish slowly and then nearly all at once, leaving behind its dewy kiss on everything.

  “I actually feel quite alive,” Sam said. “I used to get up before dawn every morning for my job anyway, remember.”

  Sam’s stomach dropped as soon as she said it. The words used to hung in the air and seemed to echo. She could feel herself try to reel them back in, turn back time, but she watched as her mom and grandma glanced at one another in slow motion.

  “Still do,” Sam said too cheerily and quickly. “Already used to being on vacation. See”—she laughed giddily—“I just said ‘used to’ again.”

  I sound insane, she thought.

  “It would be lovely for you to make us breakfast,” Willo said, acting as if nothing had happened, just like she did when customers would fight in front of her over what kind of pie they wanted to take home. “What time should I come over? I need to stop by the bakery first and check in on everything.”

  “I was hoping I might be able to come over to your house and bake,” Sam said. “I just wanted to…” Sam hesitated, unsure of how to explain her emotions. “… be there.”

  Willo beamed. “I would love nothing more.”

  The three headed toward the pie pantry, and Willo and Deana peeled off at the entrance. “You go get started,” Willo said. “We’ll be there in a few. Get some coffee brewing.”

  Sam nodded and took off up the little dirt driveway that led past the entrance to the orchard and restaurant and to her grandmother’s house.

  “It’s unlocked,” Willo called.

  Sam smiled. Things you never yell in the city, she thought with a laugh. She passed by the old log cabin and Ford pickup, waving at a yawning teen who was shuffling, still half asleep, toward the little shed while texting on his phone. Sam watched the boy, all gangly limbs and shiny hair like a pony, unlock the shed, open the homemade curtains, and then shuffle toward the pie pantry to pick up a batch of misfits for early-morning visitors, still texting.

  Sam immediately felt for her pocket. I didn’t even bring my cell, she thought. What’s wrong with me? She hesitated, slowed, and looked around. Maybe that’s why I’m noticing everything. I don’t need to distract myself here.

  Sam crossed the little dirt road—waving at her father, always a blur of motion in the summer, who honked in his old pickup as he headed into the orchard—and headed up the curving flagstone walkway to her grandmother’s home. The old farmhouse looked just the same: bright red shutters with apple cutouts smiled down on her, and the wide wooden planks of the front porch squeaked in exactly the same place when Sam stepped on them. Sam opened the front door, and the smells of her childhood immediately overwhelmed her.

  Grandma’s house smells like cinnamon and freshly baked cookies, she thought.

  A narrow staircase with an ornately carved handrail and shiny spindles led upstairs, the entire wall filled with family photos. Sam took the first step and stared at a photo, into the eyes of her grandfather.

  I miss you, Grandpa, Sam said to the picture. I never knew your secret history with Grandma. You were quite the romantic.

  Sam looked up at the collage of family photos filling the staircase wall.

  History, she thought. Footsteps.

  Sam walked into the kitchen and smiled. The kitchen was sunny and bright, and it, too, was filled with her grandparents’ history. Her grandmother’s watercolors of the orchards and bay dotted the walls, colanders and kitchen utensils dangled haphazardly from hooks, speckled enamelware bowls were stacked on the cabinets, and McCoy cookie jars in a variety of colors and shapes—from wise old owls to, of course, apples—lined the tops of the cupboards.

  Sam ran her hand over the smooth, worn edge of the old farm sink, deep and white, with a grooved, angled side where a wooden drying rack always sat. She looked out the window, and her heart jumped: the expanse of the pie pantry and orchard shimmered in the early-morning light in front of her, the bay and Lake Michigan glimmering in the distance. To Sam, it looked as if one of her grandmother’s paintings had come to life: red apples bobbed as tree limbs swayed in the breeze; bushes thick with the bluest of blueberries shimmied; peaches, fuzzy and bright, nestled snugly against branches; shiny cars and people dressed in bright T-shirts and caps danced into the pie pantry and into the orchards; in the near distance, the cornfields seemed to move as if they were doing the wave at a football game, while cherry trees dotted with the deep red fruit resembled holly bushes out of season.

  And yet there was an incredible uniformity to the scene despite the visual overload: everything was lined up in neat rows, as if each tree, bush, and person understood its purpose at this very moment.

  I’ve forgotten this view, Sam thought, recalling the one from her own bedroom window earlier in the morning. There is an order to life’s chaos, be it the city or country, if we just stop for a moment and see it.

  Not that long ago, Sam had always thought it odd that her grandparents’ kitchen sat in the front of the house, but now she understood why.

  This view, Sam thought. It’s my grandmother’s entire world. She stopped and reconsidered that. No, it’s been my family’s entire world for a long time.

  The grandfather clock in the living room chimed, its deep voice reverberating through the house and Sam’s body. I better get started on breakfast, she thought, counting the chimes. I didn’t realize we’d been walking and talking so long.

  She scanned the countertops, where blueberries, apples, peaches, and rhubarb sat in little baskets and bowls. So many options with all the fresh fruit, she thought. Sam turned to open the refrigerator and threw open the doors too quickly. They swung out of her hands, the freezer door bumping the tall cabinet.

  Thwack!

  “Ooops,” Sam said, grabbing the door and shutting it, the cabinet suddenly grabbing her attention.

  The ancient cabinet, now white but painted so many colors so many times over the years, had stood in the same place for ages. Sam looked down; even the floor looked as if it had sunk over time from the cabinet’s weight.

  The cabinet featured pretty finials at the top and bottom, and its warped wooden shelves were stacked with Michigan knickknacks and tchotchkes, more photos and cookie jars, antiques and cookbooks.

  And then Sam finally saw it: her grandmother’s recipe box sat right in front of her, nearly at eye level, staring at her. Sam picked it up and ran her fingers over the burnished wood and the carved letters that read RECIPE BOX. She took it over to the counter, set it down, and began to open it. She stopped, seeing the lock.

  “I wonder if,” she said to herself as she grabbed the key dangling on her necklace that she never took off. She put it into the old lock, which immediately popped open. “Grandma,” Sam said to herself with a smile. “You were either teasing me or testing me last night. We’re all equals in this, aren’t we?”

  For some reason, Sam held her breath as she opened the box, almost as if a genie were to be released into the world.

  The smell of wood, of the outdoors, of the orchards, seemed to be released into the air when she opened it.

  Sam rifled her fingers through the index cards, calling out the colorful tabs that demarcated different sections of the recipe box.

  “Breads, muffins, cookies, pies, cakes,” Sam said to herself.

  Her finger stopped on a card that felt thicker than the others, and when she pulled it free, it read Alice Mullins’s Secret Family Apple Crisp! The card had flour embedded into its outer edges and was dotted with stains, vanilla and oil, which had made clear circles all over the card. The handwriting was looped and curving, smeared and ghosted, but it was deeply faded—hard to read—and Sam held it up in front of her eyes.

  Oh, my gos
h! Is this my great-great-grandmother’s original recipe? she wondered. The handwriting looks just like my grandmother’s. And it’s written in pencil.

  Did she see this same view while she baked from her cabin? Sam wondered, peering out the kitchen window. What must it have looked like then?

  Sam put the index card back in the box. She stopped and looked out the kitchen window again.

  Am I seeing what you did? Sam thought, picturing her great-great-grandmother from the photos on the wall. She then thought of her great-grandmother and her view from this very spot. Help me, please, ladies. Guide me. I need to make the right decisions in my life.

  As if playing a game of chance, Sam shut her eyes and flicked her fingers through the cards again. Sam suddenly stopped, plucking a recipe completely at random from the middle. She opened her eyes and smiled.

  Madge’s Summer Tart

  “A tart!” Sam said excitedly, leaning against the cabinet and reading the recipe card, which was decorated with a little crown that had been drawn by a child. “From Grandma’s mom!”

  Sam was quickly transported back to New York. She thought of her days in culinary school and working alongside Trisha at Chef Dimples’s bakery. Her mind whirred thinking of all the various tarts she had made, savory and sweet.

  But it seems like Michigan baking should be a little less fussy, Sam thought.

  She glanced out the window again and an even bigger smile overtook her face. “Do you mind if I make a slight change to your recipe?” Sam asked the card.

  And then she set to work, washing fresh blueberries that sat on the counter, before grabbing a big colander. Sam headed into the backyard, whose lawn backed acres of woods. Blackberries and raspberries grew wild and thick in the brambles that sat at the edge of the woods. Sam carefully navigated her way through the thorny vines, her thin running shirt catching and snagging on a thorn.

  “Darn it,” she mumbled.

  Blackberries are red when they’re green, she could hear her grandfather telling her when they used to pick the fruit. But today, a brilliant summer day, the blackberries were deep purple, almost black, and each one resembled a mini beehive.

  Sam plucked and popped a fresh blackberry, already warm from the sun, into her mouth, savoring the natural sweetness, and picked until her colander was half full before easing her way through the woods to find a raspberry bush thick with fruit. She navigated her way out of the brambles and headed back to the kitchen, where she preheated the oven and began to wash the blackberries and raspberries.

  Sam pulled cold, unsalted butter from the fridge and began to cube it, some flour and sugar from the cupboard, a large bowl, and then she located her grandmother’s old pastry blender.

  Sam made the crust and then rolled it into a ball, lightly flouring it and wrapping it in plastic before placing it in the refrigerator. Then she started in on the filling, mixing the berries, sugar, flour, and fresh orange juice. She was in the middle of tossing the fruit when her mother and grandmother walked into the house.

  “I don’t smell coffee,” her grandma called.

  Sam shrugged, her hands deep in the bowl of berries. “I forgot.”

  “No problem,” her grandma said, grabbing a filter and a bag of local coffee. “You have your hands full … literally.” She added the coffee without measuring. “That looks like quite a production.”

  “Actually, it’s pretty easy,” Sam said. “And I had a little help and inspiration.”

  “Oh, Sam,” her mom and grandma both said at the same time. Deana picked up the recipe card. “I haven’t made this in forever.”

  “Well, I’m changing it up a bit, giving it a more modern flair,” Sam said. “I don’t think we have oleo in the fridge anyway.” Sam chuckled and then stopped, looking at her mom and grandma intently. “I hope that’s OK.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, my mom would be so honored and so proud,” Willo said. “I actually remember her making this for my dad’s birthday.” Willo shut her eyes and then said:

  “The Queen of Hearts

  She made some tarts,

  All on a summer’s day;

  The Knave of Hearts

  He stole those tarts,

  And took them clean away.”

  “Mean ol’ knave,” Sam said. “Whatever that is.”

  “My mom told me that’s how I’d remember to make it,” Willo said. “I used to make this for your grandfather occasionally, before we got so busy at the pie pantry. How are you changing it?”

  Sam stirred the bowl of fruit and then set it aside. “I’m making a galette instead of a tart,” Sam said.

  “Fancy,” Deana said.

  “Actually, it’s not,” Sam said. “It’s more rustic. More fitting of Michigan, I thought.”

  Willo pulled three mugs—all mismatched—from her cupboard and poured three cups of coffee.

  “In school, I learned that a galette is sort of the offspring of a pie and a tart—halfway between homespun and fancy—but easier to make than its parents. The biggest difference is that a galette is a free-form pastry, baked without a pie pan or tart ring. It’s rustic. And it’s forgiving. You just roll it out flat and then fold it in roughly around the filling.” Sam stopped and sipped her coffee. “The wonderful thing is that you can’t mess it up; the crust will tear and be a little more done in places, the juices will leak, but as long as you use really fresh ingredients, like the fruit we have here, and real butter for the dough, it bakes into something magical. Making a galette really gave me confidence to try trickier desserts. But it’s still one of my favorites. And you can make sweet or savory galettes. I made two crusts today. I thought I’d turn one into a savory galette for dinner. I have a recipe for an asparagus, mushroom, goat cheese, and bacon galette I think I’ll make.”

  Sam looked at her mom and grandma, who were staring at her openmouthed. “I never realized how accomplished you were,” Deana said. “But I knew you had—what did we call it, Mom?”

  “The gift,” Willo said. “You’ve always had the desire and talent to bake.” Willo took a sip of coffee and continued. “You know, you’re standing in the exact same place where my mom, your mom, and I have baked so many desserts and cooked so many meals,” she said. “It’s the place where we’ve experimented, too, the place where we’ve planned this orchard’s future. You’re a part of history.”

  What if I don’t want to be a part of this history? Sam thought, immediately furious at herself that this was the first thing to cross her mind. What if I want to make my own history?

  As if reading her daughter’s mind, Deana said, “We define our own history, Sam.”

  “Where’s your recipe box?” Willo asked out of the blue.

  Sam’s heart raced when she turned to discover her grandmother staring at her, her head cocked, her crocheted cap at an angle. “I think it’s in the attic.” Sam stumbled, her face turning red. “I think I packed it up when I left for school, along with all my high school stuff.”

  “You didn’t take it with you to New York?” Willo asked. “Why?”

  Sam didn’t answer, and for a few seconds, an awkward silence ensued, before Deana chirped, “Why don’t we eat in the orchard this morning? Make it a picnic. How’s that sound?”

  “Great,” Sam said a bit too quickly and happily.

  “Mom, you want to help me?” Deana asked. “Let’s get a quilt and some plates. Honey, we’ll check in at the pie pantry again and let you finish up here. Just come over when you’re done, OK?”

  “OK,” Sam said.

  When they had left and the galette was baking, Sam again picked up the recipe box and began to look through the cards, studying the recipes of the women who came before her.

  Everything is online now, Sam thought, touching the handwriting on the cards. But this just feels different, personal … It feels more important … like history.

  She hesitated. Why did I leave my recipe box at home? Sam wondered. You know why. You thought the recipes weren’t good enough.
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br />   The smell of the baking galette transported Sam, and she thought of the slab pie she had made before walking out of her job.

  Or did I? she thought. Maybe I didn’t really leave it behind.

  Sam glanced out the window. Her mom and grandma were making their way back to the pie pantry, their bodies casting long shadows in the sun.

  That’s the thing about baking, Sam thought. You bake for someone because it is familial and familiar, new yet ancestral, a way of connecting generations.

  As the pair made their way past the pickup and log cabin, their shadows grew smaller and finally disappeared. The simple scene made Sam’s heart race, and when she turned away from the window, she realized she was clutching the recipe card for the tart tightly to her chest, a drawing of a crown done by a little girl resting atop a key that little girl had grown up to give her own granddaughter.

  triple berry galette

  Ingredients for Crust

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon kosher salt

  2 tablespoons superfine sugar

  ¼ teaspoon baking spice

  ½ cup chilled unsalted butter, cut into small cubes

  3 tablespoons ice water

  Brown sugar and ground cinnamon, for dusting

  Ingredients for Filling

  ¾ cup blueberries

  ¾ heaping cup blackberries

  ¾ heaping cup raspberries

  ½ teaspoon fresh lemon juice

  2 tablespoons granulated sugar

  1 tablespoon dark brown sugar, packed

  2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon baking spice

  ½ teaspoon orange juice

  1 tablespoon butter, room temperature

  Directions for Crust

  In a large bowl, combine the flour, salt, superfine sugar, and baking spice. Blend together with a fork.

  Break apart the cubes of chilled butter and add slowly, a few at a time, to the flour mixture, quickly coating each cube with a fork or your fingers.

  Cut the chilled butter into the flour mixture with a pastry cutter, rotating the bowl as you go and scraping the butter off the cutter as needed, until the mixture resembles small crumbles or pea-sized gravel.