The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  Slowly drizzle the ice water into the bowl, 1 tablespoon at a time, mixing until a dough forms (add additional water if necessary).

  Form the dough into a ball with your hands. Lightly dust with flour and wrap in plastic wrap. Refrigerate the dough for at least 1 hour.

  Directions for Filling

  In a large mixing bowl, combine the blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries.

  Add the lemon juice and granulated sugar and stir with a spoon.

  Add the brown sugar and stir.

  Add the flour and stir.

  Add the baking spice and stir.

  Add the orange juice and stir.

  Dot the fruit with butter and mix.

  Assembly

  Preheat the oven to 450°F.

  Place the dough ball on lightly floured waxed paper.

  Roll the dough out into a 10-inch circle, using a lightly floured rolling pin.

  Transfer the dough to an air bake sheet.

  Lightly dust the dough with brown sugar and cinnamon.

  Place the fruit in the center of the pastry, leaving a 2-inch border. Sprinkle the fruit with more sugar and cinnamon.

  Fold the edge of the crust inward toward the fruit (not covering it), pinching the corners to seal as you go (this is a rustic dough, so the edges will resemble pizza dough; the center of the fruit is not covered).

  Reduce the oven temperature to 425°F before placing the galette in the oven. Bake 25 minutes. Let the galette cool for 5 minutes before serving.

  Serves 6 to 8

  part five

  Thumbprint Cookies

  Thirteen

  Summer 2017

  Sam was lying on a swim platform that was floating in the bay at the end of her parents’ long dock. Her eyes were closed, the water was flat as glass, and the soft waves—which gently slapped at the platform’s side—were lulling her to sleep. But every few minutes, a boat or Jet-Ski whizzed by in the near distance, and Sam’s back would stiffen. She’d grip the bottom of the giant, inflated platform to try to ride out the wake. The platform bobbed, sometimes violently, and waves crashed over its lip, dousing Sam with chilly Michigan lake water. When the same two Jet-Skis continued to circle near her, Sam sat up on her knees and yelled, “NO WAKE ZONE!”

  But just as she would settle back down, the same thing would happen again.

  Sam rolled over on her towel, the sun immediately warming her back. She picked up a paperback of an old Agatha Christie novel, its pages yellow and warped by water, that she had found at her grandmother’s. Sand poured from the pages of the book.

  This book must have a history, Sam thought, the word history sticking in her head. A lot of history around here.

  Sam looked up at the Michigan landscape. A lot of history here, too, she thought.

  Glaciers had sculpted the land thousands of years ago into an object of stunning beauty. God is an artist, her grandmother always said. A painter, sculptor, musician, writer.

  Sam had a 360-degree perspective of all that made Michigan so beautiful in the summer. The majesty of Lake Michigan—stunning blues and greens—shimmered beyond the bay, which was tucked into a sandy corner of a lush green hillside, the thick boughs of towering pines waving at her. Cottages of all sizes dotted the hillside, windows making them resemble happy faces, long docks jutting into the water. The orchards, colorful and symmetrical, sat atop the hill.

  The cherry on top of the cake, Sam mused. Or apple on top of the pie.

  Sam thought of her trip to the Hamptons just a few weeks ago. Its beauty rivaled Suttons Bay, but—despite all the resorters from Chicago, Detroit, and St. Louis—a decided edge and urban electricity was missing in Michigan.

  Do I miss that edge? Sam wondered.

  Sam’s cell trilled, and she quickly fumbled through her beach bag—digging through lotions and magazines—to find it. The cell said, “Incoming Call—Trish,” and Sam had tagged Trish’s contact information with a photo she had taken when the two worked together, a smiling Trish wearing a tall white hat emblazoned with DIMPLES BAKERY tilted on her head.

  “OMG, girlfriend! I literally just heard about your epic mic drop at Chef Jackass’s!” Trish exclaimed in her New York accent. “You made my walkout seem like amateur hour. I’m so proud of you.”

  Sam laughed, and it echoed back to her off the water. “Thanks,” she said. “I think.”

  “You’re the talk of the town. Honestly,” Trish said. “Everyone in the industry is talking about it. People are proud of you. I’m proud of you. And supposedly a producer from GMA said some pie you made was the best they’d ever had.”

  Sam smiled, and she could feel her body flush with pride.

  “That girl is on fire,” Trish began to sing, a bit off-key.

  “That’s enough, Alicia Off-Keys,” Sam joked.

  “Where are you?” Trish asked.

  Sam hesitated. “Home,” she said. “Michigan.”

  “Michigan?” Trish exclaimed. “Where? What? Why?”

  “I needed a break,” Sam said. “That job—that man—nearly broke me. I’m just…” She hesitated again, searching for the right word. “Lost.”

  “Well, I’m your compass,” Trish said. “I have a job for you.”

  “What?” Sam said. “Where?”

  “We’re asking a lot of the same questions today,” Trish laughed. “I just started at Doux Souvenirs.”

  “Two souvenirs?” Sam asked, confused.

  Trish laughed. “No, it’s French for Sweet Memories. The pastry chef from the Ritz in Paris just opened her own shop in Midtown. She’s an amazing pastry chef and even better person.” Trish took a deep breath and then said, her voice rising, “And she wants to talk with you.”

  “What? When?” Sam asked.

  “You’re starting to sound like a recording,” Trish said. “I have her number. I told her you would call.”

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “So call,” Trish said.

  “OK,” Sam said.

  “And,” Trish continued, her voice even higher, “I happened to see Angelo at Doux Souvenirs.”

  “You did?” Sam said, sitting taller on the swim platform. “What did he say?”

  “Well, he’s the one who told me how you walked out on Chef Narcissist,” she said. “And he told me how much he misses you. Sam, he really likes you.”

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “Anyway, he said he had your number, and that he’d texted you,” Trish said casually. “He said you sent him a thumbs-up emoji or something completely third grade. I told him you were probably off your meds…” She hesitated. “And I told him to call.”

  “You what? Trish, he’s so different. He’s a Jersey delivery guy.”

  “And you’re a Michigan farm girl.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Sam, that’s not a bad thing,” Trish said. “You need to stop apologizing for your past. For who you are. You’re a wonderful person and a wonderful pastry chef. And you don’t need to run from men.”

  “I’m not running,” she said.

  “Not all men are like your high school boyfriend or Chef Boyardumb,” Trish said. “Believe it or not, a lot of guys actually love strong, smart women who follow their passion.” She hesitated. “But, unfortunately, a lot of strong, smart women don’t give them a chance because they don’t believe in themselves.”

  “Ouch again.”

  “So you’re going to call Colette and listen to Angelo, right?”

  Sam didn’t respond.

  “Right?”

  “Right as rain.”

  “You country people with your cute country phrases,” Trish laughed.

  “And you city people with your cute city phrases,” Sam repeated.

  “You mean like, ‘Get outta my way!’ or ‘Stupid cabdriver!’” Trish said. “Speaking of which, I gotta go catch the subway. Love you.”

  “Love you back,” Sam said.

  She had just hung up the phone when it rang again, and Sam answered
it immediately.

  “What now?” Sam asked, thinking it was Trish again.

  “That’s a nice greeting.”

  “Who is this?” Sam asked upon hearing a man’s voice. She pulled her cell back and squinted in the sun, trying to make out the number.

  “It’s Angelo. Angelo Morelli.” He hesitated. “You’ve already forgotten my voice, Michigan?”

  Trish! You didn’t tell me he was calling immediately, Sam thought, her pulse quickening. She sat up straight on the swim platform, smoothed her hair, blew her bangs out of her eyes, and sucked in her stomach, as if she were on FaceTime.

  “Oh, hey, Jersey,” she said casually. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” he said. “It’s nice to hear your voice. The bigger question is, ‘How are you?’”

  There was something familiar and comforting about hearing Angelo’s rugged voice and East Coast accent, like hearing the loons calling at dusk in the bay or the gentle slapping of the waves on the platform. Sam found herself smiling.

  “I’m good,” she said.

  “Really?” Angelo asked.

  “Really,” Sam repeated.

  “Last time I saw you wasn’t so good,” Angelo said. “And then, poof, you were gone. You ghosted … disappeared without a word.” Angelo paused, and his voice wavered. “I feel like I got … left behind.”

  Sam’s heart dropped at the emotion in his voice.

  “I didn’t know we were dating,” Sam said. She said it gently, but still wished she could take the words back as soon as she said them.

  “I tried,” Angelo said. “I asked you to dinner, to ball games … even said I’d cook for you if you brought dessert.”

  Sam’s heart dropped again.

  “Maybe I got ghosted from the beginning, and I was just too dumb to know it,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “The job just got me in such a bad space. I was worried I’d get fired if I did something he didn’t approve of.” She paused. “I didn’t mean to ghost. I just had to get out of there … out of New York for a while.”

  “I get it,” Angelo said. “Speaking of which, I’m getting out of the city for a while, too.” He hesitated. “I’m coming to Michigan.”

  “You’re what?” Sam said, her voice suddenly loud and booming off the water.

  “You don’t sound too happy about that,” Angelo said with a little laugh.

  “It’s just that…” Sam couldn’t find the words. “Why?”

  “I have to work over Labor Day, and I have a few vacation days I need to take or I’ll lose them, so I decided to be impulsive.”

  “Why here?” Sam asked a bit too icily.

  “You were always talking about how beautiful Michigan was, especially in the summer,” Angelo said. “You said it was like heaven, as pretty as the Hamptons. So I thought I’d check it out.” He paused, took a breath, and continued. “I trust you, Sam. You’re … real.” He stopped for a long few seconds as if searching for the right thing to say. “You put your thumbprint on a lot of people’s hearts in New York … including mine.”

  Sam didn’t say a word.

  “You don’t have to see me,” Angelo said to fill the silence, his voice filled with hurt. “Really. I just wanted you to know. And I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Sam opened her mouth to say she was sorry, to tell Angelo about the potential job, to tell him something, anything, but instead, he said, “Later, Michigan,” and hung up.

  Sam stared at her cell, expecting it to ring again. When it didn’t, she dropped her head as if it were too heavy for her shoulders and stared at the water underneath the webbing of the platform.

  Maybe my view of the world is too narrow, she thought. Maybe I’m seeing everything from the wrong perspective?

  Sam tucked her cell into the beach bag, stood on the platform, steadying her legs, and then dove into the lake.

  She opened her eyes as she knifed through the water, and the underwater world danced in light: the sandy bottom shimmered, and beautiful lake stones—Leland blues, agate, chert, jasper, and Petoskey stones—dotted the depths like forgotten gemstones.

  Sam popped up, her skin covered in goose pimples, and the world sparkled, her family’s orchard towering over the bay. Sam grabbed the dock and pulled herself onto it to sit. She steadied the still-bobbing swim platform with her feet and then eased back into it. When she looked up, Sam could see her wet fingerprints on the dock, each wavy line clearly defined, the lifeline on her palm snaking in different directions. Sam glanced up one more time at the orchard. When she looked down at the platform again, her fingerprints were gone, dried quickly in the sun, as if they had never been there.

  Fourteen

  The pie pantry had a familiar scent, warm and earthy like flour, yeast, and dough, with top notes of apples and spices.

  Sam unconsciously wrapped her arms around her body—the smells greeting her like a warm hug—and smiled.

  I actually just used the words “top notes,” Sam laughed to herself, thinking of her roommate, Lily, who had worked at Yankee Candle while in college, and—although she never purchased a single grocery item save for Oreos—bought candles for their tiny apartment constantly, describing the scents in flowery, over-the-top descriptions.

  A cinnamon stick candle didn’t just smell like cinnamon, Sam mused, trying to remember how Lily had described it. Oh, yes: its top notes were cinnamon, its middle notes were clove and cardamom, and its base notes were cedarwood and bay leaf.

  The pie pantry was overflowing with summer tourists, a line snaking out the door and down the driveway, misfits being handed out left and right, along with Dixie cups of fresh apple cider.

  Resorters were mesmerized by the nostalgic kitsch of the old barn: the antique farm and baking implements and utensils, Willo’s watercolors and paintings on the floor, the Ball jars filled with homemade jams, jellies, caramel, and fudge. Sticky-fingered children wiped their hands on their T-shirts, parents held stacks of pies to buy, while waitresses juggled trays teetering with sloppy joes, mugs of cider, and slabs of pie covered in melting apple cider ice cream.

  This is like Mayberry, Sam thought. This is the world people want to re-create for their families.

  The word families reverberated in Sam’s head, and she thought of her own. She sneaked a peek through the packed dining room, and she could see her grandmother at the register checking out customers at the wooden counter as if she knew each of them personally, while her mother scurried from oven to oven, checking pies, and then to the kitchen, checking receipts.

  The ultimate expediter, Sam thought, a term she had learned in school about the person in a restaurant who keeps order and ensures efficient movement behind the scenes. She’s been that way with our family. Little credit for hard work. Always behind the scenes.

  Again, the word family stuck in Sam’s head, and, for some reason, she turned and scanned the line of diners.

  All families, Sam finally realized. No younger, single couples. No girls’ weekend groups. No dating couples out of the city for a few days of stress relief. Where were they? Sam wondered. The wineries? The nicer restaurants in Traverse City?

  Change is the only constant had been a mantra from one of Sam’s professors in culinary school, a successful restaurateur who taught business to aspiring chefs. You must adapt, be it McDonald’s or a small bakery.

  “Cider?”

  Sam jumped at a squeaky voice. A young girl, probably from a local high school, was holding a tray filled with little sips of cider. The girl was cute as a button, almost like a girlfriend to Alvin or one of the chipmunks.

  “Oh,” Sam said. “Thanks.”

  Sam took the cup and downed it in one shot. Drinking the cider was like sipping directly from a freshly picked apple that had been filled with sugar and spices.

  How different from hard cider, Sam thought, thinking of the newly popular drink that was now rivaling fine wine and craft beer with hipsters and urbanites alike. />
  “You’re already getting brown as a berry,” Willo said, catching Sam off guard again. “Did you have a relaxing morning on the lake?”

  Sam nodded. My lies continue, she thought.

  “How’s the cider?” Willo asked.

  “Like heaven,” Sam said with a smile. “They should start offering this at communion. So much better than grape juice.”

  Willo laughed. “Hadn’t considered churches for the marketing and sales plan yet.” She stopped and considered her granddaughter carefully. “Any other ideas? Looked like something was on your mind when I startled you. Very deep in thought.”

  Sam ducked her eyes. “No,” she said. “All good.”

  “OK then,” Willo said, before changing the subject. “Wanna help us out in back for a while? We could use it. This place is insane today.”

  Sam nodded and followed Willo into the back, where she began to shadow her grandmother and mother, filling in as needed, checking people out at the register, pulling pies from the oven, prepping plates, stirring the pots of chili, cutting a variety of apples into pretty slices, which customers received as an “orchard amuse-bouche.”

  When the crowds thinned, Sam, Deana, and Willo took a seat at a booth at the back of the restaurant. The wooden benches were filled with mismatched cushions and pillows Sam’s grandmother and great-grandmother had made. The same chipper girl who had been serving apple cider to the masses earlier came to their table, the same big smile on her face. She poured three big glasses of cider, along with three glasses of water.

  “It’s nice to get served, Amanda,” Willo said to the girl. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nice to be of service.” The girl winked. “Especially to the Mullins matriarchs.” She pulled her shoulders back and looked around the restaurant. “Such history here. My mom was so happy when I got this job. She said she felt like our family has been eating with your family forever.”

  When the girl was out of earshot, Sam said, “Matriarchs? We sound like dying royalty.”

  “I think she meant it as a compliment,” Deana said. “You OK? You’ve been a little edgy since you got home.”