Sam watched Amanda happily serve the tables around them. The words happy, history, and family rang in her ears. Sam wanted to deny and deflect yet again, but as she started to open her mouth, “Young at Heart” by Frank Sinatra—one of her grandmother’s favorite songs—came on the stereo and poured softly through the restaurant. Her grandmother tilted her head, smiled, and sang the lyrics:
“You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams”
The lyrics sliced Sam’s heart, and she burst into tears, lowering her head onto the table and sobbing.
“I’ll come back,” Amanda said, stopping quickly and retreating, menus still in hand.
“Sam? Honey?” Deana asked. “What’s going on?”
She pulled her daughter into her arms and looked at Willo as Sam sobbed. When she had finished, Deana handed her daughter a napkin.
“She might need another one,” Willo said, holding out hers.
Her joke broke the tension, and a wee smile appeared at the edges of Sam’s mouth. She let out a little laugh, and wet tears flew off her face like a sprinkler. Willo dabbed at her face as if to dry it, and Sam’s shoulders seemed to ease. She took a deep breath and then spilled her guts, telling her mother and grandmother everything that had occurred: her walking out on Chef Dimples, her surprise return home, her flirtations with Angelo and his phone call, as well as the call from Trish about a possible job interview in New York.
When she had finished, Willo reached over the table and clasped her granddaughter’s hands. “Thank you for telling us,” she said. “Thank you for trusting us.”
Sam nodded and tucked herself even tighter into her mother’s side, feeling—for once in a long time—safe and relieved but also completely exhausted.
The three ordered huge slices of pie—apple, cherry, blueberry—topped in apple cider ice cream and whipped cream.
“I think I’m dizzy from the sugar,” Sam said after they’d polished off their desserts. She yawned and blinked slowly, once, twice, three times, her lids feeling like concrete.
“Nothing like sweets to ease the pain of a tough day, is there?” Willo asked. “I think you need to take a nap.”
Sam yawned again and nodded.
“Before you do, can I show you something?” Willo asked.
She led Sam and Deana to the tiny office stuffed in the back of the kitchen. The desk held a laptop and a little lamp and was stacked with papers: order sheets, deliveries, bills. An old wooden credenza sat behind the desk. On top, in the midst of even more papers, were a few family photos. Willo walked to the credenza, pushed aside some papers, and turned around holding a recipe box.
“You know this is the original one, right?” Willo asked. “The others are replicas that were made for me, and for your mom and for you on our thirteenth birthdays. But this,” she said, rubbing her hands over the wood box, “was the one your great-great-grandfather made for your great-great-grandmother.” She stopped. “That’s a lot of greats.”
Willo took a seat in the swivel chair and set the box down on the cluttered desk. “And I still have the original key to this,” she said with a wink, “but it’s in a special place at home.” She inserted the key that dangled around her own neck and opened it. She smiled and began to flick through the index cards, rifling through them quickly and stopping, as if she had each one memorized in order.
“Here it is,” she said, holding it out for Sam. “I wanted you to see it.”
“Thumbprint cookies?” Sam asked, reading the card, her face scrunched in confusion. “I haven’t had these in ages.” She hesitated and then looked at her mom and grandma. “OK. What am I missing?”
“What do you see?”
Sam looked at the recipe card and read the ingredients.
“I see that you can use fresh strawberry, raspberry, or apricot jam,” she said. “I love all of them. We make and sell all of them.”
“Keep looking,” Willo urged.
“Oh,” Sam said, squinting and holding the card even closer to her face. “What is that? It’s really faded. Is that a thumbprint?”
Willo smiled. “It is,” she said, standing. “It’s your great-great-grandmother’s thumbprint. Looks like she covered it in ink, or maybe pencil lead, and imprinted it on the recipe card.”
“That’s amazing it’s lasted so long,” Sam said. “Very cool.”
“I want you to see something else before you get some rest,” Willo said, standing and leading them out of the office, through the back door of the pie pantry, and around the barn to the front entrance. She stopped and pointed at the stone foundation of the old barn. A concrete cornerstone, smooth and cracked, jutted out. Grass grew all around it, while clover and dandelions—happy and yellow—poked up through the cracks.
“Why have I never noticed this before?” Sam asked. “My whole life?”
She crouched down and studied the cornerstone. “‘Built 1927,’” she read. “‘For Alice: The Apple of My Eye.’”
“My grandpa built this for her about a decade after they started the orchard,” Willo said.
Sam ran her hand over the cornerstone, stopping and looking even closer. She then began to clear the clover and dandelions, and rub the dirt off the old concrete. That was when it became clear. Three faded handprints, of different sizes and shapes, were visible in the concrete: those of a man and a woman, along with the paw print of a dog.
“I don’t understand,” Sam said.
“I think you do,” Willo replied.
Sam took a seat on the ground, continuing to run her hand over the stone. “I do,” she said softly. “They left their mark, and it still remains. Not only in this stone but in this orchard.”
“And you will too, Sam,” Deana said. “I know you’re confused about where your life is headed right now, but you need to know that you can only leave a lasting imprint when you’re happy.”
“You need to decide what will make you happy,” Willo said.
“What if I don’t know?” Sam asked.
“Then you don’t know,” Deana said. “But don’t turn your back on any opportunity that might provide the answer. If you want to interview for that job in New York, you should.”
“If you want to see Angelo, you should,” Willo said. “But don’t live with regret, sweetheart. You never want to look back at your life and say you should’ve done this or that, because you’ll never get another chance to be young or to do it.”
“But right now, you should probably go take that nap,” Deana said, holding out her hands and helping her daughter to her feet. “Can’t make important decisions exhausted.”
Sam looked at the cornerstone and then at her mom and grandma. “Actually, I’d rather make some cookies with you, if you don’t mind. Some thumbprints.”
Willo and Deana smiled. “We’d love to,” they said in unison.
“What flavor?” Deana asked.
“Apricot? Raspberry? Strawberry?” Willo asked.
“All of them,” Sam replied.
thumbprint cookies (with fresh apricot, strawberry, or raspberry jam)
Ingredients for Dough
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 cup butter, room temperature
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
Ingredients for Jam
½ cup apricot jam, strawberry jam, or seedless raspberry jam (use your favorite flavor jam, or make your own jam or freezer jam … delicious!)
Ingredients for Icing
1 cup powdered sugar
1½ teaspoons vanilla extract
2 to 3 teaspoons water
Directions for Dough
In a small mixing bowl, combine the sugar, butter, and vanilla. Beat at medium speed until creamy, 2 to 3 minutes.
Add the flour and mix 2 to 3 minutes.
Form the dough into a ball, wrap in plastic wrap, and refrigerate at least 1 hour.
Assembly
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Shape the dough into 1-inch balls. Place the balls 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet. Make an indentation with your thumb in the center of each cookie; the edges will crack.
Fill each cookie with ¼ teaspoon jam.
Bake 14 to 18 minutes.
Cool completely.
In a small bowl, combine the icing ingredients and drizzle the icing over the cooled cookies.
(Note: Use different jams, so everyone has a favorite!)
Makes about 3½ dozen cookies
part six
Ice Cream Sandwiches with Maple Spice Chocolate Chip–Cherry Chunk Cookies
Fifteen
Summer 2017
The sun was filtering through the apple trees, angled shafts of light on the grassy orchard floor. Sam’s father was standing in the light and, to Sam, he looked like an actor about to deliver a heartfelt monologue on Broadway.
He’s still so handsome, Sam thought.
Most people love summer, especially Michiganders who wait all year for a respite from winter, but growing up, Sam had had mixed feelings about the season. Her father constantly worked in the summer months, waking early, coming home late, eating on the run. He was so busy with the orchard that—in Sam’s summer memories—he was …
A blur, Sam thought as she continued to stare at him. No, a ghost.
Her father’s shaggy blond hair ruffled in the breeze. His face and neck were deeply tanned from days working in the sun, his hands dusty and callused. Sam used to make fun of her father’s “farmer’s tan” growing up, but now she understood he never had a chance to slow down, even as she had just done earlier in the day. A pang of guilt caused her stomach to clench, and that feeling rose as she realized her dad—who looked just like her brother—had aged a bit since she’d last seen him.
Just like Grandma, she thought.
Gary Nelson turned in the light, as if he knew his daughter was near, and smiled as brightly as the beam of sun in which he was standing.
My baby, Sam could see him mouth, holding out his arms.
Sam ran to her father, and he hugged her tightly, his embrace erasing her exhaustion, making her feel as if there were no one else in the world but the two of them. He held her, and they rocked back and forth, in and out of the sunlight.
“I missed you,” Gary said.
“I missed you, too,” Sam said.
“So happy that you’re home for a little while,” he said.
He smells just the same, she thought. Like sunshine and apples. She stopped. Like home.
“Oh, I brought cookies,” Sam said, letting go of her dad and holding out a square of tinfoil.
“A bribe?” her father asked, noisily unwrapping the foil.
“How did you know?” she said.
“A father knows everything.” He winked. “Thumbprint cookies? Wow. Your mom and grandma haven’t made these in a month of Sundays.”
“Actually, I made them.”
Gary raised his sun-bleached eyebrows and took a bite of a cookie. He shut his eyes and smiled. “Apricot,” he sighed. “Better than I remembered.” He opened his eyes, which danced even bluer in the sunlight. “You are a talent.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Sam said.
Gary grabbed his daughter’s hand and took her into the middle of a row of trees, away from the crowds. They sat down under an apple tree, her father leaning against its trunk.
“The bribe worked,” he said, downing another cookie. “I’m ready. So spill the beans. Why are you home?”
Sam told him everything, just as she had done with her mom and grandma earlier. Her father never said a word, simply listening intently, until she had finished and he had eaten all of the thumbprint cookies Sam had brought.
“You did the right thing quitting that job,” he finally said. “You know that, right?”
“I do,” she said. “But I still feel like such a failure.”
“You’re anything but,” he said. “You’re an amazing young woman, filled with intelligence, talent, and passion. That’s all a parent can wish for in this world. I’m so, so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Dad,” Sam said. She stopped and kicked at the ground with her tennis shoe. “For some reason, though, I never feel proud of myself.”
Gary wiped his hands on his jeans and eased his back against the trunk again. He searched the limbs and the skies, and then searched his daughter’s eyes.
“You’ve always put such pressure on yourself,” he said quietly. “Ever since you were a little girl. You wanted to be the fastest runner. You wanted to be the smartest in your class. You wanted to be the best baker.” He stopped. “And I feel a lot of guilt about that.”
“Why, Dad?” Sam asked.
“This is a family that never gives up or gives in. We push ourselves to succeed, every day. It’s in our blood. But that’s not always a good thing. We forget to take a break … we forget to give ourselves a break.”
He inhaled deeply and then gently shooed along a bee that was buzzing around his face.
“This family is just like bees,” he said. “Always on the move.” He hesitated. “I just feel like I missed so much of your childhood, and I can never get that back.”
“You had a business to run,” she said. “It’s OK.”
Gary looked at his daughter. “Actually, it’s not. I’m sorry.”
He hesitated again. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Sam nodded.
“And I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh, boy.”
“Why do you knowingly seem to pick guys who make you unhappy—personally and professionally—even when you know it’s not going to end well from the very beginning?”
Sam’s face flushed with shock. “What are you implying, Dad?”
“I knew I’d upset you,” he said. “And that’s not my intention. But I want to talk about why you seem to get yourself into relationships with men who you know in your heart are not right for you.”
“Like?” Sam asked, her eyes flashing.
“Like Connor,” he said. “You two were as different as night and day, and still you dated him—all through high school and college, even when we all knew you would eventually leave home.”
“Dad,” Sam said, “I did love him … in my own way.”
“Did you?” he asked. “Or was he safe? Like that little blanket you carried around until you started first grade.”
Sam’s eyes rimmed with tears.
“And Chef Dimples,” Gary continued. “Why would you work for a man like that?”
“It was a great opportunity, Dad,” she said. “It’s not easy to find jobs like that in New York. It was a gift. And it’s leading to other opportunities now.” She could feel her anger rising at her father’s inquiry. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I wouldn’t?” he asked, his voice icier than Sam had heard it in ages. An apple thumped beside him, shiny and bright, too heavy to remain on the tree. He picked it up, rubbed it on his jeans, and then took a big bite.
“You know, most people think that summer is a respite from all the hard work for us: the trees produce fruit, we pick it and sell it, end of story. But the work here is never done.” He took another bite of the apple and then looked at it. “We had such stellar spring and summer weather, which resulted in a bumper crop of produce. But now we can barely get all the fruit off the trees.”
Gary scanned the orchard; migrant workers were lined up picking apples.
“This isn’t an easy life for this family,” he continued. “But imagine what it’s like for their families. The backbreaking work for not much money. The lack of benefits. Trying to bridge a gap between their culture and ours. No permanent home, always on the move looking for seasonal work. Just trying to survive. But knowing they’re giving their children a better chance at a better future.”
“I know,” she said. “I see it in the city, too.”
“They just want the dream we all have,” he said, “and they will kill themselves to achieve it.” He hesitated. “That’s why I didn’t know if I wanted to sign up for all this, Sam,” her dad continued quietly. “I saw what Deana’s family went through, their years of struggle, of little money, of worry and wondering how they could keep this going.
“I wanted to be a civil engineer. You knew that, right? I wanted to move far away from Michigan and work on roads, bridges, and buildings in the city,” he said. “And then I met your mother.”
“So you sold out for love?” Sam asked.
Her father shook his head before finishing the apple and setting the core beside him. “No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “I didn’t sell out. I found myself. And that’s what you need to do eventually.”
“But…” Sam started.
“I don’t mean to sound harsh, I really don’t,” he said. “I’m so, so proud of you. You will have an amazing life and career, but I just don’t want you falling into a trap of doing the same thing over and over. I think you seek out men like Connor and Chef Dimples because they allow you to keep running and not commit.”
“Dad,” Sam protested. “That’s not nice. Are you trying to be mean?”
“I’m not, honey,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Honestly. I just think you’ve been torn much of your life like I was.”
“Torn?”
“Between wanting to be here and wanting to run as far away as possible,” he said. “To reinvent yourself. And I get that. But stop picking guys as safety nets from allowing yourself to make that decision. It’s unhealthy.”
Gary stopped and picked up the apple core. He wound his arm back and flung it into the distance, the core bouncing until it disappeared. “It’s OK to find yourself. Take all the time you need. Travel. Try different jobs. Bounce all over the world. But stop picking the wrong guys as ellipses in your life. Pick someone who is an exclamation point to your life.”
He continued. “When I met your mother, she made everything clear. I knew I wanted to stay here. I knew I wanted to continue what her grandparents had started. I knew I wanted to embrace and improve their legacy. Your mother and I talked about leaving.”
The Recipe Box Page 14