Gary leaned over and hugged Sam. “Back to work,” he said, standing. “Thanks for the cookies.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Sam said.
Her father winked. “Love you,” he said.
“Me, too,” Sam said.
She watched her father walk away and start picking apples alongside the workers. She watched the workers, considered the sacrifices they made every day, the uncertainties they faced and their children faced.
An apple thumped beside her, just as one had done moments earlier beside her father. She picked it up, wiped it on her shorts, and then took a big bite. Sam considered the apple, how its beauty and simplicity—like the beauty and simplicity of this land—had made her want to be a pastry chef.
Sam stood, her legs feeling shaky.
This land grounds me and yet feels like quicksand, Sam thought, taking a bite of apple. Have I always been running?
Sam finished her apple and then walked over, picked up a basket, and put it around her neck. She found a tree and began to pick apples alongside the other workers. Sam chatted with them in the broken Spanish she knew.
“Gracias,” a young woman said to her.
Sam’s heart broke. “No,” Sam said. “Usted … gracias. Por…” Sam stopped, searching her mind for the word. “Todo.”
The woman smiled, her dark eyes twinkling, her hands in motion, never slowing. She looked at Sam and said, “La vida es bella. Familia lo es todo.”
Sam cocked her head, trying to translate in her mind. The woman looked at a man next to her, and he nodded. “She said, ‘Life is beautiful. Family is everything.’”
Sam’s eyes widened, and her heart jumped. “Gracias,” she said.
Sam glanced over, and her father was watching her, smiling, still caught in a shaft of light, his shadow as long as the apple trees. Sam picked another apple and when she turned again, her father was gone, but the light remained.
ice cream sandwiches with maple spice chocolate chip–cherry chunk cookies
Ingredients
½ cup plus 1 tablespoon butter, room temperature
½ cup granulated sugar
¼ cup dark brown sugar, packed
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon maple extract
1½ cups all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1½ tablespoons cocoa powder
½ 12-ounce bag semisweet chocolate chips
½ 12-ounce bag white chocolate chips
¼ cup flaked coconut
½ cup dried cherries or cranberries
Vanilla ice cream
Directions
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter, gradually adding the granulated sugar and brown sugar. Slowly add the egg, vanilla, and maple extract and cream together.
Sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, and cocoa powder into a separate bowl. Slowly add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and combine (don’t overmix, just enough to moisten).
Stir in the semisweet chocolate chips, white chocolate chips, coconut, and dried cherries.
Drop the dough by heaping teaspoons onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 10 to 12 minutes, or until lightly golden.
Let cookies cool for an hour. Place one scoop of vanilla ice cream (or your favorite flavor! Or make your own homemade ice cream, which is THE best!) between two cookies and press together carefully to form a sandwich. You may eat immediately, or wrap in plastic wrap and freeze.
Yields about a dozen ice cream sandwiches
part seven
The Perfect Pie Crust
Eighteen
Summer 2017
Sam awoke with a start. She sat straight up in bed, confused and in a panic. Her hair was over her eyes, and she brushed it back, but the world was still dark. And then lightning flashed, just outside her bedroom window, and seconds later … BOOM!
Sam jumped.
Lightning again flashed, and Sam counted—just as her mom and dad had taught her—until thunder boomed again.
The storm is on top of us, Sam thought.
She checked her Hello Kitty clock, which read 6:08 A.M., slowly got out of bed, and shuffled toward her window.
BOOM!
The house shook. In fact, the whole world seemed to tremble. Thunder echoed off the hillside of the orchard and rolled, like a timpani drum, down into the bay, where the rumble seemed to drift across the water and out into Lake Michigan like the final rousing note of a symphony.
It was dark, but the lightning illuminated the world in flashes. It reminded Sam of a nightclub in the city her friends loved to frequent on Saturday nights.
Sam had been in the middle of a dream when the thunder woke her. She had been picking apples when the whole world began to collapse, the earth all around her dropping away in big chunks—the orchard, her grandma’s farmhouse, the pie pantry, the bay, until only she remained on a tiny crag of land clutching the limb of an apple tree, the only thing that kept her from falling into nothingness.
Sam shuffled toward the bathroom and washed her face in cold water.
Maybe it wasn’t a dream, Sam thought, drying her face and then staring at her tired reflection in the mirror. Maybe it was a premonition. Maybe my whole world—my future and my family—is disintegrating in front of me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Sam thought of her father’s letter and of the workers who labored on the orchard.
Does God give us free will? she wondered. Or is everything predestined?
Sam dabbed some eye cream and moisturizer onto her face before running a brush through her hair.
Is my fate already sealed?
Sam pulled on some jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then walked downstairs into the kitchen. The house was quiet. She leaned into the window and scanned the orchard for her mom and grandma.
Weather must have kept them from walking, she thought. Bet they’re already at the pie pantry.
Sam headed out the door and stopped.
No key, she suddenly remembered.
Then she shook her head, realizing there wasn’t a need for one. Her parents never locked their house or their car doors, and she didn’t even know if her grandmother had a key for anything but her recipe box.
Sam took off jogging up the hill and into the orchard. It was beginning to sprinkle, the wind was gusting, and it was chilly—almost cold—the temperature having dropped precipitously overnight.
Sam slowed as she made it into the orchard. It was only August, but the rapid drop in temperature reminded Sam that snow could be falling here in just a few weeks.
Lots of winter coats worn over my Halloween costumes growing up, Sam thought.
Northern Michigan was another world in winter, stunningly beautiful but shockingly desolate.
“Like The Shining,” Sam said out loud to the trees with a knowing laugh.
Sam preferred New York in the winter. It was cold but bustling, and she loved tucking herself into cozy coffee shops and tiny cafés. After the resorters left Michigan, only the die-hard locals remained. The holidays were certainly cute—as the town draped itself in lights—but January through March was a dark, challenging trek, only for the hardiest of souls, bodies, and hearts.
In the near distance, the lights from the pie pantry twinkled in the dark. The old barn looked as if it were smiling and bright-eyed, ready for the day ahead.
It’s like my family’s soul is alive in there, Sam thought.
The heavy wooden front door was unlocked, and Sam grunted as she pulled it open. The pie pantry was warm and welcoming, and her grandmother’s watercolors on the floor happily greeted Sam.
She couldn’t help but smile.
She headed toward the kitchen, stopping in front of the long, barn-wood counter and hiding behind a huge beam that ran from the floor to the rafters. Sam watched the bakers work.
For decades, nearly the
same group of women had gathered to bake at dawn. They worked alongside one another at islands and stainless steel tables, clad in jeans and Mullins aprons, smiles on their faces, their hands, bodies, and mouths in constant motion, working independently and yet in unison, telling stories and sharing secrets about life and baking.
Over the years, a good chunk of the labor had been mechanized—cherries were pitted and apples were skinned and cored by large machines. And industrial-sized ovens could now bake many pies at once.
But the pie pantry still prided itself on its “handmade” moniker. Each and every pie and dessert was handmade, meaning the crusts were individually made, rolled, and hand-crimped, and the fillings were made in small batches so they could be spiced to perfection.
“People know when something is made with love,” Willo always said. “You can taste the effort … and the love.”
Sam believed that. She believed that simple ingredients and careful preparation always yielded the best food.
You don’t have to cook fancy or complicated masterpieces, just good food from fresh ingredients, Sam remembered Julia Child once saying, a philosophy that was also taught in culinary school. Sam watched the women twirl around the kitchen, and she remembered another Julia quote, a plaque that she had in her apartment in New York: Until I discovered cooking, I was never really interested in anything.
It was the same with Sam. It was the same with this core group of women: their lives seemed to revolve around a joy for baking. While Deana and Willo buzzed around the kitchen like bees, overseeing the work, double-checking outgoing deliveries, Sam watched three women calmly work alongside one another as if they were the eye of a hurricane, calm amid the chaos.
Donna, Debbie, and DeDe Cupertino were known in the pie pantry—and all around Suttons Bay—as the “D Cups,” a source of never-ending laughter, as the triplets were wirier than a cooling rack and thinner than a pie shell. Donna and Debbie had each had six boys, and DeDe had had five girls, enough kids, Donna joked, “to field two basketball teams, a football team, and all the cheerleaders.”
The women were all around the age of Sam’s mom, but they looked much older: no makeup, gray hair parted down the middle and pulled back, baggy shirts. The Cupertino family had not had the easiest of lives, but they truly loved working at the pie pantry, and Willo treated them like family. They were the first to receive health benefits, and Willo employed them year round, even in the winter, as they made all the desserts for the holidays, from Christmas to Valentine’s.
Sam had gone to school with many of their kids, who often kept Sam at arm’s length, treating her as if she were better than they were, a surrogate employer, like Willo and Deana were to their mothers. It had made Sam uncomfortable. But for many of the kids in Sam’s high school, like the Cupertinos, college wasn’t an option. Leaving northern Michigan wasn’t an option either.
There was an undercurrent town-gown rivalry that occurred between those in the area who owned small businesses and those who worked for them. Many people considered Sam to be better than they were for leaving town, and many of her high school friends had stopped talking to her when she left for New York. Sam had tried to tell them she wasn’t abandoning them, but that she simply wanted to learn about what she loved most from those who knew it best.
Maybe I was abandoning them, though, Sam thought, watching the sisters work.
“Well, look who the cat drug in!”
Sam jumped, just as she had earlier at the thunder, at the sound of DeDe’s booming voice.
“If it ain’t Julia Child,” she continued.
Sam simultaneously bristled and enjoyed the comparison.
“Willo and Deana said you were in town,” Donna said. “Must have missed you when you arrived.”
The sisters worked similar hours to what Sam had in New York, but even earlier here, often arriving at three A.M. to prep dough.
Sam walked into the kitchen, and the sisters hugged her, followed by those who had yet to see her.
“How’s New York?” Debbie asked. “Been mugged yet?”
Everyone laughed, but Sam hated such simplistic clichés.
People who have never been to New York make snap judgments of the city, Sam thought, bristling again.
“Ever been to New York?” Sam asked a bit too curtly.
Willo shot her granddaughter a stern look, stopping and wiping her hands on her apron.
Debbie’s tired face drooped even more, the bags under her eyes twitching. “No,” she said. “Just Traverse City a few times a year.”
Sam’s stomach clenched, and she thought of what her father had said about being alone.
I do keep people at arm’s distance, she thought. Why?
“I hope you get there someday,” Sam said softly, smiling at Debbie. “You’d love it. And even the food on the street is good.”
“Tell us about it,” they all said, smiling, returning to work. “Tell us about working with that famous TV star.”
Sam did, and the women’s faces dropped again with disappointment as she shared what it was really like.
“But there were some really good stories,” Sam added to perk them up, telling them about the celebrities and bachelorettes who used to come into the shop, as well as explaining how morning TV shows like Good Morning America worked.
“GMA should come here,” DeDe said, standing tall, her shoulders back, her voice filling with pride. “This is a real bakery.”
Everyone nodded and agreed, as Willo said, “Now, now.”
The kitchen was teeming with activity, and Sam had to admit she missed working with a bigger team. There was a sense of excitement when she was in school and in her internship, a sense of camaraderie of working with a team, everyone flying, on their toes, working on deadlines. Sam loved working with Trish, but working at Dimples Bakery was little fun and highly controlled.
Watching this group work, Sam finally realized how well trained the bakers were at the pie pantry, something she had never noticed growing up. They knew the important basics in the kitchen: they understood the recipes and had made them over and over again, perfecting them as they went. The pie pantry had digital scales to weigh ingredients, which were more accurate than measuring cups. Her mom and grandma had invested in expensive mixers with dough hooks and paddles. And they all talked about the recipes as they went along, asking if a little more nutmeg might add depth to a certain dessert.
The kitchen was hot and cold: steamy from the ovens and the work at hand, cool from the chilly breeze that blew in through the barn windows and open doors. Outside, lightning flashed. Inside, pie pans, knives, and countertops gleamed.
“Teach us something, Julia Child,” DeDe boomed, knocking Sam from her thoughts.
“What?” Sam asked.
“You went to that fancy school, and it’s about time we all took a break,” DeDe said. “Teach us something you learned.”
Sam’s heart raced. She felt as if she had been transported back to school, and a professor had called on her to make a sauce for the class.
“Everyone’s so busy,” she said. “I haven’t even had any coffee.”
“Here’s some coffee,” Willo said, walking over with a steaming mug and an apple cider donut.
“I’d like to see what I paid for,” Deana said with a wink, walking over to nudge Sam with her elbow. “Honestly, we’d all love to learn something new.”
Sam took a big sip from the mug, the hot coffee burning her tongue. She looked outside as the lightning flashed, and an idea came to her.
“Pâte brisée sucrée,” she said.
“What’s that?” Willo asked.
“It literally means broken sweet dough,” Sam explained. “But it’s essentially the perfect pie crust.”
This time, Willo’s face fell. “I thought we already made the perfect pie crust here,” she said.
“Oh, Grandma, I didn’t mean it that way,” Sam said. “Your pie crust is amazing. This is just the way I was taught.” She looked a
t DeDe. “This was how Julia Child made it, and our instructors taught us.”
She hesitated and reached out to touch her grandma’s arm. “I promise you’ll like it,” she said. “And you can make it in a food processor, too.” Sam stopped and looked at her mom and grandma. “You’ve shared so much with me through your recipe boxes. Let me share something with you.”
The two nodded. Sam smiled, took another swig of coffee, then tied on an apron.
She began to assemble ingredients—flour, sugar, salt, shortening—talking excitedly about the first time she learned the recipe.
“I was taught by my mom and grandma that a great pie is like a great family,” Sam said. “It must have a great foundation to work.”
Willo and Deana beamed.
“The key to a great pâte brisée sucrée is chilled butter and cold water.” The women gathered around as Sam mixed the ingredients by hand, rubbing the butter and shortening into the dry ingredients with the tips of her fingers, adding cold water, forming the dough into a ball.
“But the most important part of a perfect crust is the fraisage,” Sam said.
“The what?” Deana asked, moving closer.
“It literally means milling, but it’s the final blending of the dough,” Sam explained. She placed the dough on a lightly floured surface and used the heel of her hand to swiftly press little circles of dough away from her until the ball was flat. “The reason you do it like this, in small increments, is to incorporate the butter evenly through the dough. That’s what creates a flaky crust.”
Sam pulled the dough into a ball again, wrapped it in plastic wrap, and placed it in one of the kitchen’s refrigerators. “Now it needs to rest,” she said.
“Can we try?” Debbie asked, looking at Sam and then Willo.
“Of course,” Willo said. “It’s nice to learn something new.”
As Sam began to walk the bakers through the recipe, moving around to instruct each person as she’d been taught and as she had done in New York, a cold wind gusted through the kitchen.
“North wind,” Willo said. “Farmer’s almanac already portends a cold winter.”
The Recipe Box Page 16