Sam was cleaning up but stopped. “I thought this was a well-oiled machine? That the orchard and pie pantry were exactly the way you wanted it?”
“We’ve built a successful small business,” Willo said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s the way you would want it.”
“What?”
“I think you tend to look at this place like you do your high school yearbook,” Willo said. “It’s a relic. A thing of the past. Something you remember fondly but have stored away and don’t really care to revisit.”
“Grandma,” Sam started, thinking of her own recipe box.
“It’s OK,” she said. “I understand. I think sometimes people need to leave the place they were raised in, in order to reinvent themselves. Fresh start, right?” She hesitated. A wry smile eased onto her face. “But without that history, you can become a ghost of who you were, a mirage of who you want to become.”
Sam’s hand tightened around the dishcloth she was holding.
“I think it’s time we get your crusts in the oven,” Willo said, changing the subject. “What do you suggest we fill them with?”
“One of everything?” Sam suggested.
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” Willo said.
Each of the women made her own pies—an apple, peach, cherry, strawberry-rhubarb, blueberry, cherry-berry, red raspberry, four-berry—and slid them into the oven. When they came out to cool, Deana said, “Let’s have a tasting party.”
The women pulled out some homemade ice cream and whipped cream, sampled pies, and talked—all before morning had even started for most people. As they ate, Willo whispered to Sam, “This is a wonderful crust. Flaky, buttery … thank you for teaching us something new.”
Laughter shot across the kitchen, and Sam watched her mother joke with the bakers. They were back to their routines, making batter, crimping, frying donuts.
These women, Sam thought, have more baking experience than I will ever have in my whole life. Where did they learn? Here. In their own homes. Trial and error.
Just like me, she added.
Another Julia Child quote floated into Sam’s head: You’ll never know everything about anything, especially something you love.
Sam finally realized if she could teach them things, they could teach her, too.
All I have to do is ask, she thought. Why is that so hard for me?
“Your turn,” Sam said, walking toward the bakers.
Their faces lifted in shock.
“What?” asked Donna.
“It’s your turn to teach me something.”
“What do we know?” DeDe asked, her face flushing.
“A lot,” Sam said. “You’re the experts. Now it’s my turn to watch, listen, and learn.”
Slowly, one at a time, their faces exploded in smiles. The D Cups looked at one another and began tossing out recipes, thoughts, ideas.
“I know,” DeDe finally yelled over the others. “Your family pie crust! How long has it been since you made it?”
Sam’s face flushed, and she shrugged. “Your grandma taught us your family crust, and it’s similar to the one our mom and grandma made, isn’t it, girls?”
Donna and Debbie nodded excitedly, big smiles on their faces.
“Mom and Grandma Eleanor just mixed everything together, rolled it out, filled it, and baked it!” DeDe continued. “They didn’t have time to fuss around.” She glanced at Sam. “Yours is great, don’t get me wrong, but they had lots of kids to feed. No time for fancy.”
“My grandma used to make an all-lard crust,” Willo said. “But I ended up adapting ours because I like a little butter flavor, too. I ran out of lard one day and panicked, so I experimented with butter. I was the first woman to add a little butter to the secret crust. It’s even better than the original, I think.”
“Ready?” DeDe asked Sam.
Sam smiled and listened closely as DeDe showed her how to make the pie crust.
Why haven’t I made this in forever? Sam wondered, the word fancy floating in her head. Do I think I’m fancy? Have I always thought, maybe in the back of my mind, that I am a bit better than everyone else? Her heart dropped. Shame on you, Sam.
As Sam started to make her crust, Willo standing guard, her face lit with a big smile, Donna sidled over to Sam, rubbed her arm, and said very quietly, “Thank you for asking.”
Sam’s heart felt as if it were going to explode.
When the crusts were ready, they again filled them with different fruits and slid them into the oven.
“I’ll repeat what Sam said earlier,” Willo said. “As my grandmother taught me, you can’t have a great life, a great home, a great family, or a great pie without a great foundation. This crust—this place—is a great foundation. I hope you think so, too.”
When the pies came out of the oven and Sam tasted the crust, she looked over at her grandmother, her face beaming. “Julia Child’s got nothin’ on you,” she said. “Or any of my fancy teachers.”
Sam tore off an end piece of the rich crust and popped it into her mouth. “Amazing,” she said to the bakers. “Just like you. What else can you show me?”
“Enough about baking,” DeDe bellowed, waving off Sam’s suggestion as if she were a bothersome mosquito. “Let’s cut to the chase. Tell us about this Angelo we’ve been hearing about.”
The bakers began to shout, “Yeah!”
Sam shot her mom and grandma a look, but they both shrugged innocently and took another bite from the pies in front of them.
“Spill the blueberries, as we say around here,” DeDe said.
Sam rolled her eyes and exhaled. “Well, we never went out on a date,” she said. “My boss wouldn’t have allowed it. Not that it matters now.”
Sam watched their faces droop. There was something about the comfort and closeness of the women and the warmth and communal nature of the kitchen on a cold day that softened Sam’s shell.
“He’s really dreamy,” she then said in a rush of breath and, feeling a little silly, realized she sounded just like a teenager. “Dark hair and eyes, dimples that go on for days, and his body … it’s like Zac Efron’s.”
“OK,” DeDe said, fanning her face with her apron. “Open another window.”
The women roared.
“Even though we never went out,” Sam said, “we talked nearly every day at dawn for a year when he’d drop off the fresh fruit.” She hesitated and looked out the window. “It was really the only thing I looked forward to every day,” she continued softly, as if to herself.
The woman all cooed like a chorus of doves.
“Every character in every romantic movie and book always falls in love,” DeDe said, as she returned to chopping apples. “But you know the thing about falling? It usually hurts. The nice thing is to walk into love, to be best friends with someone, to want to wake up knowing they’re the best thing about your day. Then, when you fall, you realize it happened in slow motion.”
The women again oohed and aahed.
“Wow,” Willo said, her eyes wide in surprise at the sisters’ atypical soft and romantic tone.
“Is that how it happened with you and your husband?” Sam asked.
“No,” DeDe rumbled, her voice returning to its normal decibel level. “I got pregnant in high school.”
The woman roared, and Sam realized she was laughing along with them, enjoying their company, and baking again felt like a joy and discovery.
Sam broke off another piece of her family pie crust and took a bite of the warm, flaky dough, which melted in her mouth. Sam closed her eyes as she ate and exhaled contentedly. When she opened her eyes, she could feel someone watching her, and when she turned, her grandmother was smiling, her fingers crimping a crust.
aunt eleanor’s two-crust pastry
Ingredients
2½ cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
½ cup cold butter, cut into ½-inch cubes
¼ cup cold lard, cut into ½-inch cubes
&nbs
p; 5 to 6 tablespoons ice water
Directions
In a large bowl, combine the flour and salt. Add the butter and lard, cutting it into the flour mixture until pea-sized lumps form. Add the ice water, 1 tablespoon at a time, mixing with a fork until a dough forms, adding additional water if necessary.
Form the dough into a ball. Divide the ball in half. Flatten each half into disks; wrap each disk in plastic wrap. Refrigerate at least 1 hour or overnight. Roll out the dough on a floured surface and use in your favorite recipe.
part eight
Strawberry Shortcakes
Twenty-one
Summer 2017
Sam caught her reflection in the glass on the arrivals and departures monitor. She was more tan, her blond hair already bleached blonder from the sun, and she was wearing a touch of makeup that made her skin glimmer. She leaned into the monitor and looked even closer.
“It might be easier to read if you took off your sunglasses, sweetie.”
Sam turned, and an elderly woman wearing cataract glasses was staring at her.
“I can’t take mine off, but you can,” she said. “You look nervous. Bet you’re meeting someone special.”
She patted Sam on the back and tottered away.
Someone special? Sam thought, taking off her sunglasses and putting them in her purse. Am I?
Sam raced toward the gate to wait, arriving in a few seconds, forgetting she was in the Traverse City airport and not LaGuardia. She took a seat, sipped the coffee she was holding, crossed and uncrossed her legs, stood and then sat down again.
A man looked up from his cell, watching her suspiciously, and then moved seats as far away from Sam as he could get.
Looking at her Starbucks cup, she wondered, Why did I get an extra shot of espresso?
Though it had only been a few days since she’d flown back home unannounced, it seemed like forever to Sam.
And did I fly back home for a visit? she asked herself. Or did I run like my dad said?
Sam twisted her cup in her hands and stopped midmotion.
Sad had been marked on her cup by a barista, rather than her name, Sam.
Sad? Sam thought. Seriously? Do they do that on purpose? Talk about a sign, Grandma.
“Hey there, Michigan!”
Sam jumped, and a mini geyser of coffee spewed from the opening.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Angelo said. “Can you believe it? I’m actually in Michigan, Michigan.”
Sam stood to greet Angelo and, for a second, felt frozen, as if she were in one of those old-fashioned romantic movies where time stops, and the actors move in super slow motion. Angelo’s dark curly hair was longer and even more lustrous, and the gold in his dark eyes sparkled under the airport lights. Even though he had shaved and it was still morning, a five-o’clock shadow already cast through his smooth, dark skin and highlighted his strong jaw. He was wearing dark jeans, a black belt, and a form-fitting polo—tucked just so behind the belt’s buckle—and high-top Converse Chuck Taylor sneakers.
And those dimples, Sam thought, as he smiled at her. Were you this good-looking in New York?
“Hi, Jersey,” Sam squeaked.
“You look…” Angelo stopped, and an even bigger smile lit his face, making his dimples look even more adorable. “… amazing.”
He reached over to hug her and pulled her close. “Thank you for doing this,” he said. “I needed to get out of the city for a bit. Just like you.”
Angelo smelled like soap, leather and spice, the city and the outdoors, the familiar and unfamiliar. Sam’s heart leapt.
Lily would have a field day trying to determine his top notes, Sam thought, inhaling his scent and thinking of her roommate’s love of Yankee candles.
Angelo held Sam at arm’s length. “Miss me?” he asked.
“I’ve been busy,” she said, wondering why she said it as soon as the words left her mouth. “Preoccupied.”
Angelo’s smile faded, and his dimples retreated.
“That didn’t come out right,” Sam finally said. “I have missed you. I miss the city and my roommates.”
“I certainly miss seeing you every day,” he said. “It’s just not the same.”
Sam’s face flushed, and goose bumps covered her arms. “Did you check any bags?” she asked, to cover.
“No,” he said, nudging the bag on his shoulder up a bit and nodding to a small suitcase on wheels beside him. “Just this stuff. I’m a light traveler. Just some jeans, shorts, swimsuit … summer stuff.”
Swimsuit, Sam thought, feeling suddenly woozy.
“Well, you just missed a cold snap,” she said. “It’s really warming back up. You picked the right time for a vacation.”
“Let’s see Michigan, Michigan,” Angelo said with a laugh.
“Follow me,” Sam said, heading toward the exit.
The two got in Sam’s rental car, and she navigated through Traverse City and onto M-22, Angelo making her stop or slow down so he could take pictures of the lake and bay.
The windows were down, and a warm wind filled the car, along with an unsettling silence. Sam reached over to turn on the radio to fill the quiet. It was still tuned to the oldies station she’d discovered when she first arrived.
“I didn’t know that about you.” Angelo laughed, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze. “You’re old-school.” He turned and looked at Sam. “Real old-school.”
Sam wanted to laugh, knew she should laugh, but her nerves got the best of her and instead she looked straight ahead as she drove and said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Angelo turned to her, a surprised and shocked look apparent on his face. “This is a little awkward, isn’t it?” Sam asked. “You have to admit that.”
She wished she could take the words back, but it was too late.
Angelo chuckled softly, and it slowly grew into a laugh.
“Is something wrong?” Sam asked.
“It’s just vintage you,” he said.
“What’s that mean?” she asked. “You do barely know me.”
Angelo’s face was turned toward the bay, which paralleled the winding, two-lane road. Cottages were tucked in dense pines along the water, and each passing scene resembled a beautiful watercolor vignette.
“It doesn’t even look real,” Angelo muttered to himself. He turned to Sam. “Do you mind pulling over so I can get a few quick pictures? I’d like to get some without the passenger mirror in them.”
Don’t answer me, Sam thought. Fine.
“Sure,” she said, instead. Sam found a little scenic overlook—nothing more than a half-circle graveled turnaround—that held a stunning view of the bay, much like the one she’d stopped at when she first arrived. Angelo got out of the car, went over to stand atop a lone picnic table, and began angling his body and camera this way and that. Finally, he sat down on top of the table.
“You want to join me?” he called to Sam without turning around.
Sam shook her head and sat in the car for a second before getting out and taking a seat on the picnic bench. The two sat in silence staring at the summer scene.
“No, I don’t think this is awkward,” Angelo finally said, still not turning to look at Sam. “I feel like I know you really well. We talked every day for over a year. I’ve told you things I’ve never told some of my friends and family. You were the one who encouraged me to go back to school. You told me I could do and be anything, just like you.” He turned and looked at Sam. The sun was angled just so on his handsome face, making his cheeks glow red and his golden skin match the sand. “I work nonstop. I finished finals. I’m tired and just needed a break.” He smiled sadly at Sam. “So give me a break, OK?”
Sam ducked her head.
“You don’t have to see me while I’m here,” he said. “I mean, I was surprised when you texted me and said you’d pick me up at the airport after our last conversation.” He hesitated. “Just drop me off at my hotel, and I’ll take a cab everywhere.”
Sam
looked at him. A smile slowly emerged on her face, and a little laugh sneaked out. “We don’t have cabs,” she said. “This is northern Michigan. We might have a pedi-cab with a keg on it.”
Angelo laughed as a group of white swans and quacking ducks paddled toward them thinking they might have food. “You’re an interesting bird,” he said, watching them. “You do this a lot, don’t you?”
“Do what?”
“This,” he said. “This push-pull. This let-you-in-but-keep-you-at-arm’s-length game.”
“I don’t play games,” Sam said, her voice rising.
“You don’t?” Angelo asked. “OK. It’s just … I’m from a loud Italian family. We say what we feel and what we mean.”
“My family is the same,” Sam protested.
“I think you’re used to trying to make everyone happy. But no one ends up that way because you’re not really happy.”
“That’s not fair,” Sam said.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
Sam looked at him and shook her head. “No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do,” he said.
Angelo scooted off the table and onto the bench next to Sam. “Bakers are fascinating people,” he said.
“I’m a pastry chef,” Sam said, correcting him.
“Oooh, sorry,” he joked. “You say potayto, I say potahto.”
“Talk about old-school,” Sam said.
“Baking—being a pastry chef, excuse me—is largely about following directions, right? Baking is science in many ways. There are precise directions to follow, measurements must be perfect … you follow the rules. That’s the way you’ve always been in life, isn’t it? Straight As. High achieving. Perfection.”
Angelo looked at Sam. “Keep going,” she said.
“You have a plan in your head, and you can’t deviate from it or you’ll be wrong. Imperfect. A disappointment,” he said in a deep voice. “But who’s setting those rules? You are. And chances are you will never meet those expectations. You know what my mom tells me, don’t you? Expectations are just preconceived resentments. You set yourself up to fail even when you don’t do anything wrong.”
The Recipe Box Page 18