The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  “With all that body heat,” Willo continued to tease.

  “Grandma,” Sam said.

  “Well, I’m glad I noticed the lights on in here before I left to meet your folks for dinner,” she said. “Goodness knows what might have happened.”

  Willo stepped to the door and picked up Sam’s tote. “I also saw your bag sitting outside the door. I’m a regular Perry Mason.”

  Sam and Angelo cocked their heads. “Who?” they asked at the same time.

  “Never mind,” Willo said. She shot her eyes from Angelo to Sam, a mischievous smile growing on her face. “Want me to shut the door behind me, leave you two alone a while longer?”

  “OK, Grandma, that’s enough,” Sam said, rolling her eyes, as Angelo began picking up all the apples. “Go to dinner. We’ll lock up.”

  “Lock lips, you mean,” Willo whispered to her granddaughter. “Have fun on the beach.” She turned and looked at Angelo. “Curfew is ten P.M., young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angelo said with a laugh.

  When Willo had departed and they had picked up all the apples, Sam shut the doors to the cold storage unit. Despite her skin being chilled from being locked inside, Sam felt as if she were on fire, burning inside from the kiss with Angelo. She leaned against the doors to cool her desire and then turned and ran her hands over the chilly steel, smiling to herself as if she were locking away a precious memory she wanted to keep as fresh and preserved as the apples inside.

  “Ready?” Angelo asked.

  Sam shook off the irony of the question, nodded, and turned off the lights of the pie pantry.

  Twenty-five

  “How did you sleep?”

  Angelo walked into Willo’s kitchen and rubbed his eyes.

  “Like a dream,” Angelo said, feeling the most rested he had in ages. “Nice to have the windows open, to feel a summer breeze, to hear nothing but crickets and birds and the lake.”

  Before he could say another word, Willo winked at him and said, “I’m sure you had a lot to dream about.”

  Angelo began to protest. “I don’t know what you think you saw,” he started.

  “I may be about to turn seventy-five,” Willo said, “but my eyesight is still twenty-twenty.”

  Angelo’s cheeks flushed, and he began to stammer for words.

  “I’m just teasing you,” Willo said. “Actually, I can barely see a thing anymore.” She winked. “Come. Sit. Coffee?” Angelo nodded and took a seat at the little table next to the kitchen. Willo brought him a mug. “Cream? Sugar?”

  Angelo shook his head.

  “Man after my own heart,” she said. “I always figure I live in a world glittered with sugar, so I don’t need any extra in my coffee.”

  Angelo smiled and took a sip. Although he had been sleepy seconds ago, Willo’s teasing now made him feel awake, on his toes. He sat upright, nearly rigid, in the wooden chair, his back pressed against the slats.

  “No need to be embarrassed,” Willo said. She filled her own mug and sat at the table. “I’m happy that Sam seems to have met a nice young man.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “But you know she’s not your average person,” Willo said. She took a sip of coffee and looked at Angelo. “She’s determined. She’s hard to tie down.”

  “I don’t want to tie her down,” Angelo said. “I want her to fly.”

  Willo could feel her heart flutter at the conviction and passion of his words, just like the wings of the hummingbird that levitated at the red feeder outside her patio door, its throat the color of a ruby, its wings as luminescent as an emerald.

  “And what if she wants to fly on her own?” Willo asked.

  Angelo considered Willo’s words, took another sip of coffee, and then followed her gaze toward the hummingbird. “My grandma used to tell me this story of two hummingbirds that she said returned to her home every year,” he said. “She firmly believed she witnessed the first time the two birds fell in love.” He laughed and shut his eyes for a second before returning his gaze to the patio. “My grandma said hummingbirds do this thing called a courtship dive, where the male ascends a very long distance before suddenly diving over an interested female at a high rate of speed. She said it was akin to a dive bomber, and that the g-force acceleration was so severe that it would have caused loss of consciousness in fighter pilots.” Angelo laughed again and took a sip of coffee. “My grandma seemed to always know the strangest information. Like the difference between a hare and a rabbit, or the only city with three dotted letters in a row? Anyway…”

  “What is the only city with three dotted letters in a row?” Willo interrupted.

  “Beijing,” Angelo laughed.

  “Now I know,” Willo smiled. “Go on.”

  “I guess when diving, the flow of air through the tail feathers produces a high-pitched sound that’s similar to a loud, longing chirp. A couple of years later, after my grandmother had just washed all the windows, the female hummingbird flew into the kitchen window so hard my grandma heard it over the TV. She ran outside, and it was lying on the grass. At first, she thought it was dead, but then she could see it breathing, its little chest barely moving. She didn’t touch it, but she brought it some sugar water in a little bowl, stood guard over it, and prayed that it wouldn’t die.”

  Angelo stopped and looked outside at the feeder, where the one hummingbird was now joined by a second, their long beaks positioned into holes in the middle of little plastic flowers.

  “The entire time she was watching over it, the other hummingbird was right there, too, darting around like crazy at first,” he continued. “But eventually it sat on the end of an olive tree branch, watching. My grandma said it was the longest she’d ever seen a hummingbird be still. For the longest time, the injured bird lay on the ground, and my grandmother eventually lay down beside it, her face next to the bird. Its breathing slowed so much, my grandma thought it was taking its final breaths. Finally, around dusk, the bird sort of sat up, drank some water, tested its wings and tail, stood for a while without moving, and then, suddenly, took off, darting around her yard. As it did, the male ascended to a great height—just as it had done years before—and dove toward her, emitting the most joyous sound my grandma had ever heard.”

  Angelo stopped, turned from the birds, and looked at Willo. “If Sam flies, I fly,” he said.

  Tears immediately popped into Willo’s eyes. “Allergies,” she said, reaching for a napkin.

  “You know,” Angelo said, “we haven’t even really been on a proper date yet. This is probably the most unusual dating I’ve ever done. I’m sort of following her lead.”

  “But you came to Michigan to see her, didn’t you?” Willo asked. “It wasn’t just to see the state of Michigan. It was to see Michigan, wasn’t it, Jersey?”

  Angelo shook his head. “You’re as honest as my family,” he said. “No stone is left unturned.” He stopped and looked directly at Willo. “I did. I felt such a void in my life after she quit her job. I don’t blame her—Chef Dimples was an awful person—but I missed her passion and enthusiasm. I…” He hesitated. “I just missed her.”

  Willo smiled.

  “The women in my family are similar to the women in your family, I think,” he said. “Smart, driven … their sacrifices helped our family to get to where we are today. My mom is a teacher. My grandmother passed away a few years ago, but she was the force who got my family to America.” Angelo looked at Willo. “I just want Sam to know being strong and independent doesn’t mean being alone. I don’t know if she understands that.”

  “I don’t either,” Willo said. “OK, enough seriousness. I have an idea. Do you want to help me make something for breakfast? We can surprise Sam. Bake something for her. Let’s show her you know your way around a kitchen as well as you know your way around a woman’s heart. My gut tells me you do.”

  Angelo hesitated. “I live with two other guys in a tiny apartment,” he laughed. “We can pour a mean bowl of cereal
and order pizza like a pro, but that’s about it.”

  “What about your grandmother?” Willo asked. “She must have had a favorite recipe.”

  “She did,” Angelo said immediately.

  Willo sat up in her chair. “I knew it. What was it?”

  “She made this incredible Sicilian cannoli,” he said, “with fresh ricotta and goat cheese, and fried dough that was as light as air. Sort of like your donuts.”

  “I actually have some ricotta,” Willo said, her voice rising. “And there’s a little goat farm up the road that sells the freshest goat cheese. Let me get ready.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” Angelo said. “My grandma brought this to nearly every Sunday dinner for dessert. Everyone would rush through dinner just to get to her cannoli. She acted like it was a huge secret, and she refused to share the recipe with anyone. When she got sick, my mom begged her, finally, to share the recipe with her and to show her how to make it before it was too late. ‘Get me a pen,’ my grandma whispered to my mom. My mom brought her a pen and a pad of paper. With a shaky hand, my grandma wrote Nana’s Cannoli and below it Farrelli’s. ‘What does this mean?’ my mom asked her. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘I buy the cannoli at Farrelli’s Bakery in Bensonhurst,’ my grandma told her.”

  Willo burst out laughing.

  “It was never a secret family recipe,” Angelo said. “Just like her famous Sunday gravy, which is what every Italian family calls its special homemade spaghetti sauce. My mom learned it was just sausage, hamburger meat, and Ragu.”

  Willo laughed again.

  “You want to know the weird thing?” Angelo asked. “Even though her recipes weren’t passed down or true heirlooms, the cannoli and gravy we have now just don’t taste the same. They’re not as good, even though we go to all the effort to make them by hand.”

  “You know why, don’t you?” Willo asked.

  Angelo shook his head.

  “There’s one missing ingredient,” she continued. “Your grandma.”

  Angelo ducked his head, and Willo reached out to take his hand in hers. “Thank you,” he said. “I miss her.”

  “I know,” Willo said softly.

  She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and continued. “Even though every dessert we make at the pie pantry is a family recipe, and I think they’re the best in the world, I also know that it’s the memories people are buying: the smells of cinnamon, nutmeg, and apples baking in the oven, the taste of a homemade crust or streusel topping … those trigger memories of your mom and grandma baking in the kitchen, of the holidays, of summers at a beloved cabin. They remind us of a time when we were safe, warm, and loved. We need even more of that today. That’s what baking is: re-creating beautiful memories.”

  “You know that’s why Sam is a pastry chef?” Angelo asked.

  “I’ve always hoped so,” Willo said.

  “You know she made your special slab pie for Good Morning America, don’t you? It was the day Trish, the pastry chef, walked out. I think it was Sam’s way of paying homage to you while also … well … how can I put this gingerly?” Angelo stopped and thought for a second, his long, dark lashes fluttering as he did. “While also giving Chef Dimples the middle finger.”

  “That’s my girl.” Willo laughed. “Well, let me teach you something my family has made for years … it’s one of the oldest recipes in our family recipe box.”

  “What is it?” Angelo asked.

  “It’s a rhubarb sour cream coffee cake with a cinnamon streusel topping,” she said. “My mouth is already watering. My family has made it forever. My mom said a great recipe box should always have a great coffee cake recipe. This was our go-to on weekends.” She stood and reached out her hand to Angelo, who took it and joined her in the kitchen. Willo pulled the recipe from the box and showed it to Angelo.

  “The handwriting,” Angelo started, “the age of the card. It’s like a piece of history.”

  “And you can bring it to life every time you make it,” she said as she began to pull ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinet. She placed a clump of rhubarb onto the little island. “From my garden this morning. You should know your way around these,” she said. “Get to dicing.”

  As Willo prepared the batter, Angelo began slicing up the stalks of pretty red rhubarb. She then showed him how to make the streusel topping, cutting the brown sugar into the butter and then sprinkling it over the batter. When Willo slid the cake into the oven, she turned to Angelo and said, “See? It’s quick and fills the house with the best smells.”

  As the coffee cake baked, Angelo helped Willo clean up the kitchen. “Are you excited about your and the orchard’s big birthdays?” he asked.

  “Every birthday is big when you get to be my age,” Willo said as she washed a bowl in the big farm sink. “But, yes, I am.” She hesitated, her eyes searching the orchard outside the kitchen window. She flicked some soap suds off her hands and seemed to mutter to herself, “I just hope Sam’s here for it.”

  “Me, too,” Angelo said. Willo’s eyes opened, as if she had forgotten he was in the kitchen with her. She dried her hands, picked up the recipe card, and placed it back in the box.

  “You know, my grandma kept her recipe box under lock and key,” Willo said. “She believed—besides her family and the orchard—it was the most valuable item in her possession. She never wanted anyone to have her recipes except her family. And, although we all still lock ours up out of tradition, I always sort of felt that those secrets should be shared with the world. What do we have if we don’t share our gifts with the world? It would be a pretty lonely place. You can’t keep everything locked away.”

  Suddenly, Willo stopped and looked at Angelo. “Keep an eye on the coffee cake,” she said. “I’ll be back in a flash.” Suddenly, Willo jogged out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Angelo could hear her footsteps overhead and a series of thumps and clatters. Willo returned to the kitchen out of breath, her hands behind her back.

  “Hold out your hands,” she said, still breathing heavily. “I want to give you something.”

  Angelo’s face was etched with a quizzical expression, but he held out his hands. Willo brought her hands from behind her back and placed a tiny, old key in his hands.

  “This is the key to my grandma’s original recipe box,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. Willo showed Angelo the key she wore around her neck. “This is just a replica, like the one Sam wears, too.” She stopped and smiled. “You know, my mom said my grandma used to wear it on a chain around her neck, too, just like we all do now. I think it’s in our DNA. She believed that that way no one would ever be able to steal it, and it would always be close to her heart.” Willo hesitated, and Angelo could see her blue eyes fill with tears. “I’m hoping you can unlock Sam’s heart.”

  She wrapped Angelo’s fingers around the key. “I can’t take this,” he said.

  “Yes, you can,” Willo said. “You have my blessing. And…” She hesitated. “I need you to take it.” She stopped. “I trust you. I know you’ll do the right thing with it … and with Sam.”

  Angelo opened his arms and hugged Willo. “Thank you,” he said, before placing the key into his wallet.

  “No, thank you,” Willo echoed. The oven timer buzzed, and Willo opened the door. She grabbed an oven mitt and toothpick, slid out the rack, and turned to Angelo. “Here’s how you test to see if it’s done,” she said, sticking the toothpick into the middle of the coffee cake. “If it comes out clean, it’s ready. And it’s ready!”

  She set the pan on top of the oven and grabbed two plates and a knife. She cut big wedges for both of them and put the plates on the table. “Mind refreshing our coffee?” she asked Angelo.

  The two took a seat at the table and dug into the steaming fluffy white cake, which was spotted red from the rhubarb, the streusel topping thick and crumbly.

  Angelo’s eyes widened as he took a bite, and then another. “This is the best coffee cake of my life,” he said.

  “You�
��re right. It is,” Willo said quietly with a chuckle. She then leaned toward Angelo and whispered conspiratorially, “But if you’re in a bind and want to impress your roommates, you can always make Betty Crocker in honor of your grandma.”

  Angelo laughed. “They probably wouldn’t know the difference anyway, especially when they were hungover.”

  Willo laughed, and the pair ate another slice of the coffee cake as hummingbirds darted around the patio.

  “Why is this so good?” Angelo asked, shoveling forkfuls of the coffee cake into his mouth. “I mean, come on … this is crazy good.”

  “It’s the love,” Willo said, before adding with a laugh, “actually, it’s the butter. And the sugar.” She stopped. “It’s always the butter and sugar.”

  Angelo laughed and went back for more.

  “I think we might have to make another one,” he mumbled, taking another bite.

  Twenty-six

  “Might as well take an apple for the road,” Sam said. “Or twenty. We’ve got plenty.”

  She reached up and plucked an apple from the tree and tossed it Angelo’s way without any warning. He stuck a hand out at the last minute to nab it before it sailed past him.

  “You’ve got quite the arm on you, Michigan,” he laughed. “You should pitch for the Mets. We need the help.”

  “Tigers,” she said. “I only pitch for the Tigers, Jersey.”

  Angelo laughed, walked up to Sam, and kissed her.

  “You gave me less warning than I gave you,” she said, a smile crossing her face.

  Angelo kept his face close to hers and whispered in a husky tone, “I thought I should get a second chance after being interrupted by your grandmother. And I kind of wanted my first kiss to give you the chills, but I think you nearly got pneumonia instead.”

  Sam laughed and then touched his face, her fingertips trailing over his sexy stubble. Angelo inhaled at her touch, his dimples deepening. Sam kissed him, softly at first, and then harder. “Hope that was hotter,” she said.

  “It was,” Angelo said.

  “I hate to do this, but,” Sam said, checking the time, her voice dropping in disappointment, “we better go. Airport will be a madhouse today.”