The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  “Can I show you something before we go?” Angelo asked.

  Sam’s eyes widened.

  “Nothing bad,” Angelo said, pulling out his wallet.

  “Are you paying me?” she asked. “Like Pretty Woman?”

  “Your grandma gave me this,” Angelo said, showing her the key.

  “That’s her grandma’s recipe box key,” Sam said, her voice now rising in surprise. “When did she give you this? Why did she give you this?”

  “She gave it to me when she showed me how to make the coffee cake,” Angelo explained. “She said she trusted me and wanted me to have it so that…” Angelo hesitated. “So that I could unlock your heart.”

  Sam took a step back. “Angelo, that’s very sweet, but this all seems to be moving a little too quickly. You came here on a whim…”

  “I came here to see you,” he said, his face dropping. “I came here because I missed you.”

  “I’m in no-man’s-land right now,” Sam said. “I’m the outfielder who loses the ball in the lights and doesn’t know which way to go. I’m headed to New York for another interview for what could be a dream job. I miss the city. I miss my roommates. I miss making my mark on the world.”

  “Sam, you can make your mark on the world anywhere,” he said. “Paris. New York. Suttons Bay. But you can’t be you everywhere.”

  “Angelo, I’m not sure I’m even ready for a relationship,” she said. “I really wasn’t looking.”

  Angelo smiled in a sad way, his dimples deepening. “You’re always looking,” he said. “For something. Sometimes, though, when you’re always looking ahead, you miss what you already have.”

  Sam checked her cell again.

  “I’m ready,” Angelo said. “Let me know when you head back to the city. I’d love to see you. You know that.” He began to walk toward the barn. He stopped and turned to take in the expanse: the orchard, the bay, the lake, the sky. “Michigan is just as beautiful and beguiling as you, Michigan.”

  Angelo held out his hand for Sam to take.

  Take it, Sam, she thought. Take his hand.

  Instead, she acted as if she didn’t see it and reached over to pick another apple. “You might need an extra for the drive,” she said, her voice falsely chipper.

  Angelo nodded and took the apple, his dimples disappearing.

  rhubarb sour cream coffee cake with cinnamon streusel topping

  Ingredients for Coffee Cake

  11/3 cups granulated sugar

  ½ cup butter, room temperature

  ¼ teaspoon maple extract

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 large egg

  1 cup sour cream

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  Dash of salt

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  2 cups rhubarb, chopped into ¼-inch pieces (let rest on paper towels and then blot dry)

  Ingredients for Topping

  ½ cup brown sugar, packed

  1 tablespoon butter, room temperature

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  Directions for Coffee Cake

  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  In a large mixing bowl, cream the sugar, butter, maple extract, and vanilla. Add the egg and mix on high.

  Reduce the mixer speed to low, add the sour cream, and mix to combine.

  In a separate bowl, combine the baking soda, salt, and flour with a fork.

  Slowly add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and mix on low, just until combined. Do not overmix.

  Remove the bowl from the mixer and slowly fold in the rhubarb with a spatula.

  Directions for Topping

  Place the topping ingredients in a small bowl and cut with a pastry cutter into crumbly pea-sized pieces.

  Assembly

  Pour the batter into a buttered 9 × 13-inch glass baking dish. Sprinkle the topping over the batter.

  Bake 40 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cake comes out clean.

  Serves 12 to 14

  part ten

  Apple and Cherry Turnovers

  Twenty-seven

  Summer 2017

  Willo had a vision. And a megaphone.

  “A little more to the left,” she said, her voice booming through the megaphone and reverberating across the orchard. “Higher. Higher!”

  Six workers on ladders were holding a giant, double-sided banner in midair and attempting to hang it over the entrance to the orchards and pie pantry. It read:

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO … US!

  CELEBRATE OUR CENTENNIAL (AND GRANDMA WILLO’S BIRTHDAY)!

  MULLINS FAMILY ORCHARDS & PIE PANTRY IS TURNING 100! AND OUR MATRIARCH IS TURNING 75!

  WE HOPE YOUR FAMILY WILL JOIN OURS FOR THIS ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME CELEBRATION!

  PI = 3.14159 (WHO ARE WE KIDDING? PIE = LOVE!)

  “Grandma, people in Traverse City can hear you,” Sam said. “And everyone has cell phones now. You can just text them instead of scaring half of Michigan.”

  Willo shot her a withering glance.

  “And I haven’t seen an actual megaphone since, well, ever,” Sam continued, pushing her grandmother’s buttons.

  Willo laughed. “It’s nice to have you home,” she said. Willo meant to say it softly, sweetly, but her mouth was still up to the megaphone, and her voice again boomed.

  “It’s nice to be home,” Sam yelled back, causing her grandmother to dissolve into a fit of giggles.

  “We have so much work to do for the party,” Willo said. “It’s nice to have your help. And it will be so great having you home for the celebration.” She stopped. “And my birthday.”

  Sam looked at her grandmother, and her heart sank knowing she had the interview coming up for a job that would carry her away.

  Sam turned, acting as if she were looking out over the orchards, and, as she did, her cell vibrated. She pulled it from the pocket of her shorts and saw that there was a voice mail. Sam took a few steps away and listened.

  “Hi, Sam,” the message started, “this is Colette from Doux Souvenirs. Listen, I hate to do this last minute, but I was hoping we might be able to schedule your interview for this weekend. I know it’s Labor Day, but we’re getting busier and busier, and I need to hire a pastry chef to assist me and Trish before fall and the holiday season kicks into high gear. Trish said you were sort of between things right now, and you’d be free to talk. Would you be available Friday? Call me when you can. Thanks. Bye.”

  Though it was a bright morning, a gloomy feeling was suddenly cast over the day.

  Sam turned, and her grandmother was watching her closely. A sad smile crept over Willo’s face, and her shoulders drooped in disappointment until her back was shaped like a comma.

  “Don’t tell me right now,” she said in a soft voice, her head shaking, the green stem on her cap trembling.

  “How did…” Sam started.

  “Grandma’s intuition,” Willo said, cutting her off before she could finish. “Let’s go make something for the party. Together. And then you tell me, OK?”

  Sam could feel her lip quiver, and she blinked hard—once, twice—to keep tears at bay. “OK, Grandma,” she said. “OK.”

  Twenty-eight

  “Don’t you want to bake in the pie pantry?” Sam asked as they passed it and headed toward Willo’s house.

  “No,” Willo said without turning around. “I wanted to bake with you at home. Just us.”

  “Like you did with Angelo?” Sam asked.

  Willo turned and smiled. “A kitchen should be buzzing with activity,” she said. “Mine has been quiet lately.” She looked at Sam. “I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty either. I just want to be a little bit selfish. Have you all to myself right now.” She hesitated. “While I have the chance.”

  Sam nodded at her grandmother and then looked away.

  “It was nice to bake with Angelo,” Willo said, opening her front door and heading directly into the kitchen. “He’s a very nice young man. Very grounded.
”

  Alex, I’ll take Guilt for a thousand, Sam thought.

  “What do you want to make?” Sam asked instead, trying to change the subject.

  “It’s National Cherry Turnover Day,” Willo said. “August twenty-eighth. So I thought we’d make turnovers.”

  “How do you know these things?” Sam asked in a happy voice, trying to lessen her guilt.

  “I run a pie pantry,” Willo said, pulling flour and butter from the cupboard and refrigerator. “I have to know these things.”

  “Why aren’t turnovers on the menu?” Sam asked. “I’ve always wondered.”

  “Well, that’s something you need to know as well,” Willo said, putting down the butter and looking at Sam. “It’s the one recipe I’ve never shared. Until today.”

  Willo walked over to the cabinet, retrieved her recipe box, and unlocked it. Without warning, she turned it upside down, and all the recipe cards came tumbling out onto the counter.

  “Grandma,” Sam yelled. “What are you doing?”

  The recipe cards were of every variety: index cards with handwritten recipes and index cards with typewritten recipes; cards that featured photos and drawings of the recipe, and cards that had recipes from magazines taped onto them; many cards that were emblematic of different eras in American culture and design. Cards from the 1950s featured pretty little borders around the edges, while cards from the 1970s featured funky typefaces and art of fish, onions, and mushrooms. Most read Recipe or Here’s What’s Cookin’ at the top with From the Kitchen of or Recipe From directly underneath. Many index cards just had lines on which to write, while some were more specific and read Cooking Time, Oven Temp, Serves, Ingredients, and Instructions.

  But Sam quickly noticed they all had one thing in common: all the index cards were stained, dotted, worn. Butter, gravy, icing, sticky fingerprints were present on every card, revealing not just a recipe but a history.

  A family’s history, Sam thought. Flecked with love.

  “Here it is,” Willo said, her voice high, shaking the now-empty recipe box.

  “Did you miss your meds this morning?” Sam asked with a laugh.

  “Look!”

  Willo held out the recipe box and there—stuck in the very bottom like a forgotten blanket at the bottom of a chest—was a single card. Willo grabbed a fork from the utensil drawer and popped it free. She handed the card to Sam.

  “Apple turnovers,” Sam said, her voice rising.

  “Turn it over,” Willo said.

  “Cherry turnovers,” Sam added. She looked at her grandma. “I’m so confused.”

  “The two recipes I never shared,” she said. “My favorites. They remind me of my mom. We each felt we had the best turnover recipe: my mom’s is the apple turnovers, mine is the cherry. We used to have bake-offs. Both were so good. Everyone in the family was scared to choose a favorite, especially your mom, and I never really could; I loved them both.” She hesitated. “They’re so special to me that I could never include them on the menu at the pie pantry.”

  “Why?” Sam asked. “Especially if it means so much, and the recipes are so good. You’ve always felt it was important to share our gifts with the world.”

  Willo nodded, looked at the kitchen window, and smiled. Sam followed her gaze. There was nothing outside, save for the usual summer buzz of tourists entering the orchard.

  “Turnover,” Willo whispered to herself. “Life is filled with turnover.”

  Twenty-nine

  Fall 1975

  Deana sat in a cushioned chair by the bedroom window trying to do her schoolwork, but it couldn’t divert her attention. Her mother held a cold washcloth to her grandmother’s head, whispering, “It’s OK, Mom. It’s all going to be OK.”

  That’s a lie, Deana thought. It’s not going to be OK.

  Her grandmother’s eyes were closed. She was pale, her skin dry; sores were present under her nose, and she was so thin Deana could see the outline of her bones underneath her pajamas, blue veins present on her arms, legs and face like highways on a map.

  She doesn’t look like herself anymore, Deana thought.

  Deana had heard the word cancer in church and in school, but now it had come to invade her home and her family.

  It has come to steal my grandma, Deana thought. Ovarian cancer. Just like my grandma’s mom.

  She stared at her math textbook. The numbers and symbols blurred in front of her eyes, and she didn’t realize she was crying until teardrops plopped onto the pages. She put her pencil between her teeth and chewed on it, hard, to stop her emotions.

  It was a beautiful fall day, crisp but still warm. The sugar maples that surrounded her grandmother’s house were turning color—brilliant orange, crimson, gold—and it lit the dreary bedroom in saturated tones. The world was alive, filled with color, and yet her grandmother was dying.

  It’s not fair, Deana thought. It’s not fair.

  “How many tablespoons in a stick of butter?”

  Deana lifted her head. Her grandmother’s eyes fluttered, steadied, and focused.

  “How many tablespoons in a stick of butter?” Madge repeated.

  Deana shook her head, the pencil still in her mouth, not comprehending. She blinked hard, a lone tear trailing down her face.

  “That’s real math,” her grandma said in a weak voice. “The kind of math you’re going to have to do here. You should know that by now.”

  Willo turned and looked at her daughter, a smile etched on her exhausted face. Eight, she mouthed.

  Deana removed the pencil from her mouth. “Eight,” she said.

  Her grandmother’s face slowly worked itself into a smile, as if God Himself had grabbed the edges of her mouth and lifted them for all the world to see.

  “Recipe box,” her grandmother said in a hoarse voice. Willo nodded and retreated, returning with the box. She placed it gingerly atop her mother’s lap and opened it with the key around her neck. With great effort, Madge picked up the recipe box and promptly turned it upside down.

  “Mom?” Willo asked. “What are you doing? Are you OK?”

  Madge laid the box back atop her lap and pointed a trembling finger at it. “Look inside,” she said.

  Willo picked it up, looked, and then shot a questioning glance at her mother. She dug her hand into the box and jiggled it around as if trying to free something, then pulled out a recipe card.

  “Read it,” her mom said.

  “Apple turnovers,” Willo read.

  “Turn over the turnover,” Madge said, a slight lilt in her voice.

  “Cherry turnovers,” Willo read. Slowly, Willo’s face changed from confusion to joy. “These are our turnover recipes,” she said, her voice shaky.

  Her mother nodded.

  “Why did you hide them?”

  “One of the first recipes we made together,” she said. “Our secret.”

  “Mom,” Willo whispered, leaning down to kiss her mother softly on the cheek. She walked over to Deana and kneeled beside her, showing her daughter the recipe card. “This is her apple turnover recipe,” she explained, before flipping the card over. “And this is mine.”

  She continued. “Your great-grandmother was known for making apple crisp,” she said. “She made it for church socials and picnics, and people around here begged for the recipe. But she would never give it away. She said it was meant to share only with family. Your grandmother wanted to make her own mark, and she came up with this apple turnover recipe. It was the very first thing I remember making with her. Everyone around here loved it, too. When I got older, I wanted to make my own mark, just like she did, so I came up with my own cherry turnover recipe. It’s a little easier than hers—my gosh, I think I was just a teenager when I came up with it—but it’s so delicious, too. One day, we had a bake-off, and we tasted each other’s recipes.”

  “What happened?” Deana asked, eyes wide.

  “It was a draw,” her grandmother said with a smile.

  “We wrote our recipes on
this card, and your grandma must have hidden it after that,” she said. “I could make these from memory.” She turned to look at her mom. “Why did you hide these?”

  “Family treasure,” she said. Slowly, she pushed herself up in bed, straining, using all her might to get on her elbows. “Bake-off,” she said, winded. “Final time.”

  “Mom,” Willo started. “You’re too weak. You can’t…”

  “No, but Deana can,” she said with a definitive nod. “She needs to learn this recipe. Otherwise…” She stopped, her voice emotional. “Won’t be around to see her get the recipe box at thirteen.”

  Deana’s eyes grew wider, and she held back her tears. “OK,” she said, standing up, chest out, acting strong. “I’m ready.”

  “Help me into my wheelchair,” Madge said.

  “Mom,” Willo started again.

  “Get me into my wheelchair,” she repeated with force, her jaw clenched.

  The two helped her into her wheelchair, an inch at a time, stopping every few seconds to allow the pain to subside just enough to start again. When she was in her wheelchair, Willo pushed her mother into the kitchen, Deana following with the index card.

  Willo put the card into a stand on the counter. “I’ll bake my cherry turnovers, and your grandma will teach you how to make her apple turnovers. Just listen carefully and do everything she says.”

  Deana nodded.

  “The secret’s in the syrup, the crust, and the apples,” her grandmother said. “Run out and pick six of the prettiest apples you can find, OK? A mix of tart and sweet. Hurry.” Deana darted out the door with a basket and ran to the orchard, dashing from tree to tree in the quickening twilight to pick the prettiest, juiciest apples. She sprinted back into the kitchen, out of breath, showing her apples to her grandmother. “Perfect,” she said. “First, the crust.”

  Slowly, her grandmother walked Deana through the recipe. As her granddaughter measured, peeled, and sliced, the smells transported Madge. She could feel her hands in the flour, turning the dough. She could feel the glossy peel of the apples in her hands. She could sense that just an extra dash of cinnamon was needed.