When the turnovers went into the oven, Deana and Willo got Madge back into bed. Though her face was racked with pain and exhaustion, she kept her eyes open until the timer rang. Willo brought her a dish: on one side were the apple turnovers, on the other were the cherry, whipped cream dolloped on each.
Willo scooped a bite of the apple onto a spoon and fed her mom. She then did the same with the cherry.
“What’s the verdict?” Willo asked.
Her mother smiled. “Tie,” she said, looking at her daughter. “Thank you.”
Suddenly, her face sagged, and her eyes grew heavy.
Willo’s cheeks quivered. She nodded and kissed her mom. “I’ll clean up,” she said. “You get some sleep.”
When Willo left, Madge wagged a finger at Deana, who was finishing her turnovers. Deana set her plate down, walked over, and sat on the edge of her grandmother’s bed.
“Ours was better,” she whispered in a voice that was barely audible. She held a trembling finger over her mouth and smiled. “Sssshhh. Don’t ever tell your mom.”
Deana giggled.
For a few moments, there was silence. Her grandmother watched the last of the day’s light fill the bedroom and then turned to watch her granddaughter beside her, taking in every nuance of her beautiful face.
“Turnover,” Madge finally whispered. “The world is filled with turnover.”
Deana cocked her head, confused, leaning closer to her grandma.
“Only constant in life is change,” she whispered. “Constant turnover.” She stopped and coughed. “But turnover can be sweet, unexpected, just like the ones we made.” She held out her hand for Deana to take, and she gripped it with all her strength. “Don’t be sad when I’m gone. Celebrate me when you bake. That’s how I’ll live on forever.”
Her grandmother’s pale eyes filled with tears. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too,” Deana said.
Her grandmother’s eyes grew heavy, and she blinked hard to stay awake and stare at her granddaughter. Eventually, she fell asleep, just as the sun began to set, her breathing labored. Deana watched her grandmother sleep for a few moments, still gripping her hand as the color in the room, the color in her face, slowly faded to gray.
And then she went into the kitchen, found the index card still on the stand, retrieved the recipe box, and hid the turnover recipe back in the bottom of the box, just as her grandmother had done.
Thirty
“Oh, Grandma,” Sam said. “I’m so sorry. And my mom’s heart must have broken.”
“Turnover is an interesting word, isn’t it?” she asked as she pared apples. “It means a lot of things … professional turnover, be it loss of a job, like you just experienced, or personal loss, such as the death of loved ones, like we’ve both experienced. We use turnover in running our orchard and pie pantry. It means the amount of money that we’ve received in sales.” She stopped as Sam continued to make the dough. “My mother was right: the only constant in life is change. Turnover is continual.”
Willo set down her knife, reached out, and touched Sam’s arm.
“Good luck on your interview,” she said.
“Grandma,” Sam said, her eyes wide. “How did you know?”
“Not rocket science,” she said. She stopped and searched Sam’s eyes.
“Oh, Grandma,” Sam said in a wavering voice.
“When is it?”
Sam cast her eyes to the floor. “Friday. I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s a great opportunity with a renowned pastry chef who’s running her own show now. I’d be reunited with Trish. I’d be back in the city with my friends.”
“You’d see Angelo,” Willo said.
“Perhaps,” Sam said, again ducking her eyes. She returned to the dough, nervously pushing it back and forth. “I’m going to miss your birthday.” She turned and fought back guilty tears.
“You have my blessing,” Willo said.
“I do?” Sam asked.
“Always,” she said. “No regrets, my beautiful girl. No regrets.”
The two worked in silence to finish the apple and cherry turnovers. They slid them into the oven and started work on the whipped cream. When the turnovers came out of the oven, they took one of each, plopped on some whipped cream, and took a seat at the kitchen table.
“Which do you like better?” Willo finally asked.
“Tie,” Sam said with a smile. “Different, but equally delicious.”
Willo winked. “After my mom died, I sort of went mad,” she said, suddenly very serious. “I would go into the pie pantry and make hundreds of crusts, but I never finished a pie. I never put anything in them. I felt as empty and unfulfilled as they were. One day, I picked up the recipe box and flung it across the room. All of the cards took flight, like little butterflies. I fell to the floor and cried like a baby. As I was sitting in the midst of all the cards, I remembered what Deana had told me that my mom had said, that we shouldn’t be sad when she was gone, that we should celebrate her through our baking, and that was how she’d live on forever. When I began to pick up and sort all the index cards, I found the turnover recipe still stuck in the bottom of the box, right where your mom had left it. I started laughing like a madwoman. And we both decided never to share it.” Willo hesitated. “There’s one stuck in the bottom of your recipe box, too,” she continued. “I bet you never found it.”
Sam shook her head. “No,” she said, reaching out for her grandma’s hand. “I think maybe it’s time you made these for the big celebration, don’t you? I think your mom would love that.”
“She would,” Willo said.
“Thank you for sharing that story with me. Thank you for sharing all of the family recipes with me. And thank you for inspiring me to become a pastry chef.” Sam hesitated. “But most of all, thank you for your blessing.”
The two hugged and returned to the kitchen. Willo began to pick up and clean the mixing bowls and dishes, while Sam began to reorganize the recipe box. As she did, a flash of orange caught her eye. Sam scanned the recipe and as she did, her heart began to race with excitement.
Sounds amazing, she thought. Why have I never made this?
She glanced nervously at her grandma and again felt the familiar pang of guilt in her stomach.
Too simple, she thought. I always thought this wasn’t fancy enough even though I loved eating it.
Sam began to place the card back into the recipe box, but stopped. When her grandmother bent down to load the dishwasher, Sam folded the card in half and secretly stashed the recipe in her pocket.
apple turnovers
Ingredients for Turnovers
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
¾ cup shortening
½ cup whole milk
6 medium baking apples, peeled, cored, and cut into quarters
6 tablespoons sugar
Ground cinnamon
Ground nutmeg
Ingredients for Syrup
2 cups granulated sugar
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
2 cups water
¼ cup unsalted butter
Directions for Turnovers
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
In a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, baking powder, and salt. Cut in the shortening until crumbly. Add the milk and stir until all of the flour is moistened.
Form the dough into a ball. Using a floured rolling pin, roll two-thirds of the dough into a 14-inch square on a generously floured, cloth-covered board. Cut into 4 squares.
Roll the remaining dough into a 14 × 7-inch rectangle. Cut into 2 squares.
Place 4 apple quarters on each pastry square. Sprinkle each square with 1 tablespoon sugar and a sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg. Bring the corners of each pastry up over the apple quarters and press together.
Directions for Syrup
In a medium saucepan over medium-
high heat, bring the sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and water to a boil. Remove from the heat and stir in the butter.
Assembly
Place the turnovers in a buttered 9 × 13-inch baking dish. Pour the syrup over the turnovers (reserve some for later). Bake about 45 minutes, until the crust is golden and the apples are tender. Spoon the remaining syrup over the turnovers. Serve warm with Heavenly Homemade Whipped Cream (recipe follows).
Serves 6
* * *
cherry turnovers
Ingredients
3 cups all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
1½ teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1¼ cups shortening
5 to 6 tablespoons cold water
1 can cherry pie filling (add 3 tablespoons granulated sugar) OR 1 pound fresh cherries, pitted and chopped (add granulated sugar to taste)
Directions
Preheat the oven to 425°F.
In a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, sugar, salt, and cinnamon. Cut in the shortening with a pastry blender until the mixture is pea-sized in consistency (don’t over-blend; make sure the mixture remains loose). Sprinkle mixture with cold water, 1 tablespoon at a time, until the dough has formed.
Form the dough into a ball. Divide the dough in half. Using a floured rolling pin, roll each ball of dough into a 10 × 15-inch rectangle on a floured surface. Cut into six 5-inch squares. Put 2 tablespoons of fruit in the center of each square. Moisten the edges with water and fold over to form a triangle. Seal with a fork and prick the top to vent. Place the turnovers on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake 12 to 15 minutes or until lightly golden.
Serves 6 to 8
* * *
heavenly homemade whipped cream
Ingredients
2 cups heavy whipping cream, cold
8 to 9 tablespoons powdered sugar (regular sugar can be used, but can be grainy; powdered sugar incorporates more evenly)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Directions
Pour the whipping cream into a large mixing bowl.
Mix on low, adding powdered sugar 1 tablespoon at a time.
When the sugar is incorporated, beat on high, adding vanilla toward the end, until fluffy.
(Note: Recipe can be cut in half.)
part eleven
Pumpkin Bars with Cream Cheese Frosting
Thirty-one
Labor Day Weekend 2017
The Brooklyn Bridge was sweltering and jammed.
Sam snaked her way between tourists who were walking slower than the zombies on The Walking Dead, stopping every few feet to take photos, buy water from pop-up vendors for $3 a bottle, or FaceTime with friends from Singapore to St. Louis.
The pace, the people, the diversity, the heat, the smells, Sam thought as she juked left and right between tourists. I’ve missed this.
She heard the chime of a bell, and a man behind her yelled, “On your left!” Sam quickened her pace and stepped farther to the right. When she looked up, an elderly man and woman were stopped in the middle of the bridge licking ice cream cones, the hordes moving around them as if they were a boulder in the middle of a roaring stream. Sam heard the bell behind her chime again, this time over and over, and the man yelled, “Move!” Sam scrambled forward, arms out like a net, and moved the couple a few feet over just as the bicyclist—a man outfitted in a blue gingham jumper, puffy white shirt, red sequined shoes, a double-braided wig, and full beard, complete with a live cairn terrier in the bike’s basket—whizzed by at a high rate of speed.
“Damn tourists!” he yelled. “There’s no place like home … so go home!”
“I’m not a tourist, Dorothy!” Sam yelled back.
“Thank you,” the wild-eyed woman said to Sam, ice cream dripping down her arm. “You gotta love New York.”
“You do,” Sam laughed.
As Sam crossed the bridge, she glanced out at the expanse of Manhattan and Brooklyn—water, bridges, and traffic below her—and slowed for just a second. She tried to stop the thought from forming in her head, but she couldn’t.
There’s no place like home, she thought.
In the distance, Sam could see the Wizard of Oz bicyclist disappear into the crowd, and she suddenly remembered the biker who had yelled at her the last day of her job at Chef Dimples.
“You the last virgin in the city?” a man had screamed as he zipped by on his bike.
“You wish!” Sam had replied.
My grandma taught me to be tough, Sam thought. To bend but never break, just like a willow tree.
Sam shook her head, checked her cell, and picked up her pace.
As she approached the middle of the iconic bridge, a mass of people was huddled, again taking pictures, many trying to capture the panorama of the view, many reading the plaques about the bridge’s history and construction. Even in the sea of people, Sam spotted Angelo. He was standing atop a pillar above the crowd waving his arm. Angelo was wearing a tank top, his body covered in sweat from the heat, his muscles glistening in the sun. Sam gulped. His curly hair was a sexy mop, and he was beaming as brightly as the sun, his dimples as big as commas on a Broadway marquee.
Sam could feel her entire body flush from excitement.
I didn’t expect to feel this way, she thought.
“You made it!” Angelo yelled. He produced an iced latte from behind his back for Sam. “Better drink it fast,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip.
Angelo leaned in and hugged Sam. Her body was a bit stiff at first, the hug tentative, but then Angelo looked into her eyes and leaned in to kiss her, and Sam’s body went limp, and she nearly dropped the iced coffee.
“Boy, it’s good to see you again, Michigan,” he said.
“It’s only been a few days, Jersey,” she said.
“I know, but still…” He smiled and ducked his head. “So, how have you been?”
“Good,” Sam said hesitantly. “OK,” she then hedged. “Preoccupied,” she finally stated.
“OK then,” Angelo said. “You’ve covered all the emotional bases.”
Sam laughed and took another drink of her latte. “A lot on my mind,” she said. “The interview tomorrow, missing my grandma’s birthday and the orchard’s big party…” She hesitated. “… You.”
Angelo smiled.
Stop it with the dimples already, Sam thought.
“So, I bet you’re wondering why I wanted to meet you here?”
“Not really,” Sam said nonchalantly, although she had wondered just that about a hundred times since he’d asked her to meet him.
“You’re a good liar, Michigan,” Angelo laughed.
“OK, maybe I have wondered why,” she said.
Angelo walked to the center of the bridge and gestured at a commemorative plaque.
“Did you know the Brooklyn Bridge was once called ‘The Eighth Wonder of the World’?” Angelo asked. Sam shook her head. “Its length, steel suspension architecture, and design beauty with two towers made it an engineering wonder.” Angelo stopped and looked at Sam. “The broad promenade on which we’re standing above the highways was designed solely for pedestrian use. This bridge has such a great history.”
He walked over to the railing and scanned the city. “It’s also the great connector between Brooklyn and Manhattan,” he continued. He gestured toward the Statue of Liberty in the distance. “I used to come here when I was younger and just stare at her. I thought about how far my family had come, what they went through to get to America and make their way here, what my life would be like.” He hesitated. “Even though the bridge connected the two boroughs, it seemed like such a huge distance to me. I wanted to make it in Manhattan.” He turned to Sam, who came over to him. He slipped his arm around her back. “My job was a way to get there,” he said, nodding his head toward Manhattan. “And then I met you. And you helped me realize that education was the key to take me anywhere, that I could do anything.”<
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Angelo’s voice was thick with emotion, and he was staring hard at the Statue of Liberty, the muscles in his face clenched, as if he didn’t want to cry.
“I want to show you something,” he finally said. He took Sam’s hand and led her along the bridge in the direction of Brooklyn. He finally stopped in front of a section of the bridge whose crisscross steel railing was covered in locks. Some of the locks were painted colors or decorated with hearts, while some featured handmade signs that said, I will love you, forever or To the moon and back, and others simply were emblazoned with the name of a man or woman.
“This started in Italy,” Angelo said. “They’re known as love locks. Love-struck New Yorkers and tourists hang these locks here and then throw the keys into the East River. It’s symbolic … it means they have locked their hearts forever and thrown away the key, so they can never be reopened.”
“I read about that in the Times, I think,” Sam said. “It all started with a book, didn’t it?”
Angelo nodded. “The city is starting to cut all the padlocks off now,” he said. “They’re worried they pose a safety hazard if they fall onto a pedestrian or car below, and they’re also worried about the overall weight of thousands of locks on the bridge.”
He stopped and looked at Sam. “So I figured I didn’t have much time,” he said.
“For what?” Sam asked, tilting her head, her voice rising.
“Look hard,” Angelo said. “Might take a while.”
“What did you do?” Sam asked, her voice sounding both exasperated and excited. “What’s going on?”
“This is like hide-and-seek,” Angelo said with a wry smile. “I’ve hidden something. You have to find it.”
Sam took a big drink of her latte. “Hold this,” she said, handing the cup to him and beginning to scan the railings, which were dense with locks. She walked left and right. She kneeled and studied. After a few minutes, she said, “This could take months. You’re going to have to help me a little bit, Jersey. Say, ‘You’re getting hot,’ or something.”
The Recipe Box Page 24