Sam stopped. What if it doesn’t turn out, though? she wondered. What if …
Sam suddenly shook her head and waved her arms in front of her body. “Stop it!” she said in the dark to herself. “Stop sabotaging everything before it’s even happened.”
As she did, the flashlight in her hand illuminated her bedroom walls like a strobe light. The tiny cube of a room brightened from left to right, as if a car were passing by at night, headlights on. When her hand stopped, the flashlight had settled on the wall in front of her and illuminated a plaque that her grandma had given to her when she first moved to New York.
Sure, you can mix the flour, baking soda, salt, shortening and the whole nine yards, but why wouldn’t you just pull out a box of Bisquick?
—Sandra Lee
Sam had nearly thrown the gift out when she received it.
“I can’t put this up, Grandma,” Sam had said. “My classmates would never let me live it down. A quote from the ‘Semi-Homemade’ chef? Really?”
“Lots of people are too busy to do what you do, and what we do at the pie pantry,” said Willo, who loved watching the Food Network and its assortment of personalities. “Doesn’t mean they don’t want to bake or cook. They still want a good meal. They still want something more than fast food, a frozen pizza, or slice-and-bake cookies. But sometimes, they’re just too busy to spend a lot of time. Shortcuts are OK as long as they’re not compromises.”
When Sam had hung the plaque, her classmates had goaded her, telling her about the reception Lee had received from celebrated chefs like Anthony Bourdain and asking her exactly what Bisquick was.
“Quick biscuits,” Sam had said. And then she had surprised her classmates with fresh biscuits, which they’d raved about, none of them realizing they’d been made with Bisquick.
Sam picked up her phone, clicked off the flashlight, and began to text.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GRANDMA! Sam wrote, adding a gif of a cake featuring a flickering 75 candle. I know you’re not awake yet, but I’m thinking of you, I love you, and I miss you!
Sam hit send and a minute later her phone trilled.
Thank you! I love you and am thinking of you, too! Up early watching the sun come up … it’s the most glorious orange. Shine bright today and remember to show your true colors!
Sam immediately began to tear up, and she sent a series of heart emojis to her grandma, followed by a series of birthday balloons that floated across the screen.
If she’s up, Sam thought, I might as well get up, too. It’s a big day for all of us.
Sam stood, stretched, and looked out her bedroom window.
Hello, brick wall. Sam laughed, staring at the buildings that sat across the narrow alley from her own.
Without warning, the neon sign for the Indian restaurant below came to life. In the predawn dark, the sign illuminated the alley.
NAAN BETTER, the sign blinked, turning Sam’s urban vista a bright, iridescent orange. Sam looked at the sign blinking, as bright orange as Indian spices, and blinked along with it.
I never realized, Sam thought, her eyes filled with orange. What if the sign is a sign?
Thirty-four
The orchard was teeming with activity.
Willo stood at the edge of the barn, surveying the celebration. The U-Pick was open, and every tree seemed to have someone underneath it, picking fruit. Kids’ games were set up in the middle of the orchard: bobbing for apples, crafts, face painting. Food was being served outside the pie pantry, and smoke from the barbecue grills drifted lazily into the blue sky. Pie was being sold at makeshift tables, while a line of people waited to go inside the pantry for pie-making demonstrations and a line of cars snaked down the road waiting to enter.
“Hi, Willo!” a group of girls said as they passed, waving happily as they licked apple cider ice pops. “You look so pretty!”
“Thank you, girls,” Willo said. She looked down and smoothed her skirt. Rather than her standard outfit, Willo was wearing a pretty blue dress that matched her eyes, she had curled her hair into soft waves, and she was wearing makeup.
“Happy birthday, Mom!”
Willo turned, and Deana and Gary were standing beside her. She hugged and kissed them both.
“You look beautiful,” Gary said.
Willo did a little twirl. “Thank you,” she said.
“As pretty as the weather,” Deana added.
It was a perfect kickoff to Labor Day weekend in Suttons Bay, whose holiday forecast was usually more mixed than a triple berry galette. The weather on Labor Day weekend could be cold and rainy, cloudy and cool, or warm and sunny, but it varied greatly from year to year.
“We lucked out,” Willo said. “Our prayers were answered.”
The three stood in silence for a few seconds, the echoes of children’s laughter and excited screams filling the air.
“I never dreamed…” Willo started, before stopping and clearing her throat. She started again, but her voice was thick with emotion.
“Oh, Mom,” Deana said, slipping an arm around her mother’s waist and pulling her close. “Are you OK?”
Willo nodded. “I just never dreamed that our orchard would grow into something like this,” she said, “or make it a hundred years. I’m very proud of what our family has done.” She hesitated and turned to her daughter and son-in-law. “I’m very proud of both of you.”
Deana and Gary smiled. “We wouldn’t be here without you,” Gary said. “I’m very proud of you. You are an amazing woman.”
Willo’s cheeks flushed crimson.
“Seventy-five,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t feel seventy-five today. I still feel like one of the young girls here.”
“You still act like one,” Gary joked.
Willo smiled. “Life goes by so fast. I can remember standing here as a young girl, watching my parents when they weren’t even your age. You can’t stop time. You can only hope you use it wisely.”
“You have, Mom,” Deana said, her voice now emotional. “You have.”
“I hope so,” Willo said. “I don’t have a lot of time left on this earth…”
“Mom, stop,” Deana interrupted.
“Well, it’s true. I’m sorry to say that,” she said. “I’m not worried about my life ending. It’s been a joyous ride.”
Suddenly, a plump little boy in overall shorts, toddling barefoot unsteadily—his parents on each side of him, tightly gripping his hands and largely keeping him upright—came up to Willo.
“Jackson has something he wants to give you,” his mom said, a big smile on her tan face. “You can give it to the nice lady now, Jackson.”
His parents let go and Jackson stuck a chubby hand down the front of his overalls and produced an apple—as round, red, and handsome as his face. He giggled excitedly and then simply tossed the apple into the air, where it rolled toward Willo on the ground.
“Sorry,” the boy’s father said. “He’s not so good at handing things to people yet.”
“Can you say what you wanted to say?” his mom asked. “You can tell the nice lady.”
“Hoppy bowfday!” Jackson said, jumping up and down after saying the words.
Willo kneeled and looked directly at the little boy. “Thank you, Jackson,” she said. “Can I give you a hug?”
The boy looked up at his parents, who nodded their approval. Willo hugged Jackson and gave him a kiss on top of the head.
“My parents have brought me here every Labor Day weekend since I was a little girl,” the woman said. “We’re from Chicago and coming here makes our summer complete. We want to pass that along to our son. I just wanted to say thank you to you and your family, and wish you a happy birthday because you’ve given my family so many sweet memories over the years.”
Willo could feel tears rise, and she willed them back, hugging the young woman.
“Thank you,” she said. “From the bottom of my heart.”
The family smiled and walked toward the pie pantry. Willo p
icked up the apple at her feet, rubbed it on her dress, and took a bite, the orchard reflected in the tears now rimming her eyes.
“It’s this I don’t want to end,” Willo said in a whisper of a voice. “My family and my orchard are my legacies.”
“Mom,” Deana said. “It’s all going to work out. Think of how many times our family has been challenged over the last century. Sometimes you just have to believe it will work out … and it will. That’s what you taught us. Think of that family you just met, of all the people you’ve influenced over the years.” Deana stopped and scratched her head. “What was that poem you used to recite to me when I complained about baking, or working here? Remember?”
“The ‘Recipe for a Good Life’?” Willo said with a smile, remembering. “Take a few cups of kindness…”
“One dash of humility,” Deana continued, as the two recited in unison the poem about how the ingredients of laughter, patience, forgiveness, love, faith, and courage should be combined equally in life and passed along to those you meet.
Willo leaned into her daughter when they had finished. “Thank you for reminding me of that,” she said. “It’s a poem from Muhammad Ali.”
All of a sudden, Willo felt her feet go off the ground, and she was being spun around in a circle, the orchard flashing in front of her, then the barn, then Deana and Gary.
“Happy birthday, Grandma!”
Willo was back on the ground, the world still spinning. When she turned, Aaron was standing before her.
“My grandson!” she yelled. “It’s so good to see you. What are you doing here?”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he said.
Willo looked at her grandson towering over her, the young boy she always saw now a grown man.
“I love you, Grandma,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
“So, Sam’s back in New York?” he asked. Willo nodded. “She texted me earlier this week, but haven’t heard from her since.” He stopped. “Been sorta busy with fraternity rush.”
Suddenly, a cymbal crashed in the distance.
“Speakin’ a’ which,” Aaron said, pointing toward the edge of the orchard. “Surprise! I brought some friends who have a band in Ann Arbor. Thought it might be fun for them to play tonight.”
“You should have asked us first,” Gary said.
“Sorry,” Aaron said. “I just wanted to give her a gift, too.”
“It’s OK,” Willo said. “Thank you, Aaron. I love it. That’ll be fun. As long as you will dance with me.” Willo gave him a big wink.
“It would be my pleasure, Grandma,” he said. “So, when do you want the band to play ‘Happy Birthday’? We could do it now…”
Willo interrupted Aaron before he could finish. “Why don’t we wait a while?” she said. “Everything is just gearing up.”
“But we should do it while everyone’s here, right?” he asked.
“It won’t be dark for hours,” Willo said. “We have plenty of time.”
“OK,” Aaron said, taking off. “I’m off to get some pie. On the house, right?”
Willo laughed. “First slice only!”
As her grandson jogged away, Willo laughed, belying what was really on her mind.
One of my birthday gifts is here, she thought. But the other has yet to arrive.
Thirty-five
“Don’t be nervous.”
Trish handed Sam an espresso in a little white cup.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Sam asked, looking at the espresso. “I’ve had an entire pot of coffee and a three-shot latte … I can’t tell nervous from heart palpitations anymore.”
Trish laughed. “Then sip it,” she said. Trish put her hands on her friend’s shoulders and gave her a gentle massage. “You got this.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
“You’ll love Colette. She’s real and genuine. Everything Chef Narcissist wasn’t.”
Sam chuckled.
“I have to get back to work,” Trish said. “I’ll check in when you’re done.”
Sam looked around the little bakery in downtown Manhattan. Doux Souvenirs was real and genuine, everything Dimples Bakery wasn’t. The small shop’s brick walls were adorned with black-and-white photos of women baking. Despite Colette’s renown, there were no celebrities in the bakery taking selfies or talking loudly on their cells, just an assortment of businessmen and women, a scattering of tourists, and some well-heeled uptown-looking women who must have read about the place and were checking it out.
“Those photographs are of my mother and my grandmother.”
Sam jumped, and Colette appeared at her table.
“Mes excuses,” she said in French. “My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.”
Sam stood and extended her hand. “I’m Sam Nelson. Thank you for having me.”
“Sit, sit,” Colette said, waving her hand. “S’il vous plaît.”
“I’ve had a bit of coffee in preparation for this interview,” Sam said, lifting the espresso. “In advance, pardon my face twitching and non sequiturs.”
Colette laughed. “No need to be nervous,” she said. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”
She gestured to the photos on the walls at which Sam had just been looking. “Those are family photos of me with my mother and grandmother in France,” she said, before letting a small chuckle out. “Everyone in America says—how do they put it?—‘Your life is so Chocolat’—like the movie. But the women in my life taught me the art of baking, and the history of their family recipes.” She stopped and smiled at the photos and then at Sam. “It’s more than a passion to me. It’s like … breathing. It’s like … love.”
Colette was lithe, fit, and impossibly pretty, one of those women with high cheekbones, flawless skin, and wide eyes who didn’t have to wear much makeup to look gorgeous. She resembled the French actress Audrey Tautou in beauty, and yet her demeanor was unassuming and inviting, her smile like an open gate to a summer garden.
“Tell me a little about yourself.” Colette stopped and smiled at Sam.
Sam began to talk about her culinary training, but Colette held up a finger. “I know all about that,” she said sweetly. “It’s a wonderful school. But I want to know why you bake. Tell me a story.”
Despite the caffeine, Sam could feel her heart stop. She nodded, shut her eyes for a brief moment, and eased back in her chair.
“It’s my grandmother’s birthday,” Sam started, her voice suddenly emotional. “She’s seventy-five. I grew up on a family orchard, where we run our own pie pantry, and…” Sam stopped and gestured at Colette’s family photos. “Like you, my mother and grandmother taught me to bake.”
Sam told Colette about the history of the orchard and pie pantry, the struggles and triumphs, of receiving the sacred family recipe box at thirteen, of loving home but needing to leave. When she finished, Colette held her petite hand out across the table, and she took Sam’s in hers.
“We are kindred spirits,” she said. “Raised and loved by wonderful women. Flour is in our blood.
“Why don’t we head back to the kitchen now,” Colette continued, standing. “I’d love it if you would bake something for me.”
This time, Sam could feel her heart flutter. “Of course,” Sam said.
As the two entered the kitchen, Colette handed Sam an apron, and she showed her around. “I won’t hover, I promise,” Colette said with a big smile. “Make me something that reminds you of home. You are cooking among friends,” she continued.
“OK,” Sam said, looking over at Trish, who mouthed, You got this, girl!, then made “snake eyes,” pointing two fingers from her eyes toward Sam to give her strength, luck, and focus.
Sam took a deep breath and then subconsciously felt for the recipe card she had tucked into the back pocket of the black dress pants she’d worn to the interview.
Here goes nothin’, Grandma, she thought.
Sam began weighing out the ingredients but stopped
when she remembered that her family recipe called for Bisquick.
Do it the right way, Sam, she told herself, moving around the kitchen to gather flour, baking powder, salt, and butter.
Sam mixed the batter, added the spices, greased a 9-by-13-inch pan, and then slid the pumpkin bars into the oven.
I feel like I’m on Chopped, Sam thought, referring to the Food Network reality show where chefs compete against one another by making a three-course dinner using mystery ingredients pulled from a picnic basket in under thirty minutes. What if I get chopped?
Sam shook her head and started in on the cream cheese frosting while the pumpkin bars baked. She beat the dense, sweet topping until it was creamy, sticking a finger into the frosting at the end to taste.
A little more vanilla, she thought.
Sam checked the bars, sticking a toothpick into the middle to see if they were fully baked, just as her grandma had taught her when she was young.
“Perfect,” she said to herself.
When they were cool, Sam began to spread on the frosting, thick and heavy with a spatula, until the bars resembled a swirling cloud of sugar.
“It smells so wonderful,” Colette said, walking over. “Is it OK to taste them now?”
Sam nodded. Colette grabbed a knife, coated it with cooking spray, and then wiped it clean before cutting a slice that slid out perfectly and evenly. She placed it on a pretty white plate and then repeated two more times, calling over Trish. Colette handed a plate to Sam. “A chef should always taste her own creation, yes?” she asked.
“Yes,” Sam said.
Sam slid her fork through the pumpkin bar and lifted it to her mouth, chewing robotically, unable to taste it, waiting for Colette’s reaction.
Colette shut her eyes as she chewed the dessert. She swallowed, smiled, and then tasted it again. In just a few seconds, the pumpkin bar was gone.
“Tastes like fall,” she said. “Like home on a crisp autumn day. Just like something your grandma would make from an old recipe box.”
Trish stood behind Colette nodding, then shot Sam another snake eyes and a big thumbs-up.
“Thank you,” Sam said. “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to make exactly, and I saw this recipe in my grandmother’s recipe box when I was home. It reminded me of just what you said, of something your grandma would make.”
The Recipe Box Page 26