The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  “Tell me about the recipe,” Colette asked. “How did you make it?”

  “Well,” Sam said, and laughed, “my grandma always made it with Bisquick, but I changed it to make it a little more refined.”

  “Why?” Colette asked.

  Sam looked at her, eyes wide. “Well, I mean, it’s Bisquick,” she said, again with a nervous laugh. “Not a lot of Bisquick in culinary school.”

  Colette walked over to a large cupboard, opened the door, and turned. “Voilà!” She laughed, holding up a box of Bisquick, putting her finger over her mouth as if it were a secret. “Sssshhhh!”

  Sam’s eyes grew even wider.

  “I … I … I…” Sam stuttered.

  “Even trained pastry chefs take shortcuts sometimes,” Colette said. “Not very often, but on occasion. We will never admit it in public, but we do sometimes.” She returned the box to the cupboard and walked over to Sam, leaning against the marble counter.

  “My mom would often use instant potatoes for her hachis Parmentier,” Colette said with a big smile. “I thought her shepherd’s pie was the best in the world, and she used instant potatoes. I make it the same way for my family now. Sometimes, things are perfect as they are. Even if they’re not perfect.”

  Sam smiled and nodded.

  “Did you always want to own your own shop one day?” Sam asked.

  “I did,” Colette said. “I worked under some wonderful chefs, but I wanted to run my own business. I think that’s what we all want in the end. To make our mark on the world.”

  “That’s what I want, too,” Sam said.

  Colette walked over to Sam and touched her arm. “It sounds like you have that already,” she said softly, before looking around her kitchen. “A corner shop on a street in New York, an old barn in Michigan, a stone kitchen in France. It doesn’t matter where something is made, it matters who makes it and why.”

  She continued. “That’s why I called my shop Sweet Memories. I’m trying to re-create and recapture my childhood. People don’t bake anymore. They don’t spend time in kitchens with their family. If we can just give them a taste of that memory, a warm feeling, a delicious dessert, even an impetus to go home and bake in their kitchens with their own families, then our work is done.”

  Colette picked up her fork and dug into the pumpkin bars, as if she were alone at home in a robe eating with no one around to judge.

  “This really is quite good,” Colette said. “I’d love to add this to our menu here. It’s perfect for fall.” She stopped. “That is, if you’re willing to part with a secret family recipe.”

  Colette leaned toward Sam, as if she were seeing her for the first time. “I just noticed what was around your neck,” she said. “Is that a key?” She walked closer. “Two keys?”

  Sam self-consciously felt for the keys around her neck. She had added the one Angelo had given her to the one she already had, and decided to wear them both this morning for good luck.

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  “How pretty and unique,” Colette said. “Where did you get them?”

  “Long story,” Sam said, “but one is the original key to my great-great-grandmother’s recipe box, and the other is the one to my recipe box.”

  “Incredible,” Colette said, stepping forward to study the keys more closely. She looked at Sam. “I bet it has unlocked many sweet memories.”

  Sam smiled and nodded, feeling the keys.

  “I would be honored if you would join me here,” Colette said with a definitive nod. “I think we would make a great team.”

  “You’re offering me a job?” Sam asked, her voice rising in excitement.

  “I am,” she said. “I will put together an offer and call you later today. Does that sound acceptable?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “Yes! Of course. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Colette extended her hand. “No,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned to Trish, who was listening closely but doing a bad job of acting as if she weren’t. “And thank Trish, too.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kravitz,” Sam said, laughing.

  “I don’t fully understand American humor,” Colette said. “That will need some explaining.”

  Sam and Trish laughed. “I will call you later,” Colette said. “I have a meeting, but Trish will show you out when you’re ready. Good-bye, Sam.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “From the bottom of my heart.”

  Colette smiled at Sam and then glanced again at her keys. “You wear them close to your heart for a reason, don’t you?” she asked.

  Sam blushed and nodded.

  As Colette exited, the kitchen door swung open. Beyond the shop’s windows, Sam caught a glimpse of a tree. Her knees quaked, and she suddenly felt overcome with emotion and confusion.

  Is that…? Sam wondered, arcing her neck for a closer look as the door swung closed again. It is. A willow.

  And I did wear these close to my heart for a reason, she thought, gripping the keys harder in her hands. I just don’t know right now if they’re a talisman or an anchor.

  Thirty-six

  The orchard was aglow.

  Lights twinkled from strands that had been strung between the rows of trees, the breeze making them sway. In the dark, the lights resembled thousands of fireflies. Lanterns lined the path between the trees, a lit highway that arced up and over the hillside before stopping. In the far distance, lights from boats that had gone for sunset sails looked like eyes that were attempting to sneak a peek into the party.

  Willo stood at the edge of the barn as the band played and people danced, her eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness beyond the orchard.

  “Grandma,” Aaron said, startling her. “It’s getting late. Can the band play ‘Happy Birthday’ now?”

  Willo wanted to shake her head no, but she forced herself to nod.

  “Cool,” he said, blowing his blond bangs out of his eyes, just as he’d done when he was little, just as his sister always did. “I’ll let them know. Be ready with your speech and to take a bow, OK?”

  He jogged off into the darkness.

  “Mom,” Deana said, approaching. “Are you OK? Seems like every time I’ve looked for you, you’ve been standing right here.”

  “I’m fine, sweetheart,” she said. “Just a bit overwhelmed.”

  “I know,” Deana said, pulling her mom close and giving her a hug. “Big day.”

  The music stopped, and Aaron’s voice blared over the speakers. “Can I have your attention, please?”

  He waited for the crowd to settle and quiet. “Thank you,” he said. “And thank you all for coming. As you know, today is a day of monumental celebration for my family. It marks the one hundredth anniversary of our orchard, and my grandma’s seventy-fifth birthday.”

  The crowd hooted and hollered, yelling, “Happy birthday!” into the night.

  “My grandma wanted to say a few words before the band played ‘Happy Birthday,’ so if you’ll turn your attention to the woman of the night—standing at the barn—the best pie maker, businesswoman, and grandma in the world … Willo!”

  Deana handed Willo a microphone. She lifted it to her mouth when a spotlight suddenly clicked on, illuminating Willo, blinding her.

  “Turn that thing off,” Willo said into the mic. The crowd tittered, and Willo looked over at Gary, who was beaming as brightly as the light and shaking his head no.

  “Speech!” someone yelled. “Speech!”

  “Thank you all for coming tonight,” she said, the speakers emitting a ear-piercing screech for a second. “That was my stomach … I’m a little nervous, and it’s letting you know how I really feel right now,” Willo ad-libbed, and people laughed, breaking the tension.

  She continued, “This orchard has not only been my home, it’s also been your home. Our family has been your family. My grandparents had nothing but this land when they started, and they spent their whole lives building it. My mom and I started the pie pantry. This…” Willo stopped and swept her
arms in front of her. “… you … have been my life, and I couldn’t have been more blessed.

  “My family taught me the reward of hard work, the need to dream, the strength of faith, and the simple beauty of a summer night in Michigan. My mother taught me that you bake for someone because it is a way of connecting family and generations.” Willo hesitated, her voice thick with emotion.

  “It’s OK, Willo,” someone yelled. People whooped in response.

  Willo took a deep breath and continued. “My mother taught me that you bake for someone because it is an act of love. That’s why I’ve done it my whole life. Because I love my family, and I love you.”

  “We love you, too, Willo!” people in the crowd began to yell.

  “Thank you for bringing your family to celebrate with ours,” she said.

  The band immediately launched into “Happy Birthday,” the crowd serenading her. Willo squinted, the spotlight still in her eyes, and she could see people swaying.

  Suddenly, in the distance, Willo swore she could see something moving toward the orchard, something big, wide, and amorphous, lumbering slowly.

  A bear, she thought. What is that?

  As the crowd continued to sing, Willo stepped out of the spotlight and cupped her hands over her eyes. The figure grew closer and closer, moving up the hillside and toward the orchard, everyone’s backs turned away from it.

  Should I yell a warning? Willo thought.

  Willo squinted even harder, and that was when the figure split into two.

  Willo’s heart began to race, and the two figures moved to the edge of the orchard.

  Am I seeing things?

  Willo took another step forward and could now distinguish that one figure was male with dark, curly hair and the other was female with long blond hair.

  “Sam?” Willo asked into the microphone, her voice husky and choked with emotion.

  “Happy birthday, dear Grandma…”

  Willo heard Sam’s voice singing.

  Angelo joined her, his hand around Sam’s waist.

  “Happy birthday to you!”

  Willo dropped the microphone with a resounding thump and went running, as fast as she could, down the orchard, the lights whirring around her, the memory of Sam’s thirteenth birthday suddenly rushing into Willo’s mind. She threw her arms around her granddaughter as the crowd erupted.

  “I didn’t want to have this day without you here,” Willo said, her voice shaky.

  “Happy birthday, Grandma,” Sam whispered.

  “You made it home,” Willo said, collapsing into tears, which turned into heavy sobs. “You made it home.”

  “I am home,” Sam said, holding her tightly. Sam stopped, held her grandma at arm’s length, and searched her eyes. “For good.”

  Willo’s eyes widened and again filled with tears.

  “What?” she asked. “You didn’t get the job? Oh, Sam, I’m sorry. That’s no reason to give up on your dream, though.”

  “Grandma,” Sam said, “I was offered the job.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I finally realized I already had the one I always wanted,” she said.

  “Sam,” Willo started. “But how did you get here so fast?”

  Sam smiled and pointed at Angelo. “This one,” she said, as Angelo walked over to hug Willo.

  “Happy birthday, Willo,” he said.

  “Sam!” Deana said, hugging her daughter.

  “What a surprise,” Gary said, following.

  “What’s cookin’, sis?” Aaron said, walking over and giving Sam a bear hug. “You always know how to make an entrance, don’t you?”

  “You want me to drive you somewhere later?” Sam joked, referencing all the times she had served as her little brother’s personal taxi.

  “Depends on how much beer I have.” He laughed.

  “Hey, do you all mind if I steal Grandma away for a minute?” Sam asked. “I have a special birthday gift that I want to give her in private.”

  “Your presence is gift enough,” Willo protested.

  “Come on,” Deana said to Angelo. “I bet you’re hungry, and I think we can rustle up a piece of pie for you.”

  “Or an entire pie,” Gary added.

  “Bring it on,” Angelo said. He leaned in and kissed Sam on the cheek, giving her a big wink as he walked away with her family.

  Sam took Willo’s hand in her own, and the two walked toward the barn.

  “Where are we going?” Willo asked.

  Sam didn’t answer for a while. She simply gripped her grandmother’s hand more tightly. When they passed the barn, turned up the gravel road, and headed toward Willo’s house, Sam finally said, “It’s your seventy-fifth birthday. I thought it would be nice to bake something together.”

  “Like your thirteenth birthday?” Willo asked, more memories flooding her mind. “Seems like yesterday.”

  The two walked into the house and headed directly for the kitchen.

  Sam immediately turned on the oven to preheat before removing the large leather shoulder bag she had crossed over her body. She pulled out a wrapped box and set it on the kitchen table.

  “Take a seat,” Sam said. “Open it.”

  “Sam,” Willo said. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “Actually,” Sam said, “it is.”

  Willo unwrapped the box, and her eyes widened as she pulled the gift free.

  “I don’t understand,” she said, cocking her head at Sam.

  “Let me explain,” Sam said, telling Willo of her meeting with Angelo on the Brooklyn Bridge and the love locks that were placed there. “He gave me the key you gave him, the key to your grandmother’s original recipe box, and he told me before my interview that I held the key to my own happiness, and once I unlocked that, I’d know what to do.”

  Sam stopped and looked at her grandmother, her cheeks quivering. “He then made me find the love lock he’d made for me on the bridge. It was attached to…” Sam stopped, her eyes brimming with tears. “… a recipe box that he had made for me.” Sam removed her necklace and showed her grandma the original key. “Angelo had a lock made that fit the key, and he’d locked the recipe box to the bridge. He told me if I wanted to be with him, I had the key to unlock the recipe box and discover what was inside. If I didn’t, I could just leave it there. And then he just walked away.”

  “You unlocked it!” Willo said, her eyes, too, filling with tears. “You listened to your heart.”

  “When Colette called to go over her offer, I was already standing on the Brooklyn Bridge,” Sam said. “I hesitated, and she knew immediately. Colette said, ‘You wore those keys to the interview today for a reason. You already have your own sweet memories, don’t you? Go unlock your destiny.’”

  Sam continued: “As soon as I got off the phone with her, I slipped the key into the lock and freed the recipe box. Inside were two e-tickets to Michigan for this afternoon. A note said, ‘There are two, but you may use only one if you wish. Just know you hold the key to my heart, and I would follow you anywhere in the world just to be with you.’”

  “Oh, Sam,” Willo said, tears trailing down her face.

  “He made the recipe box for me, just like your grandpa did for your grandma,” she said, showing it to Willo. “I’m just glad it didn’t rain while it was on the bridge. I would have opened the box and found a pile of mush.”

  Although the box was new, its wood was reclaimed and burnished. Apples had been carved onto its top and then Angelo had hand-painted them, rubbing the paint to make it look worn. On the front of the box, underneath a small lock, was a little sign that read RECIPE BOX.

  Sam took the key on her necklace and inserted it into the lock. Sam opened it, and though it was empty, it contained little hand-lettered cards that read: PIES, COBBLERS, DONUTS, COFFEE CAKES, COOKIES, BARS, and JAMS AND JELLIES.

  “Look under bars,” Sam urged her grandmother.

  Willo moved the cards and there, sitting alone, was the sole recipe card
in the box. Willo plucked it from the box and read it.

  “Pumpkin bars,” she said with a smile. “I knew it. I knew you’d taken it. I was going to make these this morning.”

  “I did,” Sam smiled. “I made them for Colette. She loved them.” Sam hesitated. “I actually altered the recipe so that it didn’t use Bisquick, but when I left the interview, I realized that they were perfect exactly as they are.” She stopped and reached out for her grandma’s hand. “I realized I’m perfect exactly as I am.”

  Willo looked at her granddaughter and then at the recipe card. It was bent, smudged, and the recipe was written in the same cursive, looping style that every generation of women in their family had used. The ink had faded and smeared, the words ghosted next to each other. The card was flecked with flour, and there were darker stains from pumpkin as well as thick circles where frosting had been dropped.

  “It tells a story, doesn’t it?” Sam asked. “Like our orchard.”

  Willo shook her head, holding back tears. “Sam,” she said. “Don’t make an old woman weep.”

  “Someone once told me on my thirteenth birthday that a recipe box is the story of a family’s life, of who we are, where we come from, how we got here, and where we are now.”

  Willo’s faded blue eyes overflowed with tears.

  “That special person also told me that the recipes that were passed down by the women who came before us aren’t just recipes, they’re our family history. There is nothing more important than family and food. Food represents how we celebrate, how we come together, how we rejoice, how we mourn, and how we remain one.”

  Sam squeezed her grandmother’s hand. “This gift comes with a sacred pact. We must protect these and pass them on, because they can never be re-created.”

  Sam looked at her grandmother. “I am here because of your sacrifices. I am who I am because of your love. I do what I love because of family. I am blessed, and I am so honored to be your granddaughter.”

  Sam and Willo stood, hugging each other tightly. Then Sam reached back into her bag and pulled out a bottle of wine.