The Recipe Box

by Viola Shipman

  “You certainly come prepared,” Willo said, laughing through her tears. “Do you have a masseuse in there, too?”

  Sam rubbed her grandmother’s shoulders. “I do,” she said, before grabbing two glasses and opening the bottle.

  “Cheers!” she said. “Happy birthday!”

  Willo clinked glasses with Sam and took a healthy sip. “This isn’t wine,” she said. “It’s hard cider.”

  “Angelo and I might have a few ideas to discuss with you,” she said, holding up the bottle of hard cider. “We have the ability to use our fruit to make incredible ciders and wines. Sort of like you did with the pie pantry.” Sam hesitated. “I think we could add this without losing who we are. The future is changing.”

  “It certainly is,” Willo said. “And it looks very bright, not only for me and the orchard, but also for you and Angelo. Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Sam said, taking a sip of cider. “Ready to bake?”

  “I’m guessing pumpkin bars?” Willo said.

  “Second time today,” Sam said with a laugh.

  The two walked into the kitchen and began gathering ingredients. As they did, Sam stopped, walked back to the table, and returned holding a key.

  “This belongs to you,” Sam said. “Old key for a new recipe box.”

  Willo slipped off her necklace, and Sam added the key. Willo rubbed her fingers over both keys around her neck.

  “I want to fill the new box with our own recipes,” Sam said. “So I can pass it along to my daughters and granddaughters, too.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Willo said.

  “Don’t say anything,” Sam said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Except for where you keep the Bisquick.”

  pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting

  Ingredients for Bars

  2 cups granulated sugar

  ½ cup vegetable oil

  1 16-ounce can pumpkin

  4 large eggs, beaten

  2 cups Bisquick

  1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice

  ½ teaspoon ground mace

  1 teaspoon ground nutmeg

  Ingredients for Frosting

  4 ounces cream cheese

  1/3 cup butter, room temperature

  3½ cups powdered sugar

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  Directions for Bars

  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  In a large mixing bowl, combine the sugar, oil, pumpkin, and eggs. Mix well.

  Add the Bisquick, cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice, mace, and nutmeg. Mix well.

  Pour the batter into a greased 9 × 13-inch baking dish. Bake 40 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center of the pan comes out clean. Cool completely.

  Directions for Frosting

  In a small mixing bowl, combine the frosting ingredients and beat until creamy. Frost the cooled bars.

  Serves 14 to 16

  epilogue

  Apple Crisp

  October 2068

  The old woman washed her hands in the kitchen sink, looked out the window, and smiled.

  The last of the mid-October day’s light filtered through the brightly colored leaves of the sugar maples and sassafras, basking the kitchen in an otherworldly glow. One good storm off the lake, one sweeping windstorm, and the leaves would be gone, the trees would be bare, the orchard’s twigs and limbs just silhouettes, and the land ready to hibernate once again.

  But, for now, Sam thought, the leaves remain, as do the apples.

  Two figures moved in the orchard, a man and a dog, and the angle of the sun cast their shadows down the hillside, making them both appear to be giants. The man held a basket, and when he reached to pick an apple, the light made it seem as if he were hugging the tree, caressing its limbs, saying good night.

  Just like he does with me, Sam thought, leaning even farther to look out the kitchen window.

  She could feel the chill in the approaching night air creep through the farmhouse. And as the dog circled the man in delight, his barks echoing through the orchards causing birds to scatter, she turned on the oven to preheat.

  She pulled a carving knife out of the kitchen drawer as well as a baking dish and red speckled enamelware bowl from the cupboard. Then she arranged flour, sugar, and cinnamon on the old counter. She checked the refrigerator for butter and then located her pastry blender.

  Her husband came through the door and handed her a basket of apples.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Angelo said, looking around the kitchen. His emerging smile, however, belied his words.

  “I know,” Sam said, “but I want to.”

  “OK then,” Angelo said happily. “I’ll build a fire. Getting chilly.”

  He started out the door with the dog, then turned and said, “We make a great team, don’t we?”

  “Like cinnamon and sugar?” she laughed.

  “No,” he said. “Marriage. Fifty years. We complement each other, bring out the best.”

  “Like cinnamon and sugar?” she repeated.

  This time, he laughed. “Yes, like cinnamon and sugar. Come on, Jersey, let’s go get some firewood.”

  The dog barked his approval, and the two ambled out the door. Sam started in on the apples, her knife pirouetting in quick circles, leaving curlicues of bright red and green skin that resembled wood carvings in the bowl. She sliced and diced the apples, and then stopped, before starting her streusel topping.

  Although she knew the recipe by memory—had made it hundreds of times over the decades—she walked to the old cabinet. Sam ran her hand over the cabinet’s smooth edges, stopping to look at a photo of her and her grandmother taken at Sam’s wedding.

  I look just like you now, Grandma, Sam thought.

  Sam pulled the original family recipe box off the shelf and ran her hands over the burnished wood.

  “And I still bake like you,” Sam whispered.

  She set the recipe box on the counter and felt for the key that rested at the end of her necklace. Sam’s knuckles resembled the sassafras that sat just outside the kitchen window, and her skin was now like waxed paper, and she struggled to fit the key into the little lock.

  She opened the recipe box, which was crammed with recipes. Her recipe box was not as neat or orderly as her mom and grandma had kept theirs. Instead, hers was a jumble of cards and paper, jutting this way and that, and yet Sam knew exactly where the recipe was hidden in the mess.

  Alice Mullins’s Secret Family Apple Crisp!

  Sam pulled the recipe free and immediately smiled. The handwriting was the same as hers—the same as her mother’s and grandmother’s—same slant, same formal-looking Fs, and Qs that looked like the number 2. Sam ran her fingers over her great-great-grandmother’s notes: May call for a few more dashes of cinnamon … If apples are tart, add another quarter cup of sugar.

  How many times did she make this? Sam wondered.

  This dessert was still, bar none, the family favorite, the one everyone requested every fall weekend while the apples were fresh, ripe, and just off the tree.

  Angelo came rushing back into the house carrying an armful of wood and twigs for the fireplace.

  Sam finished the crisp and slid it into the oven, setting the timer.

  I don’t even need to time it, she thought. I’ll know when it’s done by smell.

  Within minutes, the scent of apples, cinnamon, and sugar filled the house.

  “Smells good,” Angelo called from the front room, where he was sitting in his favorite chair by the stove, with Jersey curled up on a blanket in front of the fire.

  “Soon,” she called. “Be patient.”

  As Sam loaded the dishwasher, the sun slunk behind the orchard, and the world was suddenly cast in darkness. Sam searched the orchards—the apples set against the darkening sky—and an idea hit her out of the blue.

  She pulled an index card and a pen from her junk drawer and began to write, making up a recipe on the spot:

/>   Sam Morelli’s Secret Family Apple Chocolate Chip Cake

  A big smile engulfed her face, and Sam added an exclamation point at the end, giggling at the audacity of it.

  Sam Morelli’s Secret Family Apple Chocolate Chip Cake!

  And then she wrote, step by step, ingredient by ingredient, a new recipe on the spot, adding her own notes at the end: Shake in a few more chocolate chips just for good measure!

  When she finished, Sam gave the index card a little kiss.

  “Another new recipe?” Angelo asked from the living room. Sam looked up, and he was watching her with a big smile. His curly hair was still thick but now white instead of dark.

  But those dimples, Sam thought, inhaling. They still take my breath away.

  Sam turned to the oven, opened it, and checked the crisp with a toothpick.

  Perfect, she thought.

  She pulled the dessert from the oven, set it on top of the oven to cool, and started in on some homemade whipped cream, adding a dash of vanilla and whipping it until it formed a soft peak and was as pretty as a cloud on a northern Michigan summer day. She dragged a finger through the whipped cream and tasted it, and then did it again, accidentally dropping a dollop onto the new index card, the fat from the heavy whipping cream leaving an immediate circular stain in the middle.

  Good, she thought. Now it has some character.

  She grabbed two plates and cut a big piece for Angelo, the apples steaming and sliding to the sides, before topping it with whipped cream, which began to melt as soon as it hit the hot dessert. She made a plate for herself and then joined her husband by the fire.

  He dragged his fork through the crisp, shut his eyes, and smiled like a child.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” he said yet again.

  “I know,” she repeated. “But I wanted to.”

  She took a bite, sat back as the plate warmed her hands, the fire warmed her old body and the apple crisp warmed her soul, and watched her husband finish his dessert.

  That’s the thing about baking, she thought. You bake for someone because it is familial and familiar, new yet ancestral, a way of connecting generations.

  Jersey sighed and rolled onto his side. Her husband lifted a fork filled with apples and streusel topping to his lips and again shut his eyes.

  Sam took a bite of crisp.

  How can the same recipe taste even better every time? she wondered.

  The two sat in silence finishing their desserts, when the doorbell rang. When Angelo opened the door, he said, “Sam, you gotta see this.”

  Sam got up and when she saw what was at the front door, she let out a big laugh.

  “Oh, my gosh,” she said. “What do we have here?”

  Sam’s granddaughter, Alice, was holding her daughter, who was dressed like a little apple for Halloween, her round body outfitted in a stuffed red plushy onesie, her beautiful face showing through a hat that wrapped around her head, a green stem smack-dab on top.

  “Perfect!” Sam exclaimed. “My first great-grandchild is just perfect.”

  Alice held out the baby, and Sam took her, cooing and bouncing her.

  “My grandma used to wear something just like this,” Sam said to the baby. “And you now have her name. Willo. You will be strong just like her, you know that?”

  “I wanted to give you a preview,” Alice said to Sam. “I know we’ll all be so busy this week with the big visit from Good Morning America. Do you know what you’re going to make for their ‘Fabulous Fall Food & Fun’ segment?”

  “I think I do,” Sam said with a smile, her mouth already watering thinking of making another apple crisp.

  Angelo pulled a cell from his pocket. “Smile,” he said, taking pictures of Sam and Willo.

  “Want to take some crisp home to John?” Sam asked.

  “Of course,” Alice said. “It’s his favorite.”

  Sam handed Willo to Angelo, and she scurried into the kitchen to make a to-go package for Alice. “Here you go,” she said when she returned.

  “Thanks, Grandma,” she said, giving her and Angelo a hug. “I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”

  When the two were alone again, Angelo pulled Sam into his arms and held her tightly, swaying back and forth, dancing with no music.

  “We’ve had quite a life, haven’t we?” he asked. “No regrets.”

  “Is that a statement or a question?” Sam said with a chuckle.

  “Statement,” he said.

  “We have,” Sam replied.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too.”

  They were silent for a moment, swaying in the farmhouse in front of the fire, their feet making the old wood floor creak, when Angelo whispered, “Mind if I have some more crisp?”

  Sam laughed. “Is that why you married me?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Angelo stopped and held Sam at arm’s length and then kissed her.

  “You still take my breath away,” he said.

  “Back atcha,” Sam said with a smile. “Be right back.”

  She returned with more apple crisp for her husband and herself, and as they ate in front of the fire, Sam looked at him, and then around the old farmhouse, and her heart filled with so much love it felt as it were going to shatter.

  You bake for someone because it is an act of love, Sam thought. And that love is renewed each and every time a favorite recipe is made.

  “I think this apple crisp is your best ever,” Angelo said, his eyes shut as he savored the dessert.

  “I think you’re right,” Sam said, taking another bite. “I think you’re right.”

  Author’s Note

  I spent much of my childhood in my grandma’s country kitchen, tugging at the hem of her white aprons embroidered with bright strawberries or pretty flowers.

  My tiny grandma and her little kitchen seemed larger than life to me as a child: a vintage oven anchored one side, while her sparkly countertops were engulfed by a bread box that held Little Debbies and Wonder Bread slices. But the most prized possession in her kitchen was her recipe box. A brilliant baker, my grandma cherished the burnished wood box jammed with beloved and secret family recipes, all organized into different categories—Pies, Cakes, Cookies, Breads—and all written in her looping cursive.

  Her pink Formica table was the glamorous backdrop for her desserts: fresh fruit pies—apple, blueberry, cherry, strawberry-rhubarb—with golden crusts vented with a pretty S for Shipman, as well as lemon with mile-high meringue that resembled a heavenly cloud. And her cookies—chocolate chip, oatmeal, thumbprint filled with homemade jams—were devoured before they even had a chance to cool.

  When my grandmother died, my mom inherited her recipes. After my mom passed, I became the keeper of those recipes and memories.

  The Recipe Box is inspired by my grandmother’s recipe box and recipes as well as her life, love, and lessons. This book is a tribute to our elders, especially the women in our lives whose voices were often overlooked in their lifetimes.

  Food, recipes, baking, and cooking are what unite us, transport us, connect the past to our present. We all have special recipes, ones we make on holidays, special occasions; the ones we ask our moms, grandmas, sisters, and aunts to make because they capture treasured memories and transport us back in time.

  The recipes in The Recipe Box are not only beloved family recipes but also beloved family recipes dear friends have shared with me. I’m honored to open the recipe boxes of my family and friends and share a slice of our lives—and our pies and cakes—with you! I hope you will share in this tradition and pass along your heirloom recipes to those you love.

  XO,

  Viola

  Family Apple Crisp

  My in-laws have made this apple crisp for as long as I (and they) can remember. To me, this is without a doubt one of the most delicious desserts I’ve ever had in my life … which is why I ask my husband, Gary, or my mother-in-law to make it every time it’s apple
season, summer through fall. It’s a mix of tart apples sweetened and spiced to perfection with a hard crunch topping so sweet and rich it will make your knees buckle … and then you’ll head back for seconds. You can also swap out the apples for blueberries. And it’s perfect to top with homemade vanilla ice cream or homemade whipped cream.

  Peach-Blueberry Slab Pie

  This recipe was given to me by the wonderful Jeanne Ambrose, executive editor of Trusted Media Brands, Inc.—which includes Taste of Home magazine—cookbook author, and writer. Jeanne loved the concept of The Recipe Box so much that she volunteered (OK, I begged!) a beloved family recipe with a wonderful history. As Jeanne told me, “Slab pie is a pastry baked in a jelly-roll pan and cut in slabs like a bar cookie. My grandfather was a baker in Chicago. He was German. I have a handful of his recipes from the bakery handwritten in German … Grandpa Schulz typically made apple slab pies or rhubarb slab pies for the bakery. I change up the fruit every season. I love this because it’s not a typical pie … it’s double crust and you can eat it by hand … plus there’s icing on top.” I’ve now made this pie—which is a bit like a pie sandwich—over and over. The fruit can be changed, depending on the season. In fact, Jeanne’s raspberry-rhubarb version of slab pie has become one of Taste of Home’s most popular recipes and videos of all time. Here are the links to both:

  https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/raspberry-rhubarb-slab-pie

  https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/watch-us-make-raspberry-rhubarb-slab-pie

  Thank you, Jeanne, from the bottom of my heart and stomach!

  Apple Cider Donuts

  As I mention in my acknowledgments, the history of and family behind Crane’s Pie Pantry, Restaurant, Winery and U-Pick Orchards in Fennville, Michigan (just a beautiful bike ride away from where I live), were a main inspiration for The Recipe Box. The lives and love of Lue and Bob Crane and the story of the pie pantry and orchard—as shared by their daughter, Becky—formed much of the narrative in the novel. Of the endless desserts they serve (all of which are amazing!), their apple cider donuts immediately make my mouth water when I start heading in their direction. They’re a treat, a throwback, a reminder that when I eat these donuts, or walk into Crane’s, I am surrounded by family … and love.