by Gen LaGreca
“Speaking good English means nobody is better than you. It means you’re a full person who can stand tall with anyone. This book teaches you how to speak.” She held up another book.
“This book is about bookkeeping and arithmetic. It teaches you how to handle your money, how to buy a farm, how to manage a shop, how to order your supplies, how to pay your bills, and how to count your profits.” She held a volume up in front of the carpenter and the blacksmith. “After you read this book, you’ll be ready to run your own farm or shop . . . maybe . . . one day . . .”
The two tradesmen stared at the mysterious volume in her hands that was about a subject they had never imagined or thought possible.
She took another book and leafed through it purposefully, looking for a certain page. “Here’s a book about Paris and the shops there that sell so many pretty things.”
She opened the book to the page she wanted and moved it across the group, starting with Jerome. The page showed an artist’s illustration of the outside of a Parisian pastry shop. The drawing captured a store window filled with cakes, cookies, cream puffs, and other treats. A boy stood in the corner, holding his mother’s hand, looking eagerly at the display, pointing to an item of special interest to him.
“Hmm.” Jerome seemed unaware that he had uttered anything or jumped up from his seat to study the drawing.
“In the meantime, you can have a shop here . . . almost. You can make things in your free time and sell them in town,” Solo continued.
Slaves of Indigo Springs and other plantations sold items they raised or produced, such as broomsticks, baskets, hens, eggs, hogs, or vegetables. They sold these goods to their masters or to the locals and steamboat travelers in Bayou Redbird.
“I’ll cover arithmetic in class, so you’ll be able to buy and sell things for money and make change.”
She looked at some of the slaves whom she knew had children.
“And you’ll want to teach your children what you learn, so they can know what’s out there beyond these fields. They can learn what any other person can learn, so they’ll be able to do useful things . . . and take care of themselves.”
Her students glanced at each other, their faces attentive, as if they were considering the matter put before them.
“Books make you a master of yourself.”
Her words seemed to lift her listeners in their seats.
She moved her hands fondly across the books she had accumulated on the table, as if she were caressing them.
“If you can’t go out to the world, the world can come here to you—through these books.”
She reached into a cabinet in the corner and pulled out the primers that Tom had bought. Jerome helped her distribute one to each student. “This book is yours. It’s your first book.”
The slaves took their books and looked curiously through the pages.
“This book will teach you letters. Then it’ll show you how to form words with the letters, and sentences with the words. You’ll write the letters and words and sentences on your slate board, as I’ll write them on the blackboard. And you’ll read from your book.”
The slaves’ eyes traveled back and forth from their teacher to the pages of their first book.
“If you know how to speak, and read, and write, then you have something no one can ever take away. Inside yourself, you’re . . . free.”
The last word seemed to linger in the air.
“Miss Solo?”
The rich timbre of the carpenter’s voice reached her. Like Jerome, he instinctively addressed Solo with the title reserved for free women. Being someone who enlightened them, she seemed to merit the respectful Miss, regardless of her social status.
“Yes?”
“Does it say in any o’ dem books dat us gonna . . . one day . . . be free outside ousselfs?”
Her voice was solemn. “I’ve read that the world is changing, new ways are taking root . . . like new seeds in the garden . . . and that day is coming.”
Dark, glistening eyes widened as minds seemed to open to a topic of significance like no other.
“When the time comes, you’ll be ready.” She held up a copy of their primer. “This book is your ticket to the new day.”
Tom’s figure formed a dark outline on the veranda, topped by a sparkle of gold hair catching the moonlight. He looked relaxed on the rocker, his long legs stretching up to the porch rail, his arms falling limply in his lap. From a distance he might have seemed to be napping. But a closer look revealed alert blue eyes intrigued by the lesson drifting out to him. To his amazement, the mysterious creature he had named Solo was describing the new age.
CHAPTER 12
By early April, Jerome’s confidence and skill at his new job had grown. He could be heard directing the objects under his command as a captain might lead a charge:
“Boil now, dang ya!” he told the soup kettle.
“No burnin’, ya hear?” he warned the pancakes.
“C’mon, c’mon! I ain’t got all day!” he ordered the egg whites as he beat them furiously.
He deployed an arsenal of kettles and a regiment of pans to the fireplace where he simmered stew, boiled ham, roasted duck, heated vegetables, fried crullers, and griddled waffles.
With his love for desserts and sweets, he soon gravitated to baking. He gave an assistant the job of fireplace cooking so that he could concentrate on the large open mouth in the wall with the charred brick mustache that was the oven. Early in the morning on baking days he built a fire in the oven, then stoked the wood until it burned fiercely. When the bricks had absorbed an intense amount of heat, Jerome was ready.
He shoveled his prepared batters in and out of the oven with military precision. His ever-present wood peel slid the pans around. He made room for all his soldiers, covered the field evenly, and removed them when they were done to make room for replacements. First he sent in the pies and loaf cakes, which needed the most intense heat. Then came the breads. Finally, with the remaining heat, he put in the smaller items like tarts, biscuits, and cookies. On baking days, Jerome’s battlefield smelled of smoking-hot lemon tarts, pumpkin pies, and raisin breads. His production was becoming too much for his plantation family of one diner, Tom, and for the specialties allowed the bondsmen. It seemed that either Tom would need to marry and have twelve children or Jerome would need to find another outlet for his energies.
With Solo’s help, he was learning to read Mrs. Edmunton’s housekeeping book, which provided a trove of recipes, as well as guidelines on cooking methods and food handling. He learned that every ingredient needed special care and attention for the best result. He tackled the flour, ridding it of impurities, drying it, and sifting it to a fine consistency for baking. He checked the eggs for freshness. He washed the butter to remove its preservative salt. He chopped the pecans diligently and added them to his cakes and breads. He was rewarded for his care with fine baked goods, and he learned a lesson important to any chef. “Recipes is like people,” he told Tom. “Whut ya git out o’ them depend on whut they got inside.”
In his foray into baking, Jerome developed a fascination for one ingredient about all others: chocolate. He obtained chocolate baking bars from Bayou Redbird’s general store, which stocked them from a northern manufacturer. Using Mrs. Edmunton’s recipe, Jerome created a tasty chocolate cake. With his latent creative bent now released, Jerome was an innovator from the start. He added a touch of vanilla to the chocolate cake and improved it; then he added chopped walnuts and improved it again.
“How’s you likin’ yer mama’s cake?” he asked his master.
Tom smiled. “I think it’s your cake now.”
When Jerome melted the chocolate bars, something magical happened that served as an announcement of his new presence at Indigo Springs. An incredible aroma of chocolate permeated the air. The irresistible scent lured the house servants, the craftsmen, and even Tom to the kitchen door to investigate. The hogs and cows were also curious, as they wandered toward the little cabin that w
as emitting the enticing scent. The smell of chocolate cake fresh from the oven aroused Solo’s students, who were allowed a piece once a week after their lesson. Jerome basked in their oohs and aahs over his cake as if they were admiring his newborn baby.
The eager chef tried adding chocolate to other recipes, sometimes with questionable results. The guinea pig for his experiments was his unfortunate master. One morning Jerome added his favorite ingredient to scrambled eggs and biscuits, turning them a dark brown. He served them to Tom and waited hopefully for his response. But the chef was disappointed. “You don’t have to put chocolate in everything,” said Tom, after tasting a breakfast that was the same color as his walnut dining table.
The maddening scent of his favorite ingredient drove Jerome to further explorations. On a day when he was to bake his cake for Solo’s class, an idea occurred to him. The chocolate had its most intense taste and aroma when it was warmed in melted butter and sugar, before adding the other ingredients. What would happen, he wondered, if he added more of the sweetened chocolate and as few additional ingredients as possible, so the taste would be richer? He began the recipe by doubling the amount of chocolate and increasing the sugar as he melted them in butter, then he brought the warm batter to his worktable. To bind the ingredients, he added eggs, and for richer taste, vanilla. Then to keep the batter thick and the chocolate intense, he left out the milk and added only half the amount of flour he normally used in the cake. Before baking, he mixed chopped walnuts into the batter, which had worked well for him in the cake recipe.
The result was a thick, compact batter, almost a paste, that barely covered the bottom of a rectangular cake sheet. After it baked, the lack of any rising worried Jerome, but the chocolate aroma that the new recipe exuded while it baked was incredibly richer than that of the cake. He shrugged his shoulders, dubious about his new concoction, as he left it to cool while he attended Solo’s class.
Afterward, the class piled into the kitchen, awaiting their taste of Jerome’s cake. But there was no cake, high and fluffy, inviting them to take a slice. There was only a pan of something mysterious. Although the sides of the pan were four inches high, the oddity inside barely rose above an inch. The slaves hesitated.
“Dis fer eatin’?” said one.
Jerome nodded hesitantly. The unappetizing item in the pan had a dry brown crust, with cracks in the surface.
“Look like dirt,” said another slave.
Jerome’s eyes widened apprehensively. He took a knife, but his hand paused over the pan before he had the courage to cut a piece. Solo took the knife from him and completed the action. The little square she cut held firm on the knife, without the need of a plate. She grasped it with her fingers. The group watched their teacher silently, a concerned expression on their faces, as she studied the chocolate square, smelled it, and finally, cautiously tasted it. The slaves’ eyes followed the piece into her mouth. Then she smiled.
She cut a piece for Jerome. He tasted it. Then he smiled.
He cut pieces for the others, who stepped up, tasted the new treat, and gave their assessments.
“Hey, dis mighty good!” said one.
“Dis real good!” said another.
“’Taint no cookie. It too thick.”
“’Taint no cake. It too small.”
“It’s Jerome’s chocolate squares.” Solo named the item that looked like the dry Louisiana ground cracking during a drought but tasted more intensely chocolate than a cake and more chewy than a cookie. She nodded approvingly at the creator.
One slave slapped Jerome on the back. “Say, man, dis whut chocolate appose ta be!”
The others nodded in agreement.
Before the pieces were gone, Solo grabbed one and dashed into the big house. She found Tom reading in the parlor. She bent down by his chair and held the piece out to him.
“Taste this!”
It was hardly the way a slave would act toward a master, but neither one seemed to notice. His eyes moved from her to the two-inch square morsel, amused; then he took it and tasted.
The next instant, he sprang up and walked out the back door to the kitchen, with Solo following. In the darkness he saw the shadows of the class members as they were returning to their cabins. In the kitchen he found Jerome alone, standing tall in his hat, an empty pan with a few chocolate crumbs before him.
“What did you do, Jerome?”
“I change couple things. You likes it, sir?”
Tom took another bite. He cocked his head as he chewed slowly, savoring the taste. The man with the chef’s hat stared at him eagerly. Solo also waited.
“This is outstanding, Jerome.”
The chef face brightened. So did his teacher’s.
“I’ve traveled a lot, but I’ve never tasted anything like this.” Tom took a third bite, drew out his enjoyment of it, and then held the remaining morsel up to the lamplight.
“It’s almost a cake, but not quite. And it’s almost a cookie, but not quite. It’s something different that has its own unique character.” He looked at the proud man in the tall hat. “Jerome, you created something entirely new.”
As he consumed the last bite, Tom surveyed the shelves and found one of the chocolate baking bars in its package. He picked up the item that was the size of a small brick.
“Is this what you used?”
Jerome nodded.
“Hmm . . .” Tom read the label aloud: New and improved flavor. Smooth, velvety texture.
His companions watched him with interest.
“I’ve read there are new machines coming out for grinding and smoothing the chocolate inside the cocoa bean, so more of the flavor is captured.” He held the package up. “This chocolate must be made with the new methods.”
Tom looked in earnest at the man society had deemed beneath its notice. “You saw a potential in this chocolate that no one else has seen. You created something new. That makes you an inventor.”
Jerome looked as if he had received an award.
The two inventors smiled at each other. They didn’t know that years later Jerome’s recipe, as well as countless variations of it, would be created in kitchens around the world and eagerly consumed by millions. They didn’t know that Jerome had created one of the earliest—perhaps the first—example of the food that would one day be called a brownie.
“A new age is coming,” Tom announced to the intelligent faces watching him. “I didn’t realize till now that it includes chocolate.” He grinned. “And it apparently includes Jerome.”
Tom held the chocolate baking bar out to the man who had used it to make something new and remarkable. Jerome accepted the bar with pride, as a sculptor might accept a block of stone waiting to be shaped.
Tom’s eyes wandered to a vision of his own. “Important new things in any field need to be introduced to the world.” Then his face brightened with an idea. “Say, why don’t you come to the bank with me tomorrow and bring a pan of these?”
“Huh?”
Whether it was due to his being asked, rather than ordered, to do something, or the outlandishness of the suggestion, Tom couldn’t tell, but his slave looked astonished.
“You can set the pan on a table outside and sell pieces to my customers. And it’ll attract new people to the bank too.”
There was a long-standing practice of slaves bartering and selling things in town. Tom didn’t know how much of this commerce was legal and how much was custom. He knew only that a worthy discovery needed marketing.
Jerome seemed unable to find his voice.
“Just be sure someone’s in the kitchen to make me a little food and handle things—and not burn the building down.”
“And be sure you come to class,” said Solo.
Jerome stared at Tom agape.
“Well?” asked Tom.
“Jerome, do it.” His teacher nudged.
He gave his answer as a broad smile.
* * * * *
The next day, decked in his chef’s hat and t
he fine clothes from his days as Colonel Edmunton’s head of the servants, Jerome established his stand outside Tom’s bank. A long rectangular pan containing his new creation sat on a table. Solo had provided the sign: Jerome’s Chocolate Squares, five cents.
The squares were easier to transport than cake, stayed fresh longer, held together firmly, and could be eaten with one’s hands. They provided an ideal snack for the people bustling through the streets of Bayou Redbird.
Soon Jerome’s first customers came: a hungry shopper, a sea captain, three slaves with a few coins in their pockets hauling a wagon of cotton to the docks, a couple traveling with two children, a customer entering the bank. Before long, ten of the sixty two-inch squares were sold, and Jerome had made fifty cents. The seductive quality of the chocolate took effect, and several of the customers returned for seconds. The sea captain bought ten squares to take back to his ship and sell for twenty cents apiece onboard. A plantation mistress wanted ten more squares to bring home to her family.
With the squares being compact and easy to carry away, customers made purchases for future consumption, which opened up an additional sales opportunity that sent Jerome to the general store for brown paper and string to wrap orders.
From the window of his office in the bank, Tom saw the chef’s hat bobbing around as the animated figure underneath it talked to people, smiled, laughed, drew them to his stand, and sold his product. Tom imagined a time in the future when he would stand beside a new invention, one that also generated excitement, made life more pleasant, and was addictive once it was tried. What other creations could be spawned, he wondered, if the few in charge didn’t have a monopoly on ideas and if everyone were free to think, dream, create, and act?
He felt a bond with Jerome—and with the slender teacher back at his home. Somehow the force within each of them—the twin engine of intelligence and will—was the power needed to drive the new age.
That evening, when he walked out to the veranda to guard Solo’s class, he realized that what had started as an obligation to protect the school was now a pleasure. He liked hearing the voices that filtered out to him, voices rich with a teacher’s excitement for her topics and her students’ satisfaction at mastering their lessons. As he walked toward the rocker that was his lookout post, he saw Jerome standing there waiting for him.