The Recipe Box Read online

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  Copyright Page

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  To my grandmothers,

  for teaching me to bake, open doors, and say thank you. For encouraging me to become a writer and the person I am today.

  To our elders,

  whose sacrifices and journeys made us who we are but whose stories are being forgotten.

  This book is a thank-you and a reminder to stop and listen, talk and bake.

  Put in the extra effort in life and baking. The end result is always worth it.

  —MY GRANDMA, VIOLA SHIPMAN

  prologue

  Apple Crisp

  Fall 1939

  Alice washed her hands in the kitchen sink, looked out the window, and smiled.

  The last of the 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, the land ready to hibernate once again.

  But, for now, she thought, the leaves remain.

  She smiled again.

  As do the apples.

  Alice could see two figures moving in the orchard.

  “Leo,” she whispered to the kitchen window, unconsciously twirling her wedding ring. She watched the dog circle the man, its tongue and tail wagging. “Oh, Mac.” She laughed.

  The angle of the sun cast their shadows down the hillside, their silhouettes making them look like 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, Alice thought, leaning even farther to look out the kitchen window.

  Alice could feel the chill in the approaching night air creep through the gaps in the windows and the chinks of the old logs. And as Mac circled Leo in delight, his barks echoing through the orchard, causing birds to scatter, Alice turned on the oven to preheat.

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

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

  “You don’t have to do that,” Leo said, looking around the kitchen, seeing the items lined up on the counter. His smile, however, belied his words.

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

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

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

  “Like cinnamon and sugar?” She laughed.

  “No,” he said. “We made it through the Depression somehow, this orchard intact. We’ve been married over thirty years.” He stopped. “We complement each other, bring out the best.”

  “Like cinnamon and sugar?” she repeated.

  This time, he laughed. “Yes, like cinnamon and sugar.”

  He and the dog went back outside, and Alice began to peel and core the apples, her knife pirouetting in quick circles, leaving curlicues of bright red and green skin in the bowl. She sliced and diced the apples, then started her topping.

  She worked from memory. The recipe was ingrained in her mind. She had been taught by her mother and grandmother. This dessert was the family’s favorite, the one everyone requested while the apples were fresh, ripe, and just off the tree.

  But now everyone is gone, Alice thought. On their own, leading their own lives. She stopped. Away from the orchard.

  As she tossed the apples in sugar and cinnamon, she no longer saw her hands but those of her mother and grandmother: knuckles that were beginning to resemble the sassafras trees out the kitchen window, the skin more and more like waxed paper. Alice didn’t like the look of her aging hands, but today she appreciated their beauty, their imperfections, their character and history.

  How many times have I made this apple crisp? she wondered as she continued, not bothering to measure, just going by instinct: a dash of this, a little more of that, eyeing the topping to ensure it resembled little pieces of gravel, not too big and not too small. She stopped for a moment and did some quick math in her head: What, ten times a year multiplied by forty-six if I started baking at ten? Four hundred sixty times? How many times will I make this before…?

  The thought ended as her husband came rushing back into the house carrying an armful of wood and twigs for the potbellied stove.

  She finished the dessert and slid it into the oven, setting an old timer on the counter. Within minutes, the scent of apples, cinnamon, and sugar filled the little cabin.

  “Smells good,” Leo called from the front room, where he was sitting in his favorite chair by the stove, the dog curled up on a blanket in front of the fire. Mac lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “He thinks so, too.”

  “The dog knows his apples.” Alice laughed. “He should. He’s named after one.” She smiled at her two boys, their noses twitching with excitement.

  “Soon,” she called. “Be patient.”

  As Alice washed dishes, the sun slunk behind the orchard, and the world was quickly cast in darkness. The thought she hadn’t finished moments ago came rushing back into her mind as she studied the soapsuds on her hands.

  Suddenly, she flicked bubbles from her fingers, grabbed a dish towel to dry them, and pulled an index card and a pen from a kitchen drawer. The card said RECIPE at the top and was adorned, appropriately enough, with little apples. She had received these as a gift from her church and had kept them forever but never used them.

  Until now.

  She steadied her hand and began to write, her hand dragging over the wet ink as she imparted the secrets that had never been divulged before:

  Alice Mullins’s Secret Family Apple Crisp

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

  Alice Mullins’s Secret Family Apple Crisp!

  And then she wrote, step by step, ingredient by ingredient, her beloved family recipe, adding her own directions: May call for a few more dashes of cinnamon, or If apples are especially tart, add another quarter cup of sugar.

  When Alice finished, she realized her handwriting was the same as her mother’s and grandmother’s—same slant, same formal Fs, and Qs that looked like the number 2. Again, she smiled and, as the timer went off, she gave the index card a little kiss.

  She put on an oven mitt featuring a few scorch marks and poked the crisp with a toothpick. It came out clean, and she smiled.

  Perfect, Alice 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 Michiga
n summer day. Alice dragged a finger through the whipped cream and tasted it, and then did it again just for good measure, accidentally dropping a dollop onto the index card, the fat from the heavy whipping cream leaving an immediate circular stain in the middle.

  No, she thought, trying to clean it off. Too late.

  Alice shook her head and grabbed two plates and a spatula to cut the crisp. She placed a big piece on her husband’s plate, 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 second, smaller plate for herself and then joined her husband by the fire.

  Leo 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.”

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

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

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

  You bake for someone because it is an act of love, she thought.

  A few days later, Alice walked into the kitchen after a day of working the orchard and raking leaves to find a small wooden box sitting on the kitchen counter. The wood was shiny and new, and it smelled as fresh as the outdoors. On the front was carved RECIPE BOX.

  “I made it for you,” Leo said, startling her. He walked over and picked up the recipe card that was still sitting on the counter and slid it into the box. “See? Fits perfectly. A place to keep your family recipes.” He stopped and smiled, pulling a key from his pocket. “And secrets.”

  He continued: “I added a lock, just so you can keep them a family secret. Here you go,” he said, handing her the key. “All yours.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and Alice grabbed her husband and held him tightly, the wool from his jacket tickling her face.

  “Everyone’s gone from here,” she said. “Just us now. This orchard. And these memories.”

  “Write them down,” he said. “That way, they’ll never die.”

  “Who’d want to make these old recipes?” Alice asked. “My farm cooking?”

  “Anyone with a heart and a family,” Leo said. “Our family.” He stopped and said in a hush, “Anyone who wants to remember.”

  “Remember what?” she asked.

  “You,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. He kissed her cheek. “Better get busy.”

  For the next few weeks, Alice wrote every recipe she could remember and filled the box with cards. She added the key to a chain she wore around her neck, just to keep it near to her heart, and locked her recipe box up every night to keep her secrets safe and sound.

  One night, her husband brought in the last batch of apples, and she made another crisp.

  Alice guessed it was not only the 461st crisp of her life but also the best one she’d ever made.

  It would be her last.

  family apple crisp

  Ingredients for Filling

  5 medium-large Granny Smith apples

  3 medium Honeycrisp apples

  4 medium McIntosh apples

  1 stick unsalted butter

  ¼ cup light brown sugar, packed

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  1 teaspoon baking spice

  1 teaspoon apple pie spice

  Ingredients for Topping

  2 cups granulated sugar

  1½ cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  2/3 cup butter, room temperature

  Directions for Filling

  Preheat the oven to 350°F.

  Peel the apples and cut them into wedges. Place the wedges in a large bowl.

  In a large skillet or saucepan, melt 1 stick butter over medium heat.

  Add the apples. Slowly stir and turn over the apples in the butter.

  Add the brown sugar, cinnamon, baking spice, and apple pie spice to the apples and butter and stir. Continue to stir until the sugar and spices are incorporated and have coated the apples.

  Reduce the heat to low. Cover and cook 10 to 12 minutes, stirring occasionally. (The apples should still be firm, but slightly softened. They will finish cooking in the oven.)

  Directions for Topping

  While the apples are cooking, butter a 9 × 13-inch baking dish.

  In a large mixing bowl, combine the sugar, flour, and cinnamon and blend together with a fork.

  Cut the butter into large pats and add to the dry ingredients.

  Use a pastry blender to cut the butter into the mixture, until it resembles loose crumbles, about 2 minutes; there will be some pea-sized pieces, but the mixture should largely be an even, coarse crumble.

  Assembly

  Transfer the cooked apples and sauce to the prepared baking dish.

  By hand, sprinkle the topping mixture over the apples, distributing it evenly.

  Firmly pat the topping onto the top of the apples.

  Bake 50 minutes, or until the crust is golden.

  (Note: The apples will bubble a bit into the topping.)

  Serve warm with whipped cream or vanilla ice cream.

  Serves 12 to 16

  part one

  Peach-Blueberry Slab Pie

  One

  Summer 2017

  Sam Nelson sipped her latte, staring out the window of the coffee shop, waiting for the rain to stop. She watched garbage men in yellow slickers jump out of trucks to pick up the trash, the deafening noise causing her head to throb. She was still bleary-eyed with sleep, and the scene looked blurred and too bright, as if it were a paint-by-numbers portrait.

  Sam shut her eyes to still her mind, and her head suddenly whirred with colorful images of apples, the kind a child might draw—smiling, dancing, hanging from trees. A coffee grinder and milk frother roared to life, accompanied again by the sound of trash trucks, and Sam’s eyes popped open. She realized she was unconsciously rubbing the necklace she wore every day that was hidden under her uniform. She pulled it free and ran her fingers over the key that hung from the chain.

  Starbucks was jammed with those who, like her, rose at dawn to start their day: construction workers, Wall Street traders, emergency room doctors, eager assistants.

  And struggling pastry chefs like me, she thought, looking around the coffeehouse.

  But mostly others like me who were so sleepy leaving this morning they also left their umbrellas at home, she realized, her face breaking into a slight smile.

  Sam watched the rain slide down the window in great sheets, the sky heaving, the city stopping for once—even at dawn, when everyone was waking and had somewhere to be—Mother Nature forcing everyone to halt for one brief moment. And then, as quickly as the rain had started, it stopped, the surprise summer thunderstorm over. Sam rushed out onto the sidewalk, the crowd dispersing in different directions like water bugs on a lake.

  The humidity of the summer day suddenly smacked Sam directly in the face, like being hit with a warm, wet washrag, her grandma used to say.

  Sam was rushed along in the wave of those who were now late and had somewhere to be.

  I do, too, Sam thought, but I don’t want to get there.

  Sam walked briskly downtown, sipping her latte when she slowed to cross the streets. She could already feel the first of three espresso shots coursing through her veins.

  She looked at the city streets coated in rain, the early light illuminating their inky blackness, their darkness beautifully framed by the lighter concrete gutters and sidewalks.

  Broadway looks just like a big blackberry galette, Sam thought, before shaking her head at the terrible analogy.

  That would have earned a C minus in English lit, she thought, b
ut my instructors at culinary school would be proud.

  Sam slowed for a second and considered the streets. So would my family, she added.

  New York had its own otherworldly beauty, stunning in its own sensory-overload sort of way, but a jarring juxtaposition to where Sam had grown up: on a family orchard in northern Michigan.

  Our skyscrapers were apple and peach trees, Sam thought, seeing dancing fruit in her mind once again. She smiled as she approached Union Square Park and stopped to touch an iridescent green leaf, still wet and dripping rain, her heart leaping at its incredible tenderness in the midst of the city. She leaned in and lifted the leaf to her nose, inhaling, the scents of summer and smells of her past—fresh fruit, fragrant pine, baking pies, lake water—flooding her mind.

  Sam’s knees suddenly felt like the jellies her family made, and she took a seat on a nearby bench and took out her phone, guilt overwhelming her as she clicked on the e-invite she had received a dozen times over the last few months.

  HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO … US!

  CELEBRATE OUR CENTENNIAL (AND GRANDMA WILLO’S BIRTHDAY)!

  MULLINS FAMILY ORCHARDS & PIE PANTRY IS TURNING 100! AND OUR MATRIARCH IS TURNING 75!

  WE HOPE YOUR FAMILY WILL JOIN OURS FOR THIS ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME CELEBRATION!

  PI = 3.14159 (WHO ARE WE KIDDING? PIE = LOVE!)

  Sam stared at the last line. Are they still using that same old slogan? she thought, but the word FAMILY stuck in her vision, and when she shut her eyes, it floated in front of her eyes, just as the images of apples had earlier.

  She clicked on messages from her grandma and parents: Hope you can make it! Miss you! Love you!

  Sam’s family hadn’t officially pressed her to return for the celebration—too proud, just like me, Sam thought—but what am I supposed to do?

  I can’t ask for time off to go home, she continued. He would never give it to me. And opportunities like this don’t just fall in your lap in New York City.

  Sam opened her eyes and, as usual, passing New Yorkers were shooting her second glances as they passed, confused as to why a woman would be wearing all white in a city that typically outfitted itself in the darkest of colors.