Текст книги "Nuts"

Автор книги: Alice Clayton

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 6

Over the next few days, every knowing glance and furtive look reminded me how much small towns loved to gossip. My mother delighted me each day by telling me what she’d heard. I’d pushed Leo behind a snap pea display at the farmers’ market and wrestled him to the ground. I’d offered him my bagel repeatedly, refusing to take no for an answer. I’d been seen out behind the market, helping him load up his vegetables and been caught holding his cucumber. That was my favorite.

But while my mother wanted to focus on whether I’d be able to remain upright this summer wherever Leo may be concerned, I was trying to get things ready at the diner so it’d be a smooth transition when my mother left. I was also fielding all sorts of questions from the intrigued public about what it had been like to be a private chef in LA. “Do they eat more than just bean sprouts?” “Have you ever met Jennifer Aniston?” “Is it true you see movie stars everywhere, even at the gas station?” Apparently retirees watched a lot of Access Hollywood. But no problem. Because here I was, determined to make the best of it.

As I mixed up meat loaf and shredded Velveeta to make cheesy cauliflower bake, I said, “Mom. Seriously. All the incredible cheese you could be using, some even from literally right down the road, and you’re still using Velveeta?”

“People like what they like, Rox,” she said, shredding cabbage for a coleslaw that she’d drown in a thick mayonnaise dressing. “You can’t be such a food snob.”

“Using real cheese makes me a food snob?”

“That, and the fact that your eyeballs are about to come out of your face because of the way I’m making my coleslaw,” she said, not even having to turn around to see my face.

I put my eyeballs back into my face. “I have a great recipe for coleslaw. Maybe I could try it sometime?” I offered.

“You do realize my coleslaw is my mother’s recipe, and her mother’s before her, right?”

“I do know this, and I know people love it, Mom. I just thought that maybe we could try something new for a change and—”

“Hey, Albert!” my mother called to an older gentleman sitting at the end of the counter.

“What’s the good word, Trudy?” he answered, not looking up from his newspaper. Albert had been coming in every afternoon as long as I could remember, lingering after lunch to read the funnies.

“What’s your favorite side dish here?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes at the pile of Velveeta shreds.

“Coleslaw,” he replied, and she turned to smile prettily at me.

“Hey, Albert!” I shouted back.

“What’s up, Roxie?”

“If there was a new side dish on the menu, maybe a different kind of coleslaw, would you try it?”

“Sure, I love all kinds of coleslaw,” he answered, never taking his eyes off his newspaper.

My mother’s pretty smile became one with teeth.

“Hey, Albert?” she called out, voice considerably more aspartame.

“Yes, Trudy?”

“Would you say that while occasionally you might like to try something new, there’s something to be said for consistency? Having what you like when you like it?” she asked.

“Sure thing,” he answered.

My mother is the first person in history to swagger while shredding.

“Hey, Albert,” I called out.

“Yes, Roxie?”

“Would you say that sometimes we all tend to get a little complacent and order the same thing every day, simply because it’s what we’re used to, and that perhaps, if someone created something new and innovative, it might be exactly the new something you were looking for, without even knowing you were looking for it?”

“You betcha.”

A head of cabbage was thrown down on the counter, causing my pile of neon cheese to topple over.

“Hey, Albert!” my mother called out.

But Hey, Albert had other ideas. “Now, both of you just cram it! I’m trying to read my funnies. If I wanted to hear this kind of squabbling, I could have stayed home with my wife!”

A rustle of newspaper. A clatter as an annoyed coffee cup hit an innocent saucer. Cabbage and cheese shredding were resumed.

“Just so you know, you can make changes if you like,” she said a few minutes later.

“Thanks.”

“Who knows, maybe some fresh blood is just what this place needs.”

“Mom—”

“When I took this place over from your grandfather, they were still serving tongue on the menu. Can you imagine?”

“Mom—”

“So when it was my turn I kept some of the old recipes, of course, but I added a few things here and there, tweaked a few ingredients now and then, and over time I revamped almost the entire menu! So you see—”

“Mom. I’m not staying,” I said quietly, moving around the counter to make sure she saw me. “End of the summer, that’s it. Okay?”

She looked like me like she wanted to say something else, but in the end simply nodded. “Hey, Albert—want some more coffee?” she called.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I smothered a laugh as she went out to kibitz with him, stirring the cheese sauce. My phone vibrated and I saw that I had a Facebook alert. A new friend request, from The Chad Bowman! I quickly friended him, and just as quickly got a message from him.

Painting Party Friday Night, and you’re invited! Bring old clothes and some booze. We’ll provide the paint and food! Love, Chad and Logan.

Awesome.

I’d always marveled at girls who could walk into any room without knowing a soul and own it. I’d watched my friend Natalie make friends with almost everyone in our class. She could talk to anyone, and did talk to everyone, and everyone gravitated toward her. Clara was quieter, a bit more serious, but still fully capable of meeting new people. Most people had the small-talk gene.

I wasn’t born with it, but I’d cultivated it over time. Away from home, I’d learned from my new friends how easy it could be to socialize. Now I could go to a party where I didn’t know anyone and be okay, even have fun. I’d met some of my best company this way. I wasn’t the life of the party, but I no longer felt like the death of it.

However, knowing everyone at a party could be even worse than not knowing anyone—so I was a little nervous as I approached Chad’s house Friday night. I knew every family and every kid and every cousin in town, and every single one of them knew me. Especially after my triumphs, winning cooking contest after cooking contest as a kid, started to make me stick out. Being emotionally invested in things like Vietnamese cinnamon versus Cambodian cinnamon tended to draw attention in your average American high school. And though Chad had been a “nice” popular kid, some of his friends sometimes fell over into the “mean” category. And some of them might be here tonight.

I was excited to be invited to a party; it made the prospect of spending the summer here more fun. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little bit of High School Roxie lingering as I reached the doorstep. I reminded myself that was then, this was now. Besides, I was carrying my famous Tuscan white bean dip, studded with lemon and garlic and accented with perfectly bias-cut brioche crostini. So there. I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

Logan answered the door with a big hug and a smile, took my dip, handed me a brush and pail, and just like that, I was at a Cool Kids Party. And yeah, there were people there whom I remembered, but they were actually glad to see me. They asked if I was still cooking, and expressed admiration at my graduating from one of the top cooking schools in the country and envy at my living in Los Angeles, a place that was still considered very exciting and “cool” and “awesome” and “dude, that’s fucking great!” No one knew how butter had sunk my career; they were just impressed I was doing something most people would never do, and they were curious.

It had never seemed hard or adventurous to me; it was just what I supposed to do. So now, chatting with people who thought I was brave for venturing out and doing something different from everyone else? Dude. I was cool.

I mingled happily, seeing more of the house. A big and sprawling old Victorian, it was in rough shape but beautiful. The main floor had gorgeous wide windows, wainscoting, and an enormous fireplace with built-in bookshelves on either side. The kitchen had been recently renovated, and Chad told me that when they knocked down an old closet to gain more room in the new kitchen, they found old newspaper clippings from a hundred years ago. The house oozed charm, even in the state it was in.

Everyone was assigned a room to paint, with each part of the house telling a different color story. I was trotted up to the third floor, where there was a giant converted attic space, with a small room off to the side with a curved exterior wall.

“Oh my goodness, is this the turret room ?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, it’s my favorite room in the house. The rest of the attic will be sort of a second living room, but I thought I’d make this into my home office,” Chad said as I explored.

“It’s perfect, I love it! What color will it be?”

He opened up a can and showed me the deepest, silkiest slate gray I’d ever seen. “I know conventional wisdom says a room this small shouldn’t be this dark, but I thought it’d be cozy.”

“No no, I think it’s perfect,” I said, laying down a drop cloth. “Now get outta here and let me paint your office.”

“Knock yourself out, sister. There’s more people coming over, and I’ll send a few up to paint the rest of the attic so you’re not alone up here for too long,” he said, then headed back downstairs.

I started pouring the dark, inky paint into the paint tray. This would be a great room.

I was lost in painting when I heard someone coming up the stairs. I turned around to say hi with a smile on my face, confident I could make whoever it was feel welcome.

And of course it was Leo. And the third time was the charm apparently, because after falling down and pea flinging the first two times, this time I got to just slow turn and take him in. This guy was some kind of handsome.

Even better than the tall was the broad shoulders. And those eyes were going to be the death of me. Green, oh so green, and fixed solidly on me. With that twinkle. He filled up his space with an easy confidence. Not cocky, just self-assured. Now I could see the Maxwell edge that had been softened by the delivery-guy first impression. He assessed, calculated, and appraised, wearing a ten-dollar plaid shirt with an impeccably designed submariner watch. Richie Rich with a green thumb?

“Hey, it’s the girl with the sugar snap peas,” he said, setting down his roller and paint tray.

“Oh no, no no no, stay right there,” I instructed.

“Why?” he asked, puzzled.

“Are you kidding?” I asked, looking at the minefield laid out between us. “Open paint cans, rollers, brushes—this could end very badly.”

“Good point,” he admitted, shrugging out of his jacket and setting it on a ladder. “But I think I’ll risk it.”

“I practically went down on you in public. Now, that was risky,” I said, crossing my arms and popping out one hip with a little swagger.

Then I heard what I’d just said. I might have been overcompensating just a bit.

He began to laugh. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“LA,” I said with a carefree wave of my hand, getting paint across my boobs. He laughed harder, leaning against the wall for support. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d just painted that wall.

“So, how do you know Chad and Logan?” he asked, picking up a paintbrush.

“I went to high school with Chad, and Logan I just met. How about you?”

“They’re part of the CSA out at the farm,” Leo said. “I usually see them once a week when they pick up their box.”

“CSA, CSA—why does that sound familiar?” I crinkled my forehead as I thought about it. “Oh sure! Community Supported Agriculture, right? They’re popping up in Los Angeles too—all over California, actually. I’ve never belonged to one, though; how exactly does it work?”

“It’s really simple. A group of people pay an agreed-upon fee before the growing season, and in return, each week they get a box of whatever’s fresh from the field. The farmer gets the money in advance, which is great when figuring out a budget ahead of time, and the consumer gets a price break on the weekly box, paying less than he would at the farm stand, and much less than at a conventional grocery store.”

The way his eyes had lit up told me he enjoyed educating people on what he did for a living. It also was fascinating information, and anytime someone wanted to talk food with me, I was willing. But right now, I was having a hard time concentrating because of how close he was. How good-looking he was. And thinking that if he was so passionate when he was talking about his farm . . .

“Slow food, right?” I said, aware that my voice was taking on a dreamy quality. Slightly less aware that I was rubbing a paint roller.

“Mmm-hmm. Slow.” His gaze narrowed, and then he narrowed the space between us, taking just one step but doing it slowly. He was close enough that if my shirt somehow popped open and my bra flew off, he could likely make me come just with his mouth on my breasts.

But then I remembered I was here to paint. And paint I did.

In that small room, Leo and I painted, and we listened to everyone having a grand old time chatting in the next room. But in that tiny office? Pheromones were bouncing off the walls.

We only said things like “Can you straighten out that drop cloth?” and “Do you have one of those stirrer sticks?” and “Does this look runny to you?”—but whenever our eyes met across the empty room . . . tingly tingles. The tension was so thick that when Leo broke the silence, I jumped a little.

“So your mom said you’re a private chef in California, right? She told me you cook fancy food for fancy people,” he replied, dabbing paint along the windowsill. “She seemed pretty proud of you.”

“Really? She used the word proud?”

“No, but she seemed proud.”

“Huh,” I said.

“You’re just home for the summer, right? Then back to the fancy?” he asked.

I nodded slowly. Ooh, perfect opening to tell him yeah, I’m here for the summer, I’ll be heading back out to California in the fall so, you know, if you want to be my company. . . . Guys usually loved this conversation. No strings, just pure fun. I opened my mouth to say this, but he continued before I had a chance.

“LA is great and all, but I’ll take Bailey Falls any day of the week.” He saw me frown. “You don’t agree?”

“I’m not big on small towns,” I replied. “Everyone knows each other’s business. Everyone knows each other’s history.”

“They watch out for each other,” he insisted.

“They gossip about each other,” I corrected.

“Some people would call that charming.”

“Some people would call that infuriating.” I laughed, shaking my head. “Listen, I totally understand the appeal of a small town; it’s just not for me.”

“Bright lights, big city?” he asked, suddenly right next to me. His paint roller had been getting increasingly closer to my paintbrush.

“Something like that,” I replied, feeling my heart thud in my chest. “Sometimes it’s nice to be just a face in a crowd.”

“Not possible,” he murmured, and I looked up into his eyes. Thud. “Just a face? Not possible.” Thud thud.

My pulse was racing, and it would be so easy to lift up onto my tippytoes and surprise him with a kiss. Instead, I fumbled, I blinked. This guy was exactly the kind of guy I normally went for—easygoing, good-looking, funny. But he made me . . . nervous. In a way that I hadn’t been in a long time. If I was going to turn this into anything but a painting party, I needed to get back the upper hand.

But before that happened, I needed to clear something up first. “I’m sorry again about that crack I made about your family, at the market the other day,” I said sheepishly. “I didn’t really mean it; I don’t even know your family. I only know what the rest of the town knows.” He blinked, his face taking on an edge I hadn’t seen before.

I hurriedly pressed on, my racing pulse making my words come out a little jumbled. “Obviously you’ve got tons of cash and old New York family and all that, and you’ve got all that land. And now you’re working the land, and you seem as passionate about growing food as I am about cooking it, and you’re all hot farmer guy, and I’m sure that’s a helluva story—and holy shit, I need to shut my mouth right now.”

“Roxie?”

“Uh-huh?” I responded, mortified.

“You seem very strange. But definitely . . . ” There was a grin in his voice.

“Definitely . . . what?” I looked up at him.

I have never in my life wanted to ravish someone. Kiss? Sure. See naked? Sure. But when my eyes met his, I felt a powerful urge to ravish. His mouth, his neck, his chest, his stomach, and everything beneath those frayed blue jeans. And the funny thing is, I felt like he was thinking the same thing.

And if Logan hadn’t come up the stairs at that moment to announce a snack break, it might’ve happened.

“Definitely,” he repeated with a grin.

I started tidying up my work space as Logan admired the room. “You guys are speedy. You want to work on that giant sunroom on the main floor next?”

“Actually, I’ve got to take a pass. Got a long day tomorrow,” Leo said, wiping a little bit of paint onto his shirt.

In the process, it rode up a bit. In the process, I got to see the stomach. In the process I tingled, and may have gasped the tiniest bit.

Logan noticed. Leo luckily did not. I turned quickly toward the wall to cover my blush, squeezing my paintbrush within an inch of its life. As Leo and Logan chatted behind me, I told myself it was just a stomach. A tan stomach, sure. Tan and flat and dusted with a little bit of happy trail, but it was just a stomach.

As I tried to convince myself of this, I realized that the room had grown quiet. And my skin, which was tingling again, told me Leo was standing right behind me. I turned.

“Nice working with you, Roxie.”

“You too, Leo,” I said. “Good painting.”

Good painting? Good grief.

“Good painting to you,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“It’s a small town,” I replied. “Maybe you’ll show up at my back door with your nuts again.”

Leo shook his head as he turned to go, and I could hear him chuckling as he went down the stairs. I still didn’t have the heart to tell him about the paint all over the back of his shirt.

I grinned at Logan, slapped him on the shoulder, and said “I’m starving. Let’s go have some snacks!”

Chapter 7

That week sped by, and before I knew it, I was helping my mother pack for her reality show. And that’s a sentence rarely uttered. The producers had given her a list of things she couldn’t bring, including a phone or laptop. She’d need to be totally cut off from what was going on at home, and while that would have driven me batty, she was excited to unplug. She went through her final to-do lists with me, made sure I had everything I needed for the diner for the summer, and then was ready to go.

The trait that annoyed me the most about my mother was also one that I admired: her ability to go with the flow. Growing up, it was frustrating as hell to have my only parent be so easygoing. I wished for the kind of mom who made sure I did my homework, made sure things like permission slips were signed and bag lunches packed for field trips. But her flight-of-fancy brain also caused her to wake me up out of a dead sleep at night to make sure I didn’t miss a meteor shower, and sing Christmas carols in July at the top of her lungs as we barreled up the highway because she just had to go to an antique fair in Albany she’d just read about.

This same attitude made it possible for her to enjoy the trip she was about to go on and truly see it as an adventure. I watched her buzz about the kitchen, searching for a chopstick to stick into her hair bun while we waited for the car that was picking her up and taking her to the airport. Aunt Cheryl lived in Dayton, Ohio, and was meeting her in New York City. Since Aunt Cheryl was short, squatty, and cantankerous, the two of them were going to make for great television.

“Okay, is there anything else you need from me? You’ve got the phone numbers for all of the employees in case you need to get hold of them, and did you ever find the insurance papers in that stack I showed you on the desk?”

“I do and I did. We’re good, Mom.” And I was ready to take over.

“And don’t forget—if the walk-in seems like its leaking, just shove a few towels under there and it’s good to go. It usually only does that on really hot days, and you know how it can get in July,” she said, buzzing by in a cloud of neroli and peppermint. Mom was a big fan of essential oils. Hmm, was that a hint of clary sage? She might just be a little nervous.

“I got it, Mom,” I said, handing her the passport she’d just set down and now couldn’t find again.

“Oh, thank you, dear, thank you.” When a horn sounded outside, she almost jumped out of her skin. “Oh! That’s my car, it’s time to go!” She hooted, then ran out the front door. I couldn’t help but laugh as I watched her excitement, helping her get her bags into the car. I doubted any of the other contestants would be traveling with a vintage army knapsack embroidered with the phrase Make Biscuits Not War on the side.

“And you’ve got the contact information for the producers, so if you need me, you call, right?”

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry about a thing.”

She stopped loading her bags and looked at me. “I don’t worry about you handling things, Roxie. That’s never something I have to think about,”

“So go have fun. I’ll be here when you get back,” I assured her, patting her on the arm.

She caught me in a close hug, holding me tight. “You have some fun this summer too. Enjoy, okay?”

“I will, Mom.”

“Use mitts if you’re baking; that old oven is testy.”

“I will.”

“Use citronella oil if you’re in the woods.”

“I will.”

“Use sunscreen if you go swimming in the lake.”

“I will.”

“Use a condom if you have sex with a farmer.”

“I will—Jesus, Mother!”

She snickered, then climbed into the backseat, blowing me a kiss and telling me that she loved me. She told the driver to take her away on an adventure, and then she was gone, leaving me shaking my head. Honestly.

Ears and cheeks burning, I headed back inside and took a good look around. I had the day off, and I knew exactly how I was going to spend it. I cleaned.

I’d always been the housekeeper, and always would be. I enjoyed cleaning, and clutter made me nuts. So I stacked and straightened, dusted and swept. I didn’t throw anything away, since it wasn’t my house, but I did file and box up much of the stuff and nonsense. Once the living room was done, I tackled the kitchen, making the wood floors gleam and the countertops sparkle.

Taking a load of boxes out to the shed, I decided the garden could use a good weeding and made that my afternoon project. The annual beds were a tangled mess of honeysuckle vines and old shrub roses, the blooms thick and the thorns thicker.

As I was dragging a mess of cut vines back toward the trash heap, something caught my eye. Something that had been part of the backyard for so long that it was just part of the scenery: the old Airstream trailer, parked behind a row of straggly pines.

It had belonged to my grandfather, who’d used to it to travel the country on the original hippie train, Woodstock not being far from Bailey Falls. After he passed away, it was put out to pasture. It was always far down on the list of things to do, with something else always taking priority for where to spend those few extra dollars each month, and it gradually became a giant starting-to-rust elephant in the backyard, so big it was unnoticeable.

But today I noticed it, and went in for a closer look. I’d always thought these old trailers were kind of beautiful, in a retro kitschy kind of way. Very Rosie the Riveter meets the open road. But this one was half covered by weeds and listing to one side on bald tires, doubtless a home for critters as well. Someday it could be fun to look inside the trailer, but not today.

I returned to my garden work, finished it up, and then headed inside. After my mother’s constant chatter for the last week or so, the small house felt big and empty.

Another day, another breakfast rush. I kept my eyes and ears open as I worked my first managing shift at the diner the next day. The employees had mostly been there for years and the place really was capable of running itself, but I knew why my mom wanted someone in charge. It was her baby, it had been her father’s baby, and she was hoping it would one day be mine, no matter how many times I’d told her pigs would fly first. But that was a thought for another day; I had a breakfast shift to run. So I played short order cook, cracking eggs and slapping toast down for Adam and Eve on a raft, wrecked.

A steady flow of orders, constant gossip from the people doing the ordering, three burned fingers, two quarreling waitresses, and one very small grease fire later, I had successfully made it through the breakfast. And found myself once more on the business end of a potato peeler.

Concentrating on the perfection that would become my steak fries, I almost didn’t hear the back door opening. But this time the farmer was smart enough to announce himself before spuds went flying.

“Are you armed?”

I peeked over my shoulder to see Leo, wearing a teasing grin. I answered it with my own and held my hands up in the air, potato in one and peeler in the other.

“I am; you may not want to come much closer,” I said very seriously. I nodded toward the basket on top of the boxes he was carrying. “I can’t believe you brought nuts to a potato fight.”

“I’ll admit it didn’t go well for me last time,” he said, walking over to my station and setting down the boxes he was carrying. “Or it went very well for me last time, depending on the point of view.”

“Point of view is important,” I said, setting down my peeler. He was closer than I expected and I found myself staring up into the incredible green eyes, bright and curious. “So what did you bring me today?”

Without taking his eyes from mine, he thumped lightly on the stack of boxes. “Lettuce—a few different kinds, including a new blush variety. Big mess of fennel and garlic bulbs. Leeks, celery, and a big fat rutabaga. And a special treat, the first strawberries.” He lifted a small paper bag from the top of the pile, opened the top, and I peered inside. Nestled at the bottom were a handful of plump strawberries, pinky red and speckled with fragrant green leaves.

“Mmm.” I breathed in. “That smells like summer.”

“Doesn’t it?” he answered, pulling out one of the tiny fruits. “It’s a new variety we’re trying this year—brown sugar strawberries. A low yield so far, but it’s about the sweetest strawberry I’ve ever tasted.”

“Yeah?” It looked the same as every other one I’d ever seen.

“Go on. Try it,” he said, offering me the strawberry.

“I don’t take candy from strangers.”

“It’s not candy, and we’re not strangers. We painted together.”

“And fell down a few times.”

“Exactly,” he nodded, holding it out once more. “Put this in your mouth.”

“That’s exactly what a stranger might say,” I said, but opened up.

He dropped it onto my tongue, his eyes crinkling when I let out the tiniest sigh.

“That’s a great fucking strawberry.”

“I like to think so,” he replied. We looked at each other exactly two seconds longer than was necessary, then moved on.

“So what’s with all the walnuts?” I asked, looking at the big basket.

“There’s an old grove on the property, and we’re always rolling in them. So I started adding them to the foodshare, and people love them.”

Suddenly inspired, I said, “I’ll make a black walnut cake! I haven’t made one in ages, and I could make a few, based on how many nuts you’ve brought me.”

“I feel like so many of our conversations have been nut based,” he said.

I tilted my head sideways, my thoughts drawn back from visions of thick frosting to the very handsome farmer in front of me. “Agreed. How can we change that?”

“You wanna come see my farm?”

“Hell yes. Should I bring some walnut cake?”

He nodded, and I made him feed me another strawberry.

Summer lovin’, happened so fast . . .

After the lunch shift, I got out some cake pans and went to work. I’d found the recipe in an old church cookbook that I came across at a flea market when I was in school. I frequented them and garage sales for exactly this kind of thing—especially old cookbooks from bake sales and church socials. Spiral bound and usually well used, they contained recipes that stood the test of time. Meat loaf, chicken and dumplings, brisket—they were still around for a reason. But I particularly loved the desserts, especially the cakes. Good old-fashioned cakes like triple coconut. Hummingbird. Spice. Black walnut.

I’d gone straight to the black walnut cake recipe in this cookbook because it was on the most worn-out page. The pages with the spatters and the spoon rest stains were the ones used most often, so you knew they’d be good. And this one was no exception. Given to the First Methodist Church cookbook by a Mrs. Myra Oglesby of Latrobe, Pennsylvania, this black walnut recipe was “in my family for generations. My mother used walnuts from her mother’s trees, picked by hand and shelled by the fire.”

I loved this idea. I loved that the cookbook had grease stains and chocolate speckles throughout. I loved that someone a hundred years ago sat by a fire and shelled walnuts. In much the same way a quilt could tell a story, so could a recipe. You could approach an old recipe like a detective and whittle out clues about the people who had written it. Did a recipe call for shortening or butter? Margarine or oleo? The term oleo was used only by people of a certain age, so I could often date the recipe based on this one word. Occasionally, I’d get very lucky and find an old recipe box that contained handwritten index cards, and I’d marvel over the penmanship. People used to write! In cursive! On purpose!

And how charming, albeit frustrating, to find that some of these handwritten recipe cards included measurements only the family would understand. “Two spoonfuls of vanilla using the old blue enameled spoon.” “Three dashes of vinegar from the green glass cruet.” “Add salt till Uncle Elmer’s face pinches.”