The Avalon Ladies Scrapbooking Society (11 page)

In the hallway she bumps into Madeline, who jumps in alarm. “Goodness,” Madeline says, clutching her chest. A thin robe is tied over her nightgown. “I heard something outside so I thought I’d go check. I think your goat may be out again.”

“I know,” Connie says. She hopes Madeline won’t ask her if she’s talked to the vet or put a
GOAT MISSING
poster up at the feed store, because she hasn’t.

“Dolores says Walter is a light sleeper,” Madeline says. “Here’s hoping he’s not out taking a midnight stroll.”

At the mention of the Lassiters, Connie picks up her pace. She’s anxious to get to Serena before Mr. Lassiter does.

Madeline flicks on the light for the back porch and opens the back door. There’s more thrashing and then the sound of someone muttering. A bleat—Serena’s call—from the back of the yard, far away from where Connie and Madeline are standing. It’s a bleat of warning, of alarm. Connie feels the hairs on her neck stand up.

She steps in front of Madeline and peers outside. “Hello?” she calls. Madeline has edged backward toward the phone on the wall, her hand on the receiver, ready to dial 911. “Hello?” Connie calls again.

The bushes give a shiver. Connie steps back warily, ready to run.

Bettie Shelton stumbles out of the bushes, small leaves strewn in her hair, dressed in her nightgown, dirty slippers on her feet.

“Darjeeling tea!” she snaps, then turns on her heel and disappears into the dark night.

Wally Miller, 62
Founder, Men in Aprons
 

“Okay, here’s what we have: Mr. Jeffreys is putting in the shepherd’s pie, Frank Arrington is doing the pickled tongue, Ronnie Stevens has his fried chicken, R.L. Yelverton has the fish muddle, Koji Takahashi is doing
tai chazuke
—did I say that right?—and Charlie Knox is putting in his squirrel Brunswick stew. Did I miss anything?” Wally Miller looks up from his notes and glances around the room.

R.L. raises his hand. “You forgot Winslow’s dessert. He went down to visit his daughter in St. Louis but I’m sure he’d want to include it.”

“Right!” Wally jots this down. “What was in it again?”

“Heavy cream with apple brandy—”

“—white raisins—”

“Don’t forget the crystallized pineapple—”

“—and chopped nuts,” Wally concludes. “Yes, I think that’s it.”

Jordan Adams raises his hand, looking abashed. He’s a large man with a ruddy complexion, but the members of the group notice that the tips of his ears are tinged pink. He clears his throat. “I changed my mind. I’d like to include my jellied ham loaf, if that’s all right.”

The group claps him on the back, their mood appreciative but
somber. Jordan Adams is one of the newest members of the group, his wife having passed last year.

“That’s great, Jordan. We’d love to have it.” Wally gives him a kind smile. Jordan wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Is oyster stuffing considered seafood?” someone asks.

“I don’t see why not,” Wally says. “Would you like to add that, Gerald?”

“Yes.”

“Oyster stuffing,”
Wally writes. “Is that the one with the Worcestershire sauce? I think you made it last Fourth of July.”

Gerald nods. “The fried bacon really gives it a pop.”

“That it does. So, if I look back at what we have and what we’ve just added, it looks like we have one hundred twenty-seven recipes, two over our goal. We have ourselves a cookbook, gentlemen!”

There’s a hearty round of applause as the men congratulate themselves. A couple bring out handkerchiefs and pretend to sneeze.

Wally closes the fat binder, stuffed with recipes they’ve shared over the years. He’s feeling a bit emotional himself, not quite believing that they’ve done it. They’ve gone and written themselves a cookbook, and a book printer in Rockford is going to publish it and help them distribute it.

Bettie Shelton had suggested the cookbook five years ago, but the men weren’t sure if they wanted any kind of publicity. When she pointed out that it would be more than a special memento, but something that could help other people in the same situation, they started thinking about it.

The group had come together as a fluke, a few men staying after the weekly grief support group to exchange recipes or talk about what a struggle it was to cook for one. They’d all lost a spouse or someone close to them who took care of the things they had taken for granted before, like cooking. Everyone burned pans that first year, set off fire alarms, ended up staring into a pot full of canned soup and feeling so lonely they felt invisible.

So Wally suggested that they swap recipes and help each other out.
Nothing too intimidating to start, but an identical recipe and shopping list they could all share each week, so they could compare notes the following week. It took a while, but they got better, more adventurous. Wally can always tell someone is on the road to recovery when they start pulling out their late spouse’s cookbook or their grandmother’s yellowed recipe cards. Almost every one of those meals will bring tears.

For Boyd Robby, it was his wife’s sausage cakes, fried in lard. For Otto Warren, it was pressed veal. David Combs kept them stocked with shrimp gumbo for weeks—he wouldn’t give up until he got it right.

For Wally, it was the Spanish pork chops that Virginia used to make. Lay the chops in a baking dish with a slice of onion, a slice of pepper, a heaping tablespoon of uncooked rice, topped with canned tomatoes and season generously. Into a four-hundred-degree oven for forty-five minutes and you have a meal to remember. He can picture Virginia smiling at him from across the table whenever he eats it. He wishes he could turn back time and make those chops for her. He knows she’d be proud at how far he’s come.

So that’s really what their cookbook is all about. Not just food, but memories. Each person is writing a small story about the recipe, about something funny that happened, about the first time they made it, about what it means. It’s about sorrow and joy, about the mishaps in the kitchen as well as the successes. But most of all it’s about the women who left a few hapless men behind, men who’ve learned to pick up a spatula, tie on an apron, and cook for themselves.

Chapter Seven
 

Connie yawns and turns over, still sleepy. The morning sun casts patterns on Connie’s bed, the sunlight filtering through lace curtains.

She opens one eye and looks at the clock. Eight o’clock. Eight o’clock! Connie sits up in disbelief, then quickly gets out of bed and throws on some clothes. All she can remember is stumbling back up the stairs after Bettie Shelton almost scared the living daylights out of them. She must have turned off her alarm when she came back to bed.

Connie brushes her teeth and adds some hair gel into the palms of her hands before raking it through her hair with her fingertips. She runs out of the room and down the stairs, slowing only when she nears the already bustling tearoom.

A few of the regulars smile and say good morning. Connie returns the greeting as she hurries into the kitchen where Madeline is frying up some eggs in a skillet. “Madeline, I’m so sorry. My alarm didn’t go off and I must have overslept …”

Her voice trails off when she sees Hannah Wang emerge from the pantry, her arms encircling a basket of potatoes, an apron tied around her waist. She smiles pleasantly when she sees Connie, lifting her chin in greeting. “Good morning, Connie.”

“Oh. Hey, Hannah.” Connie watches her place the potatoes by the basin and begin to rinse them. Even though they sometimes ask Hannah to come in and help when they’re busy, it’s usually Connie and Madeline in the kitchen. She hadn’t expected to see Hannah here.

“Hannah called early this morning to see if we needed any help,” Madeline explains as she slides the eggs onto a couple of plates. “As usual, her timing is perfect. I thought you could do with a little rest, Connie, after our exciting adventure last night. You’ve been working so hard lately.” But instead of looking at Connie, Madeline is beaming at Hannah.

“I like being busy,” Connie quickly says. “I don’t need a break.”

“You haven’t taken a day since you started,” Madeline reminds her.

“I like working,” Connie says. She turns to Hannah. “And I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Hannah says easily. She begins to peel the potatoes. “I love being here, it’s like my second home.”

Madeline adds several strips of bacon to the plates, then goes to Hannah and gives her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “You are welcome here anytime. I love having you here, too.”

Connie frowns as she watches this exchange. She knows that Hannah’s schedule is open and flexible, that she teaches music to kids and adults but also has some money from her years of playing and performing professionally. Hannah doesn’t need a job, but Connie does.

Madeline adds a sprig of parsley to each plate. “Now, let’s get these breakfast orders out for the Johnsons at table nine. I’ll get the pancakes going for table six.”

“I’ll take those out, Madeline,” Hannah says, and Hannah and Madeline exchange another smile, making Connie feel like a third wheel. Hannah and Madeline have a relationship that predates Connie and it always seems like they have an unspoken understanding of each other. Connie watches as Hannah wipes her hands, then picks up the plates and heads out to the tearoom.

Once Hannah is out of earshot, Connie turns to Madeline. “Hannah doesn’t have to stay if she has somewhere else to go,” she says.
She pretends to scan the day’s menu even though she knows it by heart. “I mean, I’m here now.” She ties her apron around her waist.

Madeline glances outside where Hannah’s polite laughter can be heard over the din of forks scraping against the china dishes and random conversations. “Oh, I think she’s happy to be here. The regulars seem happy to see her, too.”

That’s exactly what Connie is worried about. Connie frowns as there’s a bleat from the backyard. “But we don’t …” she begins.

Madeline reaches for a large mixing bowl filled with pancake batter and gives it a quick stir before ladling out a portion onto the griddle. “I think your goat is calling you,” she says.

“Serena can wait,” Connie says impatiently. “We have customers. I can take over the pancakes, Madeline. Did you say table six?”

Madeline shoos her away. “Goodness, I’m already here, Connie. Go take care of your goat or we’ll be hearing her complain all morning.”

For the first time since Serena’s arrival, Connie feels annoyed by her bleating demands. She picks an apple from the fruit bowl and steps out the back door into the yard. It’s early but it’s already starting to get hot, another clear, cloudless day. She makes her way through the path in the garden until she comes upon Serena resting atop her igloo, her legs folded beneath her.

“What do you need? Water?” Connie unlatches the gate and steps inside. Serena’s water bowl is indeed empty, but Connie can tell by the damp earth around it that Serena has tipped the water out herself. There’s plenty of grass and she knows Serena isn’t hungry, but she tosses her the apple anyway. Serena doesn’t move, just watches the apple bounce off the igloo and roll onto the ground.

“What’s with you?” Connie asks as she picks up the water bowl. She heads out to the toolshed to get the water hose. She glances back and sees Serena still sitting on the igloo, a bored look on her face.

Connie quickly rinses the water bowl and fills it with fresh water, glancing anxiously back at the house. Why does Hannah have to stay? Connie and Madeline have developed a rhythm that she can tell is already off because a third person is in the kitchen with them. It’s
nothing personal against Hannah, and Connie appreciates the other times that she’s stepped in to help, but this is their regular morning crowd.
Her
crowd. The success of the tea salon is due in large part to their ability to turn over tables when it gets full. It’s a delicate balance between keeping existing customers happy while making room for new ones. If Hannah’s going to linger by the tables and chat all day, it’s going to affect their bottom line.

Connie hurries back into the pen and puts the water bowl on the ground. Maybe if she puts Hannah to work at baking some fresh loaves of Amish Friendship Bread, it’ll keep her in the kitchen and out of the—