out of bed in the morning is an act of false confidence.
–Jules Feiffer
Having stretched my stomach out at supper, I was naturally starving the next morning. The dining room door was ajar, and I could see that the room was empty. Then I noticed an envelope with my name on it taped to the maître d’s podium. It was a woman’s handwriting, and for an instant I thought it was my mother’s. She’d come to her senses, she’d realized what she’d done to me, and she was on her way here to beg my forgiveness.
No, that couldn’t be it. Mom wasn’t diverting a single neuron to thoughts of her own flesh and blood. I slid a finger under the flap and pulled out the paper, Black Butterfly letterhead covered with flowery fountain pen handwriting:
Penny dear,
So sorry about dinner last night. Will explain later. I’m off to an appointment on the mainland. Breakfast is buffet-style, and I trust that by the time you find this note, the food will be out. Enjoy.
I hope to be back by late afternoon or suppertime at the outside. If you need anything in the meantime, Vincent will be happy to help.
So glad you’re with us –
Bubbles
For someone who was so glad I was here, she was doing a darn good job of making herself scarce. Just like Mom. And while we’re at it, where had George managed to hide himself since yesterday afternoon? Whatever was making the Henions disappear all the time, I didn’t like it. Not that I’m normally averse to being by myself—I’ve gotten used to that over the years—but this was getting ridiculous. Well, if I had to be alone, I might as well be alone in a room full of good food.
Towering with fresh fruit, grains, plus all things decadent, the buffet table was a page out of some slick gourmet magazine, and a good distraction. The food, the tablecloth, the china, the silk flowers—all this, just for me? At least someone seemed to care. I put some pineapple chunks, a strip of bacon, and a cranberry muffin on a plate.
I went to the same table I’d had last night, between the picture window and the fireplace. In the light of day I could see out the window, and I stared at the cloud covered world before sitting down. Ice-plated armor encased the evergreen bushes hugging the backside of the inn. Beyond, a flat expanse of snow stretched until, a few hundred yards out, it gave way to a steel grey sea. Not a single bird or squirrel skittered around the grounds. Maybe they didn’t live this far north. “Oh, God,” I groaned. I had to endure thirteen more days in a wasteland that even critters with acorn-sized brains knew enough to avoid. I fell into my seat.
I’d just put the bacon to my lips when I heard a “good morning” from behind. I turned around to see Rita. Thank God, a friendly face. “Morning,” I said.
“May I?” Rita asked, pointing to the empty chair across from me.
“Of course.”
Today Rita was wearing a coral sweater that brought out the bit of pink I hadn’t noticed in her cheeks last night. Her grey corduroys made a trim line down to her suede flats. I hope I’m half that chic when I’m her age.
“I am wondering, would you like to help me today?” she asked.
“Help you?”
“Yes, help me to bake.”
I was so delighted to have an invitation to spend time with Rita—with anyone, really, but especially with her—I almost forgot to be confused. “But wait, Vincent told me you don’t let anyone in your kitchen when you cook, except for the family.”
“That is right, usually. But you and I, we are—how do you say—kind spirits, yes?”
“Kindred spirits, I think you mean.”
She inched back her chair. “Shall we then?”
“Let’s do it.”
“Today we make pain d’amandes,” she said, standing up. “Take your plate, if you like.”
“Pen what?” I asked as I followed her across the dining room.
“Pain d’amandes. It means almond bread, but it is really a cookie made of everything sweet—honey, brandy, brown sugar, almonds.”
Rita pushed the swinging door, and suddenly we were in her kitchen. Now, don’t picture one of those oversized, steel industrial kitchens that reek like a school cafeteria. This room was snug, all white and blue tiles, with a wooden floor, a large skylight, and the aroma of Tollhouse cookies. Rita went straight to the pantry—a room in itself off to the left—and emerged a minute later loaded with baking supplies. I watched her stack the center island with spices, sugars, a jar of nuts, and all kinds of utensils. The island, part butcher-block, part tile, housed a deep sink and a gas stove that already had a pot bubbling on it.
“You like this space?” she asked.
“I love it.”
“A little small for a working kitchen, but I make do with what I have.” She tied on an apron, a yellow one with the words Etoile Rouge stitched at the top. Then we both washed our hands.
“We blanch the almonds first,” she explained. “That means we take the brown skin off.”
I picked a nut out of the jar. “Do we use a knife?”
“No,” she laughed, “we boil them.” She took the jar from me and poured the nuts into the boiling pot. The water hissed and jumped up at her and then calmed into a rippling simmer. “These are ready now,” she said after a few seconds, taking the pot from the stove and draining the water into the sink. She picked up a single steaming almond and slipped her thumbnail under the puckering skin, which slid away to reveal the creamy meat within. “You try,” she said, tossing the nut into a bowl and taking another.
This had to be one of those things that looked a lot easier than it was, like on those cable cooking shows. I picked up a warm nut and examined it, hoping to find some hidden zipper to part the skin. Failing that, I tried Rita’s technique and—eureka!—I was holding a blanched almond. “Hey, this really works,” I said. But Rita was already sifting flour and cinnamon into a bowl and stirring in clumps of brown sugar, so I kept working.
When I finished peeling the nuts, Rita used a rounded blade to chop them. Then she added the nuts to the flour mixture, along with butter, brandy, honey and milk—all in no particular measure, just feeling her way. “Now we work the dough,” she said, stepping back to let me in.
I had no idea what it meant to work dough, so I stood there feeling and probably looking dumb.
“With your fingers,” Rita explained. “Until it is like clay.” She took my hands and pushed them into the dough. Her fingers felt strong and sure of themselves. “Relax. This is the fun part. Pretend you are a child in mud. Play with it.”
I plunged my fingers deeper into the dough, feeling the grit of the almonds and the silk of the butter against my skin. Just like mud, only without the earthworms. The more I mixed and scrunched, the stronger the fragrance, until I could almost taste the brandy.
“This is good, yes?” Rita said.
“This is good, yes.”
