quite fussy about who they share their shelves with.”
After another fit of laughter, Sarah stands and shrugs her coat on.
CeeCee groans and says, “Let’s make more o’ those gingerbread wedding favors then, Lil.”
“Be sure and send any mistakes my way. I’m craving gingerbread men so bad I’m worried I’m going to have a gingerbread baby,” Missy says. Sarah clasps Missy’s hands, pulling her bulk out of the sofa. “Let’s go, gingerbread mom. I’ve got a customer, by the looks.”
We hug our goodbyes and promise to catch up again later.
A few hours later I’m busy clearing tables when CeeCee wanders from the office, holding a piece of paper. “Lil, these orders have just come in on that gizmo.” I suppress a smile at her reference to our antiquated fax machine. “We better get a move on — the mayor’s gone ahead and ordered a bunch o’ cakes for his staff Christmas party.” Her finger works its way down the list as she mumbles, “Black forest meringue, yule log, boozy fruitcake, chocolate-fudge cheesecake, and—” she chuckles “—lemonade pie. I knew he loved that pie. He done ordered it every week since I baked it for him a few months back.”
CeeCee’s famous for her southern pies. She makes them from scratch and when they sit cooling on the bench, their scent wafting down the street, you can almost count the seconds until we’re inundated with customers. I’ve watched CeeCee make a million pies, followed her recipes to a T, mixed the ingredients with love in my mind, but they never taste as good. I don’t know what her secret is, but they put the comfort into comfort food, all right.
“So.” Cee puts the list on the bench. “Where should we start?”
I run through the order and say, “With the boozy fruitcakes. They’ll take the longest to bake.”
“You soaked the fruit already?”
“Yes, ma’am. I soaked a batch yesterday, good and proper with lashings of brandy, and some sugar syrup. I thought we’d make mini fruitcakes for the café, but we’ll do that later now, and use this for the mayor’s order instead.”
“OK.”
I wander to the stereo and press play. The café fills with the sound of Christmas carols. It’s dark out despite it being the middle of the day. Outside people hurry from one shop to another searching for Christmas gifts, or buying groceries for their festivities. Snow rests on the dark wooden window panes almost like a framing for the cheery shoppers as they dash about on the cold day.
“I thought we could make some of those gingerbread in a jar gifts, too, Cee.”
Last year we filled a bunch of mason jars with the dry ingredients for gingerbread men, and printed out the tiny recipes cards to go with it. We attached them with red and green festive ribbons, and a gingerbread man cookie cutter. They were fun and easy Christmas gifts, and all people had to do was add the wet ingredients and bake.
“Easily done, Lil,” she chortles. “Ain’t like we short of supplies for gingerbread.” She bends down and unearths a box from under the bench and rifles through it. “We’ve got a bunch of cookie cutters here, and most o’ them are Christmas themed. We sure can make those gingerbread jars again. Kids loved buying those last year for their folks.”
I lean over and look into the box of still-wrapped cookie cutters. “Let’s get this order done, and then we can make some, and put them in the window.”
We pull out silver bowls, and I take the fruit mix from the fridge. The pungent smell of alcohol hits me as soon as I peel back the plastic wrap.
“Glory be, how much brandy did you put in there?” CeeCee hollers. She makes a huge show of covering her face with her hands.
“Enough.” I smirk. “And a splash of rum for good measure.” While CeeCee finds the remainder of ingredients the recipe calls for, I grease square loaf pans with butter, then turn on the mixer and beat sugar and butter, slowly adding the eggs, once again being drawn into the world inside the arms of the beater, hypnotized by the transformation and the way certain ingredients combine.
CeeCee whisks the flour and spices that she’ll add to my bowl so we have one huge batch to add the alcohol-infused fruit to.
“The fruit is ripe with brandy, Cee.” I lift a fat cherry aloft; it’s plump from absorbing the alcohol. It seems festive — the red and green cherries and golden raisins shine out from the bowl. CeeCee nods and smiles at the small gem-like cherry in my fingers.
“Let’s ice them white and mold some holly and ruby-red berries out of fondant.” I throw the cherry back in the bowl.
“They’ll look mighty Christmassy, Lil,” she says, stirring while she gazes dreamily over my shoulder to the busy street outside.
We work in silence, humming along to Silent Night as the singer croons softly out of the speakers above us. There’s something so healing about baking. I know CeeCee feels it too. Life just seems to make sense when you can plunge your hands into a bowl of brandied fruit, and chat away to your best friend about the most trivial things.
Once we’ve put the loaf pans in the oven, I scour the mayor’s order to work out what’s next.
The doorbell jingles, and in walks Damon’s dad, George. He’s dressed impeccably in a suit and wears a tie. “Good morning, ladies.”
He’s so much like Damon in the way he walks, and the tone of his voice. “You’re a little early for dinner,” I say, smiling.
He takes off his leather gloves and leans against the bench. “I’m blaming you. Since I came in here the other night I’ve had a hankering for gingerbread. I figured while Olivia was otherwise occupied I may as well satisfy my craving.”
CeeCee hems and haws. “See? I told you that tree was a good idea! Draws folks like bees to honey…”
“It sure does,” I agree. “Pull up a stool, George, and I’ll make you up a plate.” Dusting my hands on my apron, I meander off, searching the selections in the fridge for gingerbread flavors. I take some gingerbread macaroons, and a chunk of gingerbread fudge, and add them to the plate.
“Don’t forget the gingerbread cake pops,” CeeCee says, pointing. I take a cake pop, and a few dark chocolate and gingerbread truffles from the fridge. So we’re a little addicted to gingerbread flavored treats? What kind of Gingerbread café would we be if we weren’t! There’s something so child-like and sweet about the flavor, and it only gets better once we fancy it up for adults in the form of a more gourmet morsel.
“So where is that wife o’ yours?” CeeCee asks as she heads to the fridge and takes out foil-covered cream cheese for the chocolate-fudge cheesecake.
George’s eyes light up as I put the plate in front of him. “Running errands. She said something about organizing the centerpieces for the tables. I guess you’d know more about that, Lil?”
She what? I only told her very quickly what we envisaged. I imagined we’d go into more detail tonight, and then if she wanted to help she’d at least know what we were looking for. “Oh? I mentioned it the other night, but we haven’t actually discussed it properly
