Delicious! (46 page)

The panic attack was so sudden, so unexpected; I’d thought I was beyond them. For a moment I forgot how to breathe naturally, and I concentrated on pulling air in and out of my lungs. Lulu watched me with concern.

“I’ll be okay,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she replied, calmly reaching for a glass. She filled it with water from the tap and handed it to me. I drank slowly, centering all my energy on the sensation of the cool liquid sliding down my throat. Lulu took the glass, and the water splashed in, loud, as she refilled it.

Lulu put her hand out and felt my forehead. “They say this new flu comes on fast, but you don’t have a fever.”

“It’s a panic attack.” I said it a little too quickly.

Lulu was completely calm. “Have you always had them?”

“No. Only since my sister died. That was almost two years ago, and I thought I’d gotten past them. It’s just when I go into a kitchen … I miss her so much.”

“Tell me about it.” She pulled out a chair and sat down facing me, then took both my hands in hers. Looking into her earnest gray eyes, I saw Lulu, my Lulu, and I began to talk. I told her about Cake Sisters, about Genie, about the Jaguar. And then, finally, about the cocaine. Lulu kept her eyes on me, nodding her head now and then as I spoke, saying nothing. “I always knew that car was meant for me,” I ended. “But now that I know about the drugs, it’s worse. I was so stupid. I should have known! I should have stopped her!”

Lulu’s face was full of sympathy. “That’s the most terrible thing about being a child: you’re convinced that it’s all your fault.”

“Did you feel that way?”

She nodded. “I was certain that if I’d been a better daughter, Father would have come home. The young feel omnipotent. All through the war, I was sure that as long as I kept Father in my mind he would be safe. I felt so guilty whenever I forgot and went on with my life. And
when he didn’t come back … well, I knew it was my fault. I tortured myself with every single time I’d disappointed him. I was convinced he would have come home to us if only I’d been better, nicer, more generous.”

“But it wasn’t your fault!”

“Of course it wasn’t!” She brought her palm down on the table; the noise made me jump. “But until you know that, really know it, you can never let it go. I thought I’d done that, but when Lucette’s letter came, I understood that deep inside I’d been clinging to the guilt. Going to France was what made the difference; I finally understood that nothing I could’ve done would have brought my father home. Nothing. It was not my fault. I was free.”

“So why protect him? If you’re truly free, what difference does it make what the world thinks of your father?”

“Oh, Lord! I set myself up for that, didn’t I?” Lulu stood up.

I looked around the kitchen. The dizziness was gone. “Genie will never get to know you.” I said it out loud.

“No.” She seemed to understand. “She never will.”

I closed my eyes, and for just a moment I was back at Cake Sisters. Genie was at the table, drawing a new cake, and I watched her pencil move across the paper as I conjured the recipe in my head. I opened my eyes and the vision evaporated. Lulu was watching me, sympathy etched across her face.

“There are many kinds of crime.” Her voice was gentle. “I’ve always thought the most unforgivable is to have a gift and turn your back on it.”

Had she hit me, it would have hurt less. People had said the words before—Sammy, Diana, even Thursday—but I hadn’t been ready to hear them. Now I took them in, knowing it was finally time to stop running from the best in me. Cooking was my gift, and Genie’s death didn’t change that.

I got to my feet and looked at Lulu. “Got any ginger?”

“What else will you need?”

“An orange. Butter. Flour. Eggs.” Lulu pointed to the cupboard, and I reached in for cardamom, cinnamon, and clove.

Lulu went to look for bourbon and I took in the kitchen, trying to memorize this room. I wanted to store this peaceful place away so the next time the panic came, I could remember how I was feeling now.

I picked up the orange and grated the peel, enjoying the lovely citric scent filling the air. I squashed the ginger, feeling the quiet explosion beneath my knife. I sifted flour, watching the patterns drift onto the wax paper.

Dusk was falling, the fading light making the kitchen glow. Somewhere, off in the distance, Lulu had turned a radio on, and gentle music wafted into the room. I creamed the sugar into the butter, watching two substances become one. I cracked the first egg, mesmerized by the deep marigold color of the yolk. As I began to stir in the spices, Stanley leapt back onto the table and stuck his nose inquisitively into the bowl.

“You know you’re not supposed to do that.” Lulu handed me the bourbon. Stanley gave her a disdainful stare and walked away, tail held proudly in the air.

I buttered the cake pans, dusted them with flour, and filled them with batter. I smoothed the tops and set the pans, very carefully, into the oven. As I closed the oven door, I whispered, “No earthquakes now,” knowing that I was, at last, on solid ground.

I have so many memories wrapped up in this cake. All I have to do is start grating ginger and I’m ten years old again, in the kitchen with Genie and Aunt Melba learning how much I love to cook. As I pick up the oranges I think back to that first day at
Delicious!
when Jake asked me to bake for him, grateful that I’m no longer frightened. By the time the cake is in the oven, sending its rich, spicy aroma into the air, I’m thinking about Lulu, and how lucky I was to find her.

This cake is great when it’s just been glazed, but it’s even better the next day: spicier, richer, more forceful. When I put a little sliver into my mouth, its friendly intensity reminds me how much I like my life now, and I turn to offer Mitch the second bite.

Is my gingerbread as good as the one my mother made? How could I possibly know? But I do know this: it’s good enough.

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 6-cup Bundt pan.

Grind your peppercorns, cloves, and cardamom and measure out ¼ teaspoon of each. (You can use pre-ground spices, but the cake won’t taste as good.)

Grind your cinnamon stick and measure out 1 teaspoon. (Again, you can use ground cinnamon if you must.)

Whisk the flour with the baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt in a small bowl.

In another small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk into the sour cream. Set aside.

Cream the butter and sugar in a stand mixer until the mixture is light, fluffy, and almost white. This should take about 3 minutes.

Grate the ginger root—this is a lot of ginger—and the orange zest. Add them to the butter/sugar mixture.

Beat the flour mixture and the egg mixture, alternating between the two, into the butter until each addition is incorporated. The batter should be as luxurious as mousse.

Spoon batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes, until cake is golden and a wooden skewer comes out clean.

Remove to a rack and cool in the pan for 10 minutes.

While the cake cools in its pan, simmer the bourbon and the sugar in a small pot for about 4 minutes. It should reduce to about ⅓ cup.

While the cake is still in the pan, brush half the bourbon mixture onto its exposed surface (the bottom of the cake) with a pastry brush. Let the syrup soak in for a few minutes, then turn the cake out onto a rack.

Gently brush the remaining mixture all over the cake.

Once the cake is cooled, mix the sugar with the orange juice and either drizzle the glaze randomly over the cake or put it into a squeeze bottle and do a controlled drizzle.

This is a work of fiction. Although James Beard wrote for many magazines, he never worked for Pickwick Publications. I like to think that if Lulu Swan had written to him, he would have written back (he was extremely generous to many, many correspondents). Mr. Beard did, indeed, say that the only thing that will make a soufflé fall is if it knows you’re afraid of it, and the particulars of his life during World War II are all accurate. But if he ever wrote to Lulu, those letters have not been found.

Writing, for me, is a waiting game. I go out to my little studio, light a fire in the wood-burning stove, turn on my computer, and stare at the screen. I switch the radio on. I switch it off. I fidget in my seat. And then, on the good days, I vanish for a while. The writing happens, and I am in it.

I’ve never written fiction before, and I have no way to explain the process. But my first thanks go to the characters—to Billie and Lulu, Sammy, Mitch, and Jake—who simply gave themselves to me.

My next thanks go to Susan Kamil. She has the extremely rare quality of the born editor: the ability to be simultaneously critical and encouraging. She falls in love with your characters. She is thinking about them even when you’re not. And she won’t let you stop until the book is as good as it can be. I couldn’t have written this book without her.

I also owe a deep debt of gratitude to my agent, Kathy Robbins. When I found myself abruptly out of work she said, “You’ve always said you wanted to write a novel. Now’s the time.” Then she took my hand and held it through the process, reading endless drafts.

Thanks to my husband, Michael Singer, and our son Nick. They endured endless dinners when I was not really with them, but wandering through the Timbers Mansion in my head.

The incomparable Ann Patchett read a draft and gave me thoughtful notes. I will never again forget the Rule of Chekhov. I hope the day we spent talking about the background of the book was as much fun for her as it was for me.

The MacDowell Colony offered me the perfect place to work on this
book, and I am deeply grateful for the peace, time, support, and friendship that I always find when I am there.

I also want to thank: My assistant, Francesca Gilberti, who keeps track of my projects. Robin McKay and Maggie Ruggiero, gingerbread experts, who consulted on the cake. All the people at The Robbins Office—David Halpern, Louise Quayle, and especially Arielle Asher, who is always cheerful, enthusiastic, hopeful, and helpful. The wonderful team at Random House, starting with Gina Centrello, who named the book before it was even written. Sam Nicholson, Molly Turpin, Avideh Bashirrad. Thanks to Barbara Bachman, who did the lovely design. And I am indebted to the extraordinary copy editors, Loren Noveck and Kathy Lord, who pored over every word, untangling the chronology.

Finally, I want to thank the many food people who were the inspiration for this book. I’ve learned so much from the talented butchers, bakers, farmers, chocolatiers, and cheesemongers I’ve been fortunate enough to meet. And, of course, endless thanks to all the cooks. Feeding people is an act of generosity—I don’t think it is possible for a great cook to have a stingy soul—and I have done my best to honor that.