How to Bake a Perfect Life (8 page)

He only glances over his shoulder. “Nobody wants to see you fall on your face.” A sudden flash of humor, the same thing that always saves our tense arguments, comes to the rescue. “Well, maybe Stephanie does.”

My sister, who runs the family steakhouse with my father and has not spoken to me since I adopted Cat as my mentor. “And Dad.”

“No. He loves you. He just hates Cat.”

“Then he should have thought of that when he decided to
keep Dane.” My philandering ex-husband, who worked for the Gallagher Group until recently.

“You gotta get over that.” Ryan chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s been what—eight years?”

“I don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, my family chose my ex-husband over me.”

He mimes crossing his arms over his chest and sticking out his lower lip, then stomps his foot, in case I didn’t get it.

I wave him off, smiling. “Thank you for your help.”

“I’ll be back later.”

Katie moves Merlin away from the truck and comes up the steps, dragging the dog behind her. “I’ve got to get to work,” I say. “Let’s check the backyard for escape routes, and you can play with him out there.”

We make a bed of old blankets on the sunporch in Katie’s room, and she agrees to keep the door closed at night and to leash Merlin if he needs to go outside. The pair head into the backyard, Katie with a book, Merlin snuffling the perimeter like a soldier.

A soldier. Before I head into the bakery kitchen, I stop at the computer upstairs and send a quick email to Sofia:

Katie is fine. Dog is here. Any news? How are you holding up? Be sure to EAT! Love, Mom

And then at last I escape into the kitchen, where the scent of yeast can help me forget, at least for a little while, that my daughter is in the first real trouble of her life and there is almost nothing I can do to help her.

Sofia’s Journal

M
AY
21, 20—

I am writing this as I sit by Oscar’s bed. He is almost unrecognizable. No, that is not accurate. Not almost. He
is
unrecognizable. I would never have known it was him. There are so many bandages and tubes. I can see bits and pieces of his face—his mouth and chin are very swollen and red. His eyelids are a deep, terrible red, swollen and marked. His eyelashes are gone, but the nurse said he was lucky he kept his eyelids, a picture that gives me shudders every time I think about it
.

He’s a mummy, really. A mummy with one leg. He hasn’t come out of the coma yet
.

I thought they were going to fly us back to San Antonio yesterday, but he had a bad turn and then something else happened and … I don’t know. The chaplain is here often, making sure I’m okay, which tells me how worried they are that he’ll die
.

He is not going to die. I keep telling him that he cannot give up, no matter what. Katie will be an orphan. Our baby will never see him. He or she will be here in less than two months, Oscar, I tell him. You can make it that long. I know you can
.

And if he can make it two months, he can make it forever
.

The other thing is, jeez, I am so pregnant! My ankles keep
swelling, and I’ve got a backache that just won’t quit. A doctor is keeping an eye on me, and I like her a lot
.

In my belly, the baby is doing somersaults or something, I swear! I can feel him banging on my ribs, jumping around, rockin’ out. I keep wondering—boy or girl? Boy or girl? I won’t let them tell me. It seems like opening a Christmas present too early. I think, though, it’s a boy. I’m carrying it high and forward, and one of the other teachers at school did a pendulum thing with a needle before I left. A boy with Oscar’s beautiful eyes. His thick curly hair. His hands, which are so huge and beautiful
.

When it gets closer to time, I guess I’ll have to make some choices. It’s hard to imagine having the baby without my mom around, but it’s even worse to think of leaving Oscar’s side. If I think about it too much, I start to panic
.

Which isn’t helpful in the least. One step at a time
.

I haven’t heard a thing from Katie and must remember to send her an email and be sure to be in touch with her. I’ve been avoiding it because it’s so hard to think of what to say, how to tell the truth
.

My stomach is growling. I need to go find something to eat. I wish I could find some of my mother’s French bread. It helps so much when my stomach gets unsettled like this
.

RAMONA’S BOOK OF BREADS

EASY WHITE BREAD

Many people fret about undertaking yeast bread, fearing it will be complicated and mysterious. This is the recipe used for centuries to make classic French baguettes. Children love to make this loaf, and it will give any aspiring bread baker a swelling of confidence.

1 cup lukewarm water

1 tsp sugar

1 T dry yeast

3 cups unbleached white flour

1 tsp salt

1 egg white + 1 tsp cold water

Pour the water into a small bowl and stir in the sugar, then sprinkle the yeast over the top and let stand for 5 minutes. In a big bowl, measure the flour and the salt and stir together. When the yeast is foamy, pour the yeast-and-water mix into the flour and stir together until you can gather it into a blob. On a counter scattered with flour, drop the blob and sprinkle more flour over the top of it, then knead for 5 minutes or more, until smooth and elastic. (The dough should begin to have a texture that’s cool and “spankable.”)

Gather the dough into a ball and put it into an oiled bowl, turning the ball until it is oiled all the way around. Dampen a flour-sack kitchen towel and cover the bowl. Let rise in a warm place until it is doubled (this will not take as long at high altitudes).

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees, and put a heavy skillet or baking pan in the bottom of the oven with a few inches of water to reproduce the humid environment of a French oven.

Pat the dough down into a long, thin rectangle, then roll the sides toward the middle to shape into a baguette. On a baking sheet covered with scatters of cornmeal or a baking parchment, place the baguette with the seam down and let rest for 10 minutes.

Make 3 sharp diagonal marks across the loaf and bake for 30 minutes, then baste with egg white and bake another 5–10 minutes, until the loaf is hollow when tapped from the bottom. Cool on a wire rack, serve with dinner.

Ramona

  T
he first task of every afternoon is to refresh the sponges. Turning the radio to a local pop station so I can sing along, I cover my hair with a cap and my clothes with a chef’s coat, then wash my hands as thoroughly as a surgeon.

Like any living organism, sourdough must be fed and tended regularly. It’s a simple thing, usually just adding flour and water and giving it a good stir to bring in fresh oxygen. Then it is allowed to grow for a bit, usually eight to twelve hours, before it is ready to use.

That means that our sponges must be fed in late afternoon, so we can bake with them in the middle of the night. We use a rotating system, using jars of aqua and clear glass, so that some sponges are resting while others are growing. When Cat helped me plan the kitchen, I designed a storage area specifically for this purpose.

The smell of yeast and vinegar rises as I stir flour into each of four jars with a heavy rubber spatula. Like all mothers, the sponges are unique in texture and flavor. The rye starter is powerfully, almost painfully sour, dark and thick and bubbly. I use it to make authentic German breads, for which I have an established contingent of German shoppers, mostly women who came to the city as service brides—some as long ago as World
War II, others as recently as six months. They’re particular but friendly and gratifyingly loyal when they are pleased.

I do this work every afternoon, because I have a very small staff. One baker and two apprentices come in at two a.m., five mornings a week. Each afternoon I set things up for them, making lists and deciding upon loaves for the next day.

With my hands—at last—in dough, tension flows out of my neck, drips benignly to the floor. Thoughts, images, memories swirl without weight. I think of Sofia’s baby growing in her belly, and of Katie’s long hands, and of my mother’s reference to the summer I was fifteen, and of the broken pipe in the front yard, and of learning to bake with my aunt Poppy that fateful summer when bread saved my life. I wonder what passion lies sleeping in Katie’s breast.

Finally, the things that really do need my attention surface clearly. Cleanly. When the rustica loaves are ready to rest, I set them aside and wash my hands, then carry my phone upstairs and call Cat.

He answers with a smile in his voice. “Ramona! How did the work turn out?”

“It’s great, Cat. But you cannot pay for it.”

“Oh, come now. It’s nothing. I know you’ll repay me. The summer is shaping up to be a busy one, and I know you can’t get another bank loan yet.”

His voice is persuasive. As I think of my maxed-out credit cards, I’m desperately tempted to accept his offer, but even the thought makes me hate myself. “I appreciate the offer, but I need to take care of this myself.”

“Your pride is doing you no favors. We both know how close to the edge you are.”

“You’re the one who always tells me that it takes time for a business to get on its feet.”

“That’s true. You’ve had a lot of challenges the past year with the building, Ramona. Let me help you, just this once.”

“It’s not just this once, Cat. I owe you thousands and I need to pay you back, not borrow more!”

“
Tesòro mìo
, you don’t have this money.” He sighs. “I wish you would simply marry me. I could take care of you.”

For a long moment, I stand in the middle of my living room, looking down to the view of ancient sidewalks. It feels as if someone has slammed a bat into my temple. “Do you hear yourself, Cat?”

“You know that’s what I want. What I have wanted all along.”

“All along? From the start, when I came to you for help?”

A slight hesitation. “No, no.”

But in that pause, I hear the truth. He’s like the rest of them—my family, my ex-husband—patting me on the head, never seeing that I do have the brains and business sense to make a go of this. “Did you ever believe in me at all, Cat?”

“I believe in you completely, Ramona.”

I’m shaking my head. “I’ll send you a check. Don’t come by here anymore.”

“Ramona, you’re upset. Don’t be rash.”

“I’m not kidding, Cat. Do not come here. Don’t call me.”

I hang up the phone and stand in the middle of the room. My sinuses hurt. My chest is burning. I’m blinking back tears of—what? Betrayal? Loss? Anger?

All of the above.

From behind me, Katie says, “Ramona, me and Merlin are going upstairs, okay?”

I whirl, dashing tears off my face. The dog is sitting politely next to her, his dark eyes somehow wise. One golden ear is cocked to a point, while the other has a half fold in the middle, and there is a big freckle on his nose. For the first time I see that he’s beautiful. Gold and white patches of smooth short fur cover his body. His paws have gold spats. “Bring him in here for a minute. We haven’t properly met.”

“Come on, Merlin,” she says, and tugs on the leash. He trots
over with her, coming to snuffle the hand I hold out to him, then he straightens, giving nothing away.

“Hello to you, too,” I say, putting the phone down on the coffee table. I sink down to his eye level, scratching his chest, which I can see earns me a few points. His gaze is steady and wise. I think of the teacher in
Kung Fu
, a TV show I loved as a little girl. “You’re an old soul, aren’t you?”

He lifts a paw and puts it on my forearm, then leans forward and very delicately licks a tear off my face.

“I can see why you fell in love with this dog,” I say to Katie. “He has a big heart, doesn’t he?”