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For many years now I’ve had the privilege of not only living in Ashland, but also using the Shakespearean hamlet and the surrounding Rogue Valley as my muse. The theme of community and connection runs strong throughout the series, and I often speak about how true that is in real life. Never has that been more so than this past year. I wrote Chilled to the Cone long before the pandemic upended our lives and before a wildfire would tear through Ashland and burn two neighboring towns. There has been unfathomable loss in this little corner of the world, as Jules would say. Yet, in the midst of total devastation, the effects of which will likely be felt for years to come, I’ve witnessed the truest outpouring of heartfelt community that words can never do justice to describe. In that spirit I dedicate this book to the people of southern Oregon, you have my whole heart.
Chapter One
They say that every journey starts with a single step. As of late, it felt like my steps were taking me in opposing directions. Fortunately, our little corner of southern Oregon wasn’t too large. Ashland is nestled in the Siskiyou Mountains just north of California, giving us long, glorious stretches of sun, stunning vistas, and an abundance of fresh pine-scented air. Not only are we tucked between deciduous forests and gently rolling golden hills, we are also home to the world-renowned Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Throughout the year tourists came from near and far to take in a production of The Tempest in the Elizabethan, beneath a ceiling of stars, or experience an intimate performance of new works by innovative playwrights in one of the many theaters on the OSF campus.
When I had returned to my childhood home a while ago I hadn’t been sure what to expect. I had thought my stop might be temporary, but Ashland captured me under her spell. I knew now that this was where I was meant to be. It was an exciting time to have a renewed appreciation for the place where I had grown up. Maybe that was the gift of leaving. Distance and time away from my beloved hometown had made me want to embrace and experience all that the Rogue Valley had to offer. Thus far, I had barely scratched the surface. Ashland is known as the spot where the palms meet the pines. Leafy palms give rise to a conifer canopy of ponderosa pines, cedars, and white firs. Our temperate climate and fertile, organic valleys are ideal for growing pears, fruits, herbs, and grapes. Vineyards dot the hillsides throughout the region along with alpine lakes, pristine rivers, and hiking trails so remote that you can disappear into the forest and meander for hours without seeing another soul, except for the occasional black bear that might amble past.
From the healing Lithia waters to the wild deer that nibbled on lush green lawns to the constant bustle of activity on the plaza and the bevy of friends and family who had welcomed me in, I could finally declare with confidence that nothing could ever make me want to leave again.
That was especially true with Torte’s latest endeavor. Our family bakeshop had been expanding. It happened organically. First, we learned that the basement space beneath the cozy bakeshop my parents opened thirty years ago had come up for sale. Mom and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, so we secured some grant money and city loans to break through the floor and build our dream kitchen, complete with a wood-burning pizza oven, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a cozy seating area in the basement. The renovations meant that we had been able to expand our offerings with a kitchen twice the size as well as additional seating in the basement and a new and improved coffee bar and pastry counter upstairs.
My next venture had been a total surprise. My estranged husband, Carlos, at the urging of my best friend, Lance, had made us partners in Uva, a boutique winery just outside of town. I left Carlos on the ship where we had both worked, after I learned that he had a son, Ramiro, that he had never told me about. In hindsight, it might have been a rash decision, but leaving Carlos meant that I had returned home to Ashland, a decision I did not regret.
The bakeshop and winery should have been enough. I had plenty on my plate with managing Torte, growing our staff, and trying to figure out what to do with Uva. However, the universe had other plans for me. Sterling, my young sous chef, had been experimenting with a line of concretes—rich, custard-like ice creams with decadent and unique flavor combinations like lemon rosemary, dark-chocolate toffee, pear and blue cheese, and strawberry balsamic with toasted pecans. We had added a small cold case during the remodel to house our daily concrete offerings. They had become so popular that on busy days we sold out by early afternoon no matter the season.
In a twist of fate, my friend Laney Lee had called to inform me that a seasonal space in Ashland’s up-and-coming Railroad District was available for lease. Laney owned a Hawaiian street food truck, Nana’s. We had become fast friends after I had tried her passion-fruit lemonade one hot afternoon last summer. She had been keeping her eye on the outdoor space adjacent to where she parked her cart on summer days. The lot in question was attached to a ground-floor yoga studio with an apartment above. It had been used as a walk-up coffee kiosk, but the owner of the coffee shop had jumped ship and moved to Paris, leaving the space unexpectedly vacant. Laney had initially hoped that the garden, with its sweet outdoor counter and small covered area with a fridge, cooler, and sink, might serve as a permanent location for her food truck. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. The city wouldn’t approve any upgrades for the site. Laney needed a stove and an oven to make her delicious fusion Kalua pork tacos and sweet and sugary malasadas.
She had called me a few days ago with the news that the seasonal space was about to go on the market. “Jules, you have to come take a look at this place. It’s perfect for Torte Two.”
“Torte Two?”
“Yeah, think about it. It’s a perfect opportunity to expand. You could do walk-up coffee, even bring pastries over from the bakeshop. This area gets great summer traffic. With exorbitant rent prices on the plaza, I think we’re going to see a lot more action here in the Railroad District.”
“That’s so nice of you to think of us, Laney,” I had said. “But we just finished a major expansion. I’m not sure a second location is in the cards right now.”
“Come take a look at the space,” Laney had pleaded. “I’ve had my truck here for ten years and I want to be neighbors with something complimentary like Torte—you would draw customers into the area with your name recognition alone. That would be great for you and for all of us trying to build a new shopping destination. I don’t want to see a big investor or corporate coffee take over. There are rumors swirling that a huge national chain is considering doing a build-out. They want to tear up the garden and turn the lot into a mega industrial coffee shop. We can’t let that happen. If you are even a little interested, I can put you in touch with Addie. She owns the property and I know she’d give you a deal. Plus, the space is only open from May until September. It would be a great way for Torte to hit a new market, and it’s really low risk.”
I had hesitated on the call. “I don’t know, Laney. We’re already short-staffed.
I’m not sure we can take on another project, even if it is seasonal.”
“Opportunities like this don’t pop up often in Ashland, Jules.” Laney was nothing if not persistent. “You know that. Come by later this week. I’ll show you around and introduce you to Addie. She’s young and ambitious. Her yoga classes have attracted a lot of new faces to the Railroad District. She likes the idea of keeping the space a walk-up restaurant. No pressure, I promise.”
Laney had been convincing. I agreed to stop by and take a look—more than anything to get off the phone, which is how I found myself making the short half-mile walk from Torte to the intersection of Fourth and A streets on a spring afternoon.
Downtown Ashland was extremely walkable, with relatively flat streets and sidewalks. I crossed Main Street, with Andy and Sterling in tow, and passed the blue awnings of the police station. To call it a station was an exaggeration. It was a contact point in the plaza, staffed by three officers and Ashland’s park cadets who patrolled downtown and the surrounding parks on foot and by bike, handing out minor citations and alerting the police of any dangerous situations or criminal activity. The station looked more like a welcome center with its dish of water for dogs, stacks of maps, and window boxes with cheery germaniums. We continued along Water Street, paralleling Ashland Creek, which flowed heavy with snowmelt.
Andy was my resident barista who had recently opted to drop out of college in order to broaden his coffee knowledge. I wasn’t thrilled with his decision to leave school, but if I had learned anything in my thirty-plus years it was that we all have to follow our own path. Andy’s ultimate dream was to open his own coffee shop. Mom and I had assured him that we would support him in any way we could, from sending him to regional barista competitions and trainings to giving him a larger role in our vendor partnerships and more management responsibilities.
Sterling was in a similar position. Since he’d landed in Ashland, he had become an integral part of our team. His natural talent and willingness to learn made him a leader in the kitchen. Most days he planned our lunch menus. Customers raved about his specialty soups, charred flatbreads, and herb-infused salads and pastas.
I felt so grateful to have both of them on my team. However, I probably should have thought through bringing them to meet Laney. They both buzzed with eager excitement as we made our way past the lumberyard that smelled of pine and cedar shavings and the hardware store with its friendly staff who were always ready to direct customers to the light-bulb aisle or consult on paint colors. Next we passed Ashland Grange, a long tan warehouse with a green metal roof that sold everything from horse feed to festive terra-cotta pots.
“Boss, this could be so cool. I mean ice cream is hot right now. Ha ha, pun totally intended,” Andy said, stepping to the side to allow a guy wheeling a cart of cans to recycle at the Co-Op across the street. “Me and Sterling have a ton of ideas for you.”
“Don’t get too excited,” I cautioned, removing a pair of sunglasses from my purse. A drizzly morning had given way to a brilliant late-afternoon sun. “This is simply a tour. I’m not making any promises.”
Andy’s freckles looked more pronounced when he grinned at Sterling. “Told you she would say that.”
Sterling unzipped his dark gray hoodie and tied it around his waist. “Don’t worry. She’ll cave once she realizes how great this could be.”
“Hey, I’m still here, guys.” I pretended to be insulted. In reality, I enjoyed the easy banter and rapport I had with my staff.
Laney’s pink food truck, Nana’s, was painted with yellow and white flowers. It stood out like a bright spot in the otherwise semi-industrial area as we approached the gated garden and vacant coffee stand. What once must have been an inviting and charming garden reminded me of something out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Wood trellises sagged under gnarly twisted vines of ancient ivy. We entered through a weathered gate and were greeted with an assortment of rusting bistro tables and chairs and faded and broken sun umbrellas that were scattered throughout the overgrown garden. Cracked pots that may have once housed fragrant strawberries and potted herbs now sprouted weeds. No wonder a corporate coffee chain was interested in bulldozing the space. It was definitely in need of some TLC.
Laney sat at a rusty table with a young woman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Jules, so glad you made it.” Laney stood to hug me. She was closer to Mom’s age, with long dark hair, deep-set eyes, and a friendly smile. I recognized her hibiscus-flower apron. It was the same design that was painted on the side of Nana’s truck. “This is Addie, who owns the building,” she said as a way of introduction. “Have you two met?”
Addie stood to greet me. She was significantly younger than both of us. I wasn’t always the best judge of age, but she couldn’t be much older than Andy.
“I don’t think so,” I said, extending my hand.
Addie moved with the grace of a dancer. “Nice to meet you. I’m pretty new to town. I moved here from SoCal last year.” She wore a pair of sleek aqua-blue yoga pants, a plush cashmere wrap, and Uggs.
“How are you liking the Rogue Valley?” I asked, after introducing Sterling and Andy.
“Great. It’s such an awesome community. Everyone’s been really open and welcoming and my yoga studio is thriving.” She pointed behind us to the two-story building. A sign reading NAMASTE YOGA hung on the covered porch that led to the lower level. Tibetan prayer flags flapped in the slight breeze. “My parents helped me invest in the building. They were pretty concerned about competition because everyone in Ashland is into yoga, as you know, but my classes are packed. I’ve had to hire three instructors to keep up with the demand.”
It was a bit of an exaggeration to claim that everyone in Ashland practiced yoga. I did agree that as a whole Ashland’s freethinking population was focused on health and wellness. Yoga, Pilates, meditation, Qi Gong, and Tai Chi classes were plentiful in our little artists’ mecca. I enjoyed being part of a community that prided itself on health and well-being. Perhaps it was embedded in our DNA. The Lithia waters that flowed through the plaza had long been revered for their healing properties. Ashland offered abundant opportunities to unplug. I had come to realize that was because we were a part of nature, literally surrounded and embraced by mountains in every direction. It was common to spot black bears lumbering through the vast network of trails above Lithia Park or see flocks of wild turkeys strutting around a neighbor’s front yard.
Addie stretched her limber arms. “Want to check out the kitchen?”
“Sure.” We followed her to the back of the garden.
As Laney had mentioned on the phone, the prep kitchen wasn’t more than ten feet long. It was covered by an overhang that, like the entrance, was wrapped in even more decades-old ivy. A walk-up coffee counter and a large chalkboard menu served as a barrier from the small outdoor kitchen with its row of cabinets, a prep space, a fridge, and a sink. The wood counter was rotting, with large splinters that could prove dangerous. The fridge had been tagged with purple graffiti and two of the cabinet doors were missing hinges.
How long had the place been empty?
“It’s not much, but it also won’t take a lot to make it prettier,” Addie said, reaching into the waistband of her yoga pants and removing a single key. She proceeded to unlock a door next to the sink. “This is a storage closet for supplies. You and your staff will also have access to the bathrooms inside the yoga studio. I know it’s not a full commercial kitchen, but it’s perfect for coffee. Electric, water, and Wi-Fi are all included in the lease. The train is a nuisance, but you’ll get used to it. It only passes through twice a day, and it’s short cargo cars. I learned not to schedule yoga at noon because when it passes behind us it lets out a shrill whistle and shakes the building. No big deal—I pushed back our start time to twelve fifteen. It shouldn’t be a problem for you, other than hearing the noon and five whistle.”
She was talking as if the space was already ours.
“Basically, it’s move-in
ready now.” She glanced up at the ivy-ensconced pergola that looked like it might collapse on our heads at any minute. “That should give you plenty of time to put your own spin on the space for a late spring or early summer opening.” Her attention veered as a man wearing a long purple cape pedaled past us on a rusty bike.
I recognized him immediately. He was affectionately known around town as “the Wizard” due to his cape and wiry silvery hair and the trail of gold and green metallic streamers that flapped from his bike. As far as I knew, he was homeless by choice. He tended to travel in a radius throughout the Railroad District. I often spotted him in Railroad Park making figure eights on the paved bike path or holding court on his favorite bench, orating to no one in particular. The Wizard was famous for his elaborate balloon art. He delighted kids in the park with balloons shaped like monkeys and mermaids. Once he’d recreated the Elizabethan, our version of the Globe Theatre, out of balloons. It was so impressive that one of the local art galleries had put it on display for a month.
Addie muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “Stay away, crazy.”
Laney waved to him. “Stop by the truck later, okay? I have a bento box saved for you.”
The Wizard gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment and steered his bike toward the path that led to Railroad Park.
I wasn’t surprised that Laney helped feed the Wizard. That was on par with the rest of the community. At Torte, we delivered day-old pastry and breads to the shelter and had an unspoken policy to cover the cost of hot coffee or a warm bowl of soup for anyone who might need it—especially during the cold winter months.
Addie didn’t appear to share the same sentiment. “That guy creeps me out.” She kept her eyes narrowed on him until he was out of sight.
“The Wizard?” Laney wrinkled her brow. Her golden-flecked eyes were filled with confusion. “He’s harmless.”
Chilled to the Cone Page 1
