Summer of a Thousand Pies

by Margaret Dilloway

  “That’s because that cookbook’s from the 1950s. Shortening was popular then because it keeps forever, unlike butter. Plus they did a lot of marketing for it. Did you know shortening’s melting point is higher than your body’s, so it leaves a waxy taste on your tongue?” Shell leans forward on the kitchen island, her powerful arms crossed in front of her. I can tell she’s enjoying giving this lecture. “Now, a lot of people use butter and shortening, but I like the all-butter crust. It’s flakier and rises higher. However, it doesn’t let you do real fancy things with the edges—it won’t hold its shape so much.”

  “So if I wanted to do a fancy pie with cutouts of crust leaves on top, that wouldn’t work?” My mind’s whirring.

  “Correcto-mundo!” Shell grins and I’m pleased with myself for getting it. This is way better than, say, math class, where I rarely get it.

  “I think they always use all butter on The Great British Bake Off.” I don’t remember ever seeing a can of shortening on the show, but I could be wrong. I haven’t seen every episode. “Why is it called The Great British Baking Show here and Bake Off in England?”

  “I guess they thought Americans wouldn’t know what a ‘bake off’ was.”

  I shake my head. “We might not have them, but I can infer what a bake off is.” Ms. Walker talks about that—if we run across a word we don’t know, we can infer its meaning by reading the rest of the sentence. Why would it be hard for grown-ups to do?

  My stomach hollows as I think of Ms. Walker and what I’ve been missing. During the last two weeks, they’re having parties and picnics to celebrate the end of elementary school. It feels like I’ve lived three lifetimes since I’ve been gone, but it’s only been about a month.

  Shell and I stand in the kitchen talking about The Great British Bake Off as our hands work on the pie crust. She gets a piece of cloth out of the freezer and places it on the counter. “This is a pie canvas,” she says. “To keep it from sticking when we roll it out.”

  I wrap the dough in plastic and put it in the refrigerator to rest—I’ve learned my lesson. Shell regards me with a thoughtful look. “Did you like hiking with Jay?”

  “It was pretty good. We saw deer.”

  “Very cool! You know, I’ve got a couple of books you might like.” Shell goes into the living room, to the packed, sagging-shelf bookcase near the TV. She picks out a couple of thin volumes. “Local bird guidebook.” She puts it in my hand. “And local scat guidebook.”

  “Scat?” I open it. It’s all about how to identify animals based on their poop. Like if it’s got hair, then it’s probably a predator’s, like a coyote’s. Totally gross and kind of awesome, too. My mouth tugs upward. “Thanks.”

  Shell scratches her head. “Yup.”

  We get back to pie making, which is easier than this kind of talking. She takes a small knife out of a drawer. “A paring knife. Let’s peel.”

  She shows me how to use this to peel the skin off the apple. The trick is to move the apple more than the knife. “You just have to apply a little pressure.” Shell peels the apple in one long curly strip.

  “Wow.” I eat the crunchy peel. I’m a little bit scared of the knife, to be honest. I start mine carefully and go really slow.

  Shell studies me. “You’re taking too much of the apple with the skin. But you’ll learn.”

  I put down the knife and the apple and stretch my aching fingers. “Don’t you ever put anything else in with the apples?”

  “You could. Cherries. Pears. Whatever. As long as it’s not too watery.”

  Huh. I think of Bake Off again and run to the fridge. “What about fennel?” I get the bulb.

  “Fennel?” Shell’s brow crinkles. “That’d be more like a savory pie. Do you even know what it tastes like?”

  I shake my head.

  So Shell and I take a break from the pie and chop up the fennel. She shows me how to sauté it in a pan with a little butter. “Throw some apple slices in there.”

  “You can sauté apples?”

  “Sure. They’re great with pork chops.”

  I’m learning so much. I throw in some Granny Smith slices, and then some Gala. Shell adds some cinnamon, then pauses. “Have you ever tried this?” She takes out a little jar and holds it to my nose. “Cardamom.”

  I inhale deeply. It’s a little like nutmeg and a little like cinnamon but is its own thing. Just like fennel is its own thing. And I’ve seen it on Bake Off. Paul Hollywood always, I mean always, worries it’ll taste “medicinal.”

  “So that’s what cardamom smells like,” I say. “Can we use it?”

  She hands it to me. “Just a little, like a quarter teaspoon, or it’ll taste—”

  “Medicinal,” I supply.

  Shell laughs. “I just love that you love Bake Off, too.”

  It smells heavenly. We stand in silence, me pushing the wooden spoon around the pan, making sure things cook evenly. The apples and fennel sizzle, then bubble, giving off a sweet smell. I’m just about the calmest I’ve ever been. I could do this forever. I smile at Shell and she smiles back and ruffles my hair. Warmth explodes in my chest.

  After everything is softened, Shell pours it all onto a plate. We each take a bite. I like the fennel and the apple combo. Like Jay said, it’s not too sweet, and it kind of gives the apple a hint of the licorice.

  “Not bad,” Shell says, “but it needs something to marry them together.” She goes to the pantry and takes out a box of raisins. “Are you opposed to these?”

  “Why would I be?” Opposed is a strong word to use against raisins.

  “Some people don’t like them, but I love them in baked goods. It gives a lot of—depth.”

  “Now you sound like Paul Hollywood.” I smirk at her.

  “Hey now.” She has a deep laugh, from her belly, and I giggle. I wish I’d known her since I was little. If I had, I might be an entirely different person now. That’s crazy to think about. Like in some other universe there’s an alternate Cady who’s been baking pies with Aunt Shell forever, who’s never slept in a van or a foster home. Who would I be then? The thought’s exciting but also scary, because this Cady is all I know.

  She tosses the raisins with the still-warm mixture and we try it again. I have a bite with raisin, fennel, and apple all together.

  I’m in love.

  Shell gives me a thumbs-up. “All right, Doctor. I think our patient’s alive.”

  We chop up more fennel and mix it with apples and raisins and spices. Shell says we don’t need to sauté it; it’ll cook inside the pie. “This might take more than one try,” Shell warns. “We might be forced to eat multiple pies.”

  “Tragedy.” I grin.

  Shell shows me how to cut the crust with a rolling pastry cutter, measuring it into strips three-quarters of an inch wide, then weaving them together like a basket. Over, under. Over, under. It’s sort of like braiding hair and it’s easier than I thought it’d be. “It looks so complicated when it’s done,” I say.

  “Well, a lot of things look complicated when they’re done, and they are complicated—but you have to remember every single project gets broken down into a bunch of smaller steps. So nothing is really that complicated after all.”

  I think about this. Everything is complicated, yet nothing really is. “You sound like Master Oogway in Kung Fu Panda.”

  She bows. “I accept your compliment.” Shell cracks an egg over a small bowl, then beats it with a fork. We use a milk wash on our crust at work. “The egg wash will give it a deeper gold, shinier color than the finish we get from the milk.” She adds a little water to thin it, then lets me brush it over the lattice.

  We’ve just put together the whole pie when Shell’s phone chimes. “Who could that be at this hour?” Shell glances at the caller ID. Her brows lift and she steps out of the room.

  “I don’t know if now is a good time,” she says in a low voice. I mix the fennel some more, my skin prickling. Who is she talking to? Is it a bill collector, coming for the
pie shop? I move over a little bit so I can hear. Tom jumps on the table and meows.

  “You can’t be up here with the pie.” I put him on the floor.

  This excites the dogs, who bark as Tom lands between them. He leaps up to the windowsill and glares at me.

  “Cady?” Shell pokes her head in from the living room. “Cady, your dad’s on the phone.”

  “Dad?” I repeat kind of blankly, my brain unable to process this. Then, a second later, it kicks in. Dad. My father. Dad, who is in jail. I haven’t talked to him in weeks, since he called when I first got here.

  It’s hard to admit it, but now I can’t imagine not standing in this kitchen baking stuff, not petting the animals every morning. Not getting to see everyone every day.

  Swallowing hard, I wipe my hands on a towel and walk slowly forward, my limbs stiff. I want to do several things all at once. Run upstairs and cry into my pillow. Yell at my dad. And cry and tell him how badly I miss him.

  Shell hits mute. “You don’t have to talk to him, Cady. But he sounds pretty good.”

  So much has happened to me since they took me away, but he’s been in there, alone, waiting like time stopped.

  My throat opens again and I reach for the phone. Shell unmutes it.

  “Buttercup?” Dad’s voice sounds crackly. “Are you there?”

  Shell busies herself in the kitchen, washing a mixing bowl. I nod, forgetting he can’t see me. “I’m here, Dad. How are you?” I don’t know what else to say.

  “I’m not bad, Buttercup. Not bad at all. How are you?”

  “Okay.” This time he’s actually asking about me, but somehow I think it’ll make him feel worse if I tell him about the fun I’m having. As if I’m better off without him. Then he won’t have a reason to get better.

  “Just okay?” His voice is sharp. “Is she taking you to church?”

  I sigh. “Dad, you never took me to church, either. But Shell is treating me better than okay. Don’t worry.” I change the subject. “How is it in there?”

  “I go to church here. There’s a chapel.” Dad’s voice quavers. “And they have me in a program. With doctors and medical treatments. I really think it’s going to take this time. I’ll get out and everything will go back to normal.”

  I’m quiet. What’s normal? Living in the van or at a motel? I look around the comfortable house, at the dogs snoring on the floor. What if I don’t want my “normal” back?

  I sit heavily down at the table, put my head on it. What about a job? I want to ask him. Where will we live? Would Shell let us stay here, and would Dad be okay with that? I keep quiet, though, because that will make him sad.

  “Buttercup?” Dad sounds pleading. “I need to hear your voice. Talk to me, Buttercup. Tell me something. Anything.”

  I’m sick of him calling me Buttercup. “My name’s Cady. Or did you forget?” Suddenly I’m angry. I’m so angry that I can’t talk anymore. Why do I always have to comfort him? It’s not fair. He should comfort me. I’m a kid.

  “Buttercup?” Dad’s voice reminds me of a stretched-out piece of gum. “I’m your father. Don’t you have any respect for me?”

  I look at Aunt Shell. Help. Shell takes the phone away. To my surprise, she puts her hand on my back, as if she’s shielding me. “I’m sorry. She’s overwhelmed.”

  “Overwhelmed?” I hear my father say. “It’s up to me when to say my daughter’s overwhelmed, Michelle. Don’t be trying to come in between me and my daughter like you did me and my wife!”

  Shell’s face turns red and she steps out of the room again. But her voice is calm. “I’m not getting into this with you.”

  How dare he call and tell us what to do? It’s his fault he’s there. It’s even his fault I’m here. I don’t want to go back to that. My mom wouldn’t want me to, either.

  Why couldn’t my dad hold it together after my mom died? That’s what he was supposed to do. Or why wouldn’t he come ask Shell for help?

  I don’t want to overhear anything else. Quickly I open the pantry and get a box of Pop-Tarts and three more granola bars. I run upstairs and put those in my drawer, too. I look over my food. I’m collecting a pretty good stash. I might have to use two drawers soon, or maybe the closet.

  “Cady!” Shell calls me.

  “Are you off the phone?” I yell.

  “Yeah.”

  So I run back down, and Shell’s picking up the oven mitts. “Okay, kiddo. It’s getting late. Let’s get this pie into the oven before we turn into pumpkins.”

  I wait for her to tell me what Dad said, or to ask me endless questions about how I’m doing, how I feel, the way adults usually do at times like these. But Shell doesn’t, to my relief. Instead we throw ourselves into the pie baking and cleanup. “Don’t forget to add this one on your pie count!” Shell gives me a high five.

  Maybe action can help with feelings as much as words can, sometimes.

  Chapter 19

  Jay and I walk up and down Main Street on our Grand Pie Tour, weaving through the tourists taking selfies. It’s a Saturday and the weather’s almost one hundred degrees, but most of the stores have awnings built over the sidewalks for protection.

  Downtown Julian looks sort of like pictures I’ve seen of Old West ghost towns, with faded wooden buildings, except of course it’s not a ghost town and therefore not creepy. Just old-fashioned looking. Up the side streets above the hill, small Victorian houses and bungalows peek out among trees. Some of the houses are painted in brighter colors, purples and greens, and have a lot of fancy trim on them—in curls and diamond cutouts and all sorts of other shapes.

  “First I gotta show you the important stuff.” Jay gestures. “The town hall is there. Public bathrooms are behind it, in case anyone asks. They cost a quarter.”

  “Got it.” I point to a steepled building on a hill. “Is that a church?”

  “No. It’s the historical museum. It used to be the schoolhouse. But never mind that. It’s candy time.” Jay leads me into a place that has two sets of stairs and doors and three signs above: MINER’S DINER, SODA FOUNTAIN, JULIAN DRUGSTORE. We enter on the right and walk all the way through a souvenir store crammed with trinkets and cards. A room to the side leads to a grill—I smell the delicious grease of hamburgers and fries. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “Do you think I haven’t lived here for practically my whole life?” Jay retorts.

  Finally, he leads me to a set of stairs. The doorway’s framed in logs and a wood-burned placard reads CANDY MINE. Hand-painted wooden signs above the stairs say LOW BEAM and DANGER, DUCK YOUR HEAD. “Behold,” Jay says dramatically as a large basement room opens up in front of us.

  I gasp. Every possible kind of candy I ever could have imagined seems to be here. Metal buckets are filled with individually wrapped pieces of candy. Then there are packaged candies, old-time candies like Necco Wafers, buttons, hard candy sticks, Red Hots.

  I run to a bucket and pick up a handful of wrapped peppermints. I want to eat every piece in this place. And I want to fill up a bucket and put it with the food stash I started on the first day. I wonder how long candy keeps.

  “The stuff in the buckets is sold by weight, so it’s easy to spend a bunch,” Jay warns.

  I put down the mints, circling the room at least five times, deciding. Jay gets a box of Nerds. “All this candy and you’re getting regular old Nerds?”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  He’s got a point. I like them, too. I get a box for later and a few pieces of assorted hard candies, and we take them upstairs to the clerk, a man with curly black hair who wears glasses. “Is that all?” The clerk sniffs kind of snobbily. Jay just shrugs, but shame pricks at my skin. The clerk pushes a handful of wrapped taffy across the counter. “You can take some of these,” he says as if he’s doing us a really huge favor.

  “We don’t need your charity,” I say stiffly, and the clerk freezes and seems to shrink. I sound just like Dad and I immediately wish I hadn’t said it. At l
east, not like that.

  “Who’s this?” he says.

  “Cady Madeline Bennett.” I have my hands in my pockets. “Who are you?”

  “Adam Shaw.” He folds his arms over his chest. “What’s the matter with your friend, Jay?”

  I look over at Jay, expecting him to back me up, but his cheeks are red and he’s frowning. “She’s new.” Jay takes his change and turns and leaves the store, shoulders hunched.

  I struggle to catch up. “What’s the matter?”

  “He just wanted to give us some candy, Cady. It’s not charity.” Jay shakes Nerds into his mouth. “You made him feel bad.”

  “I made him feel bad? He was acting like we didn’t deserve to be in there because we were only getting Nerds.” I’m mad too. Jay should see this.

  Jay shakes his head. “He always gives us taffy. He gives all the local kids taffy. It’s just what he does. Because he knows us. He didn’t mean anything except that I usually buy a lot more.”

  I slow down almost to a stop. I haven’t had anyone know me like that, except my teachers. I remember the canned food drives at school, watching tins of pineapple in heavy syrup and baked beans getting put into the collection bins and knowing that I’d probably be one of the people eating them later. Anna-Tyler dancing in with a whole flat of tomato soup cans from Costco, saying, “I bet this will make the homeless people so happy!” And every time, it was like they were kicking me in my pride. At some point, I started believing almost everyone was just like Anna-Tyler. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well. Just don’t assume people are out to get you all the time. Most of us aren’t.” Jay stops and turns around. I stand there. “You coming or not? Those pies aren’t going to eat themselves.”

  I nod, glad Jay’s helping me. I keep messing stuff up with people like I’m some weird monkey who’s trying to do math. I can’t get it right.

  “We’ll start with the most famous pie place,” Jay says as we step out into the blazing sun. The Julian Pie Company. “They have a factory, and sell frozen pies all over the place.” We step down onto a mossy brick patio and go inside. Jay orders us apple pie slices, no sugar added. “This is my favorite.”