The Recipe Box

by Sandra Lee

  Grace decided to start the day by showing Emma the recipe box. They would make one of the recipes together. Later that night, she sorted through the cards, looking for something familiar yet Swedish. Swedish pancakes sounded perfect. Opening the cabinets, she saw a box of granola. There was a quart of milk in the refrigerator. She set the recipe box back in its wrappings and grabbed her purse for a quick grocery run before Emma got up. She wanted everything to be perfect.

  “We’re having breakfast at home? Swedish pancakes?” Emma said suspiciously. “We never make breakfast at home.”

  SWEDISH PANCAKES WITH LINGONBERRY JAM

  Makes about 20 pancakes

  FOR THE JAM:

  4 cups fresh or frozen lingonberries

  ½ cup water

  1 cup sugar

  FOR THE PANCAKES:

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  3 tablespoons vanilla sugar

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  Pinch salt

  3 cups milk

  2 large eggs

  2 tablespoons butter, plus more for cooking

  Powdered sugar, for serving

  MAKE THE JAM: Bring the lingonberries and water to a boil and cook for 6 to 8 minutes. Skim off any scum that rises to the top. Stir in the sugar, bring to a boil, and cook for another 5 minutes, skimming off any scum. Pour into sterilized jars and process.

  MAKE THE PANCAKES: Sift together the flour, sugar, baking power, and salt. Add the milk and eggs and stir until combined, working out any lumps. Melt 2 tablespoons butter over medium low heat in a 10-inch non-stick skillet and stir it into the batter. Pour ¼ cup batter into the pan, tilting the pan to get a nice even coating on the bottom. When the pancake looks dry on top and is lightly browned on the bottom, about 1 minute, flip it and cook for another 30 seconds or so. Stack the pancakes and keep them warm.

  To serve, spread some lingonberry jam onto a pancake and roll it up like a cigar. Sprinkle with powdered sugar.

  NOTE:

  • Use any prepared jam or preserves that you like.

  • If you cannot find lingonberries, substitute cranberries and increase the sugar by ½ cup.

  • No vanilla sugar? Use plain sugar and add a teaspoon of vanilla.

  “Well, today is kind of special. Your grandmother sent us her recipe box. I thought we’d try a recipe. I ran out before you got up and got some lingonberry jam. That’s the key to it.”

  “What’s a lingonberry?”

  “It’s a fruit that grows in the forest, in Sweden. You’ve probably had lingonberry jam at your grandmother’s house. We always had it when I was growing up; like other kids had grape jam, we had lingonberry. Your grandmother always used to say lingonberry jam is like Swedish summer in a jar. The Swedes love their lingonberries. It’s not so sweet, sort of like cranberry sauce. Now, get the milk out of the refrigerator, please.”

  On her way, Emma let Halo out of the cage, and he hopped onto her arm. “I remember this box thing from Grandma L.’s kitchen. It’s kind of old.”

  “Not kind of, it is old. Grandma L. used to make these pancakes for us on Sunday mornings. Look at the card.” She pointed out the pale blue, faded handwriting. “That’s your great-grandmother’s writing. Didn’t she have beautiful handwriting? In the days before the computer, it used to be kind of an art. It’s her recipe originally. From Sweden. Pick out some other cards and put them on the counter.”

  Emma laid out the cards as Halo watched with interest. Grace pointed to each successive card. “Your grandmother, your great-grandmother, your aunt, and me. I’m chocolate cake.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Emma. “The blue ribbon.”

  “Someday maybe you’ll have your recipes in here, too. That’s the idea of it. That’s why Grandma L. sent it to me. Not so much for me—for you.” And Grace knew this was true. She herself had almost broken the chain, and before it was too late, she had wanted Emma to reforge it.

  “I don’t know how to cook,” Emma said.

  “You will,” Grace said. “These recipes will help you. “

  Emma picked up the Swedish Pancakes card. “My great-grandma actually wrote this? This is her writing?”

  Grace nodded and picked up another card. This one was written entirely in Swedish. “You know, when I was your age, I used to imagine what these women were like, the ones who wrote these recipes. I used to think they were so far away and different, off in Sweden wearing different clothes, cooking foods with names and flavors I didn’t understand, living in different times.”

  Emma nodded as she thumbed through the cards. “I know what you mean. What is some of this stuff, anyhow? Look at this—pickled—what? Who eats this stuff?”

  Grace smiled. “We ate it. Your grandmother, grandfather, and me. Grandma L. would make recipes from these cards on holidays, because they would remind her of Sweden when she was growing up, and we’d try them.” She pulled out a card.

  “Risgrynsgröt. Do you know what that is? A rice pudding. The best rice pudding ever. We’d always have it Christmas Eve. The big surprise was there was an almond hidden in it. The person who got the almond in their portion would have good luck.” Grace was surprised by the strong wave of nostalgia that engulfed her, taking her right back to her childhood. It was a good feeling; she realized that, once, she’d been very happy.

  “Rice pudding on Christmas Eve—huh!” Emma had been used to Brian’s family’s Italian extravaganzas, which were heavy on fish—and always elicited a “Yuk!” from Emma.

  “Don’t knock it till you try it. Which, this Christmas Eve, you will. Now, you measure the flour.”

  Together, they made the pancake batter. “You know what I found out from this recipe box?”

  “There’s a reason for McDonald’s?”

  “No!”

  “I am beggin’ you!” Squawked Halo.

  “Don’t be a diva,” Grace instructed the bird. “Now watch this, Emma. Before you put any batter onto the pan, test a drop of water to see if it’s hot enough.” She threw a spritz of water onto the hot surface and it skittered and sizzled. “See? We’re ready. We want to keep the batter thin so we’ll have thin pancakes. Tip the pan and then tilt and roll it after you pour the batter in. You try it. We’ll use two pans.” It felt good to be cooking with her daughter. For a moment, she regretted all those years lost to pizza deliveries and carryout. Well, they would make up for lost time.

  Emma squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow in the way she’d always done since she was a little girl, when she was concentrating.

  “Here’s what I learned—those women who wrote out these recipes were actually not so very different from us. The recipes tell us a little bit about them—how they lived, and even the fact that they took the time to write them out. But the rest is inside us. Inside you.”

  “Why don’t we ever go to Sweden? We could visit Grandma L.’s family. I never even met them.”

  This was her opening to talk to Emma. Grace took a deep breath. She’d start with the story of her own father. Then segue to Brian and Von. Emma would see that they both had this ambiguity in common. Hopefully, in spite of the shock—or maybe because of it—they would forge a stronger bond. And they could then move on together, hand in hand. Grace realized this was perhaps a bit overly simplistic, but she still hoped with all her heart that things would happen that way. She took a deep breath: “Well, actually there’s a reason.”

  And after her daughter had finished her great-grandmother’s recipe for Swedish pancakes with lingonberry jam and pronounced them “awesome,” Grace told Emma what she’d found in the recipe box all those years ago.

  “I don’t get it, Mom.” Emma’s first reaction was puzzlement. “So your uncle is your father?”

  Grace unfolded the birth certificate. “Yes, that’s what it says here. That’s the paper I found in the recipe box when I was about your age, and that’s why I was so upset with my mom, your grandmother, for all these years. I didn’t know how to think about what I’d found out, and
I didn’t know how to ask my mother, so I let it define who I was. It took me a long time to learn that this one thing didn’t make me who I was any more than one ingredient can make a whole cake. It was entirely up to me to decide how much or little these things meant in my life.” Grace tried to say this as calmly as possible. Certainly she didn’t want to burst into tears and upset Emma any more than necessary. “I understand this is probably a big shock to you. I know it was to me when I first found out.”

  Emma picked up the plates and started cleaning up as though she had this kind of conversation every day of her life. She turned on the water and started rinsing.

  “So what do you think, Em? Do you want to talk about it?” Maybe she should have done this in a therapy session, had a professional present.

  “I think it’s crazy. But stuff happens.” She loaded a plate into the dishwasher.

  That was it? Stuff happens? Grace had thought she’d be stunned. What on earth was Emma going to say about Von—if he were to be her father? Would she shrug her shoulders and say, “Gee, Mom—stuff happens”?

  “Any other thoughts, Em?”

  “Well, it wasn’t a sperm donor. And you can’t fake your mother. So we know who everybody is, right?”

  “Yes, that we do.”

  “Uncle Carl is dead, right?”

  “Yes. Both he and my—dad—died young. You know, my dad will always be my dad.”

  “And I know my dad. So we already know everybody we need to know.”

  Well, Emma—maybe not quite. Grace opened her mouth to say something about Von, but the first confession had gone so well she lost confidence, not wanting to screw anything up now. “One step at a time,” Grace thought, so instead she swallowed hard, and found herself saying, “Yes, Emma. It’s true. Your family is who you create it to be.”

  At least the secret of the recipe box was now in the open. Grace had imagined something horrendous for all these years, like a nightmare that assumed epic proportions, a dark monster that crawled out from inside the closet and enveloped the room while you were asleep. And then you woke up, and, in the daylight, it was not the monster you imagined at all. Lorraine, she realized, had been right. She had never given Emma—or herself—enough credit. The women in this family were strong. They had resilience. Their heritage was, as Emma said, craz y. Everything was not a straight line that meshed perfectly. There were dotted lines, zigzags, broken lines. But maybe they were stronger for it. DNA was as much about love as it was about science. Maybe more. Science did not wake up in the night and hold you when you cried. Science did not cheer when you were onstage or hold the Kleenex box when you had a cold. Science never looked at you proudly when you got good grades. Science never got angry with you for doing something you shouldn’t. Science had limits that love would never know. This was the real secret of the recipe box, Grace realized. And Emma—wiser in many ways than her mother—had instinctively had this knowledge all along.

  Grace looked outside. The world had tilted, but outside was just the same. It was going to be a sparkling LA day. On the agenda today was braving the mob at Kmart to get school supplies. Maybe they’d try to fit in a bike ride on the beach. She stroked Emma’s hair, something she used to do when Emma was a baby. Teenagers rarely stood for this kind of thing, she knew. They were experts at squirming away from affection. But her baby girl was still in there. Which was a good thing, she thought. Not that she didn’t want Emma to grow up, but Ken was gone, Leeza was gone, Brian was gone, and she’d pushed Mike away. Aside from Emma, Grace was otherwise more alone than she’d ever been in her life. But did it matter? Work and Emma were enough. For now, they had to be.

  It would be good to get to Kmart ahead of the crowd. “Let’s go, Em. Remember, last year they ran out of your favorite notebooks.” Halo was duly returned to his cage nearby, flipping a somersault as he entered, and Grace and Emma girded themselves for the ritual that every student and parent faces each August.

  Grace was searching her purse for her car keys when suddenly a Dalmatian pup scooted down the driveway and leaped up on Emma, its tail wagging, almost knocking her down. Following the dog was Mike, carrying a huge bouquet of white daisies, grinning a bit sheepishly. “Hey,” he called out. “Spotty and I were on the Homes of the Stars tour, and we got lost.” He handed Grace the daisies and enveloped her in a bear hug, almost crushing the flowers. “I just had to see you and Emma,” he said, holding her close. “This distance thing is not working for Spotty and me. And speaking by Skype—I guess I’m old-fashioned. I prefer the real thing. Like right now.”

  “I missed you, too,” Grace said, leaning into him as Spotty ran in ecstatic circles around Emma. She hadn’t realized how much, but now that Mike was here, she felt a wave of happiness sweep through her. No, the distance thing was definitely not working.

  Emma lifted an eyebrow. “Mom, we can go school shopping later. I think Spotty could use a walk.”

  Grace escorted Mike into the house and onto the back patio.

  “Wow,” he said, admiring the canal behind the house. “Water everywhere. I guess that’s why they call it Venice.”

  “In the old days,” Grace said, “they had real gondolas. Now it’s mostly rowboats and canoes.” She put the daisies in water, brought out a pitcher of iced tea, and they settled at the table under the patio umbrella.

  “This is pretty sweet,” said Mike, surveying the canal. He sighed. “You know, I came here to ask you to come home to New London. But now that I’m here, I see why you like it.”

  “LA is a great place,” Grace admitted. “It has everything.” Except…” She paused.

  “Except?” Mike leaned in and covered her hand with his.

  “Except I miss you. But you don’t know everything about me.”

  “What is there to know?”

  Grace hesitated. Well, if Mike was going to bolt, she might as well know right now. “My father wasn’t really my father. And Brian might not have been Emma’s father. I just don’t know.” She leveled her gaze at Mike, holding her breath.

  He shook his head. “That’s it?”

  Grace dropped her eyes and nodded.

  Mike got up, walked around the table, and leaned over, holding her. “Grace, what does any of that have to do with us? I love you and Emma. I respect Brian—does Emma know? Does he?”

  “No,” Grace whispered.

  “Well, I’m here to support you, Grace, whatever you decide. I’m a pretty basic person. For me, it’s simple. If you love someone, you love them. That’s all that matters.” He leaned over and kissed her softly. “Spotty and I would like to invite you and Emma to come home with us. If we leave by the end of the week, we’ll get back in time for Emma to register for the school year.”

  Grace looked at Mike, his tanned face, his sincere eyes, the little cleft in his chin.

  And the question now was, how could she not leave? This had to be a decision, not a vacation, but the fact was, aside from a job she could do from anywhere now, thanks to the computer program, there wasn’t really anything in LA for them. Grace had to admit that, in more ways than one, she’d left her heart in New London, and Emma would be happiest when they put down roots somewhere with a mother she could count on, a mother who was present. Grace would move to the ends of the earth for that, she decided.

  Together, Grace and Emma were going home. They would finally make a real home. And this time, when Grace returned to New London, things felt so very different. She did not race to the airport alone, and she did not take a suitcase. She, Emma, and Halo took a road trip back with Mike and Spotty, bringing only the things they’d need for the five days in the car and packing everything else into a U-Haul. Grace decided to sublease the Venice apartment to Roberto, who bought most of the furniture with the bonus he received from Ken for stepping into Grace’s job. It felt good to be starting clean. The furniture had served its purpose, transition pieces that carried the psychic weight of the divorce from Brian. Now there was a fresh new beginning. She and Emm
a would stay with Lorraine until she could afford a place of their own. It was funny how things worked out, Grace thought. Last spring, she couldn’t have imagined moving back home with her mother. Now she was looking forward to it. Of course, she wasn’t deluding herself into thinking this was a fairy tale; there was still a lot to be worked out.

  Emma was happy to be closer to her Chicago friends, whom she could visit on weekends, and to Brian. Halo’s blog could be done from anywhere, and she was chronicling his cross-country trip, posting pictures of Halo at every landmark along the way under the heading “Halo, the Cross-Country Cockatoo.” A newspaper in St. Louis had even e-mailed and asked for an e-interview with Halo. Everyone had seen him on TV. And Artie had to have him written out of the storyline of The Lost Ones. Emma was excited to unveil her new look to her New London friends and, most of all, to help with the Book Nook. Getting the shop up and running again in time for the 3F Fall Festival was going to be the first priority. For the first time in a long time, Grace realized, in their lives, as on the open road ahead, both she and Emma had much to look forward to.