Grace Stirs It Up

by Mary Casanova

  “What?” Maddy and I said at the same time.

  Ella wiped away tears, and she exhaled sharply. “My dad…lost his job.”

  My stomach clenched. I couldn’t imagine if either of my parents lost their jobs. I knew they both needed to work to pay our bills.

  “When?” I asked Ella, not knowing what else to say.

  “In June, right after school got out. He’s been looking for work ever since. So Maddy,” Ella said, looking at the ground, “I know you want to go school shopping together, but…I just can’t go with you.”

  “Oh,” Maddy said. “You could still—”

  Ella shook her head, and then sat up straighter. She looked at Maddy and then at me. “It would be great to start a business and make some money, because then I could buy my own supplies and clothes for school. But right now, I have to say no. I don’t have the money to buy supplies to get started.”

  A silence settled over us. Then I had an idea.

  “Ella,” I said, jumping up from my chair, “what if you helped out the business in other ways at first? And then if we make money, you could pay us back later for supplies.”

  “Really?” Ella said, a smile spreading slowly across her face.

  Maddy and I looked at each other and nodded.

  Ella looked relieved, but also a little embarrassed. So I quickly changed the subject. “What should we call our business?”

  “Got it!” Maddy said, extending her arms. “How about ‘Bakers Three’?”

  “Or ‘Friends Three,’” Ella piped up. “I mean, because we are really good friends.”

  I smiled at Ella. “I like that. But maybe it should sound more French,” I suggested.

  Maddy jumped up from her chair, interrupting me. “I know. I’ve got it! ‘Ella, Maddy, and Grace’s Little French Bakery’!”

  I nodded. “That’s good because it tells customers what we’re selling,” I said, “but it’s a little long. In France, instead of bakeries, there are boulangeries and pâtisseries. What if we call our business ‘La Pâtisserie’?”

  “Hmm,” Maddy said. “It needs something more.”

  As Ella knelt down to adjust the bow on Bonbon’s collar, she laughed. “I know! How about ‘Perfectly Precious Polka-Dot Pâtisserie’?”

  “Lots of ‘p’ sounds,” Maddy said. “I like it! What’s that called again?”

  “It’s called ‘alliteration,’” I said, realizing I sounded like a teacher’s daughter. “I like the sound of it, too. But the name’s still a little too long. I mean, try saying that three times really fast!”

  We all tried until we tripped over our twisted, tangled tongues. I plopped down into the grass, laughing, which alarmed Bonbon, who immediately jumped up to lick my face.

  “Don’t worry, petite chienne,” I said, which meant “little dog” in French. It was what I’d called Bonbon before I had finally given my furry friend a name.

  Then I sat up. “That’s it! How about ‘La Petite Pâtisserie’? It means ‘little bakery.’ Isn’t that perfectly precious?” I glanced at my friends’ faces, and I could tell they agreed. We had a name!

  Before bed, I checked my e-mail and found a message from Sylvie. She had attached a photo of Napoléon, stretched out like a golden lion at the foot of her bed.

  She wrote: Mon chat dort sur mon lit.

  I tried to translate it and wrote back in English: “My cat sleeps on my bed. Yes?”

  Then I sent off an e-mail about my day, including the photo of Bonbon with her bow. With a little help from my French dictionary, I added the French words for “My little dog is very fashionable”: Ma petite chienne est très à la mode.

  à la mode? I giggled. In America, à la mode also means “with ice cream.” I pictured Bonbon with a scoop of ice cream on her head. Of course, she’d think that was a fine idea. Let it melt, and—voilà!—she’d take care of the mess.

  Then I wrote more in English, telling Sylvie how Bonbon’s fashionable bow had, in a way, helped my friends and me come up with the name of our business. Funny how one good idea can lead to the next…

  hen Ella and Maddy arrived at my back door for our first morning of baking, Bonbon greeted them with twirls, wags, and kisses. When Maddy tripped over her, I decided it was safer for everyone for Bonbon to go back in her crate while we worked. She whined at first, but then settled in for her morning nap.

  As I stood up, I smoothed out my new apron, which was black with pink polka dots and a satiny pink ribbon.

  “Hey, that’s adorable!” Maddy said as I turned around to model the apron for my friends.

  “It’s my going-away gift from Colette, who worked at my aunt and uncle’s pâtisserie,” I explained. “She made one for Sylvie, too, almost identical.”

  “I didn’t even think to bring an apron,” Maddy said. “I mean, not that I have one.”

  “Me neither,” said Ella, glancing down at her sundress.

  “That’s okay,” I said quickly, and then I thought of a solution: “There are a bunch of aprons at my grandparents’ bakery. I’ll bring some next time we meet. That way you can choose your own!”

  Ella grinned and nodded. Maddy was already looking through some of the things I had set out on the counter: notebooks and pencils, plus cookbooks and computer printouts of possible French recipes we could make.

  “So, where do you think we should start?” I asked my friends.

  Before they could answer, Mom stepped into the kitchen, a spiral binder under her arm and a pen in hand. “So you girls are going to start baking this morning? And do you have a business name yet?”

  I met my friends’ eyes, and we all said in unison, “La Petite Pâtisserie.”

  Mom smiled. “I like it! Well, I’m here if you need me. And let me know when you’re ready to use the oven, okay?” Then she turned back to the living room with her folder full of lesson plans.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said as I dug through the recipes on the counter. I pulled out one for a French yogurt cake that I wanted to show my friends. Ella and Maddy drew close, reading it.

  “Yogurt cake?” Ella said, scrunching up her face.

  I nodded. “Gâteau au yahourt. Gâteau means ‘cake’ in French.”

  “O…kay,” Maddy said, in a way that made me uncomfortable.

  “In France,” I went on, “this is a recipe kids learn to bake when they’re as young as three years old. They use a yogurt container, not only for its yogurt, but then to measure the other ingredients with the container. It makes it super easy for little kids to get started in the kitchen.”

  “I’m pretty sure we know how to measure, Grace,” Maddy said.

  “I know.” I paused. “It’s just that, well, I thought it might be a fun way to get started. It’s French. Plus it’s delicious. And we already have everything we need, so we could get started right away.”

  I looked at Maddy, and then at Ella.

  “Why not?” Ella said.

  “Yeah, okay. I’m in,” Maddy agreed, removing the hair band from her wrist and gathering her red mane into a ponytail. “Let’s get started.”

  A little over an hour later, Mom took our little golden cake out of the oven. We invited her out to the deck to be our first customer.

  Once Mom was seated at the round table, I brought out a tablecloth we had bought together at a Paris street market—with blue flowers printed on vivid yellow—and flapped it in the air, then let it settle on the table in front of her.

  “Voilà, Madame!” I said, using my best French accent.

  Then I plucked a single red tiger lily from the nearby garden, and hustled back into the kitchen for a vase before setting the flower on the table in front of Mom.

  “Lovely,” she said. “It’s like I’m back in Paris.”

  “That’s the idea,” I said.

  Then I helped Ella and Maddy carry out four slices of warm cake, four glasses of cold milk, plus four forks and napkins—and we sat down. I eyed the dessert. Something was missing to make it extra spe
cial. “Wait!”

  I jumped back up, raided the refrigerator, and came back with a bowl of raspberries.

  “Garnish!” I said, sprinkling red raspberries over each slice of cake. The red against the honey-colored cake was just what it needed.

  “I can’t wait to try it!” Maddy said, fork in hand.

  “Customers first,” I said, trying to sound sweet, not bossy.

  Maddy paused. “Right,” she said, although I could tell it was killing her to wait.

  “Now may I try it?” Mom asked, with a smile.

  We all nodded.

  She lifted the fork to her lips and tried a bite of gâteau au yahourt with fresh raspberries, closing her eyes. She didn’t say a word, but went straight for a second bite, again closing her eyes.

  “Well?” I asked, leaning in.

  “Do you like it, Mrs. Thomas?” Ella chimed in.

  “Do you love it?” Maddy added.

  Mom beamed. “It’s wonderful!”

  Then we all dove in for a taste, too. The cake was warm, moist, and delicious—La Petite Pâtisserie’s first success!

  “Oh, yum!” Maddy exclaimed.

  “It’s really good,” Ella added.

  I smiled and high-fived with my friends.

  A surge of energy filled me from head to toe. This was just the beginning, but at last, we had launched!

  I couldn’t wait to tell Grandma and Grandpa about La Petite Pâtisserie. They were the ones who had inspired me to start a business, after all. So that afternoon, I walked Bonbon over to First Street Family Bakery. I tied her leash to a post just outside the front door, where I could see her through the window.

  Grandma spotted me and opened the front door. “Grace, sweetie. Come in. What a perfect time for a visit—there aren’t any customers at the moment. Actually, it’s been unusually quiet today. So it’s extra nice of you to come by!”

  Before I’d taken more than a few steps into the bakery, I’d already told Grandma about the French cake my friends and I had made. “A gâteau,” I said, pronouncing it carefully.

  “That’s wonderful, Grace,” Grandma said, kissing the top of my head. “You certainly are filled with ideas—and ambition! If you’re going to run a business, you’ll need both. And if you need help with anything else along the way, just ask Grandpa and me, okay?”

  I nodded. “Actually, I did come to ask for something.”

  “Oh?” Grandma paused. “Sure, Grace. What do you need?”

  “You know all those aprons you’ve collected that you keep in the back room? I was just wondering if I could borrow some for my friends.”

  Grandma smiled. “Of course! They just sit in a bag most of the time. And you’ve probably worn every single one of them at some time or another, don’t you think?”

  I nodded proudly. From the earliest that I could remember, I had loved to visit the bakery. At first I could only watch my grandparents bake, but even then I’d insisted on wearing an apron.

  “I’ll keep an eye on Bonbon while you head into the kitchen,” Grandma said. “You know where the aprons are. Your grandpa’s cleaning up for the day. And he’ll be happy to see you.”

  I gave Grandma a quick hug and then hurried past the counter into the kitchen.

  Friday morning, my friends and I met again at ten o’clock.

  Same time, same place.

  Bonbon reluctantly went into her crate and lay down.

  “Just for a while,” I reassured her, turning back toward Maddy and Ella.

  My friends and I sorted through one French recipe after another, trying to agree on what to bake next. Finally, after a half hour had passed, we settled on madeleines.

  “They’re like little cookies named after me,” Maddy joked. Her full name is Madeline.

  “Perfect!” I said. “And better yet, I can finally use the madeleine baking pans Mom helped me find in Paris.” They were like cupcake pans, but instead of round cups, or “wells,” these wells were oval, shallow, and scalloped like a seashell.

  I pulled out the canvas bag filled with Grandma’s aprons. They were worn soft with age, but all the familiar colors and patterns were like treasures to me. “Go ahead and pick one,” I said, holding the bag out to my friends.

  Ella chose a pink floral apron, and Maddy found one with a bluebird with musical notes coming from its open beak.

  Then we washed our hands and set to work gathering ingredients, following directions, and mixing the batter up in a bowl. Mom helped us melt the butter, and I carefully grated the rind of a fresh lemon for the zest, which also went into the batter.

  But when it came time to fill the pans with batter, my friends and I each had different ideas about how to do it.

  The directions said to fill each well in the pan “almost halfway full with batter.”

  I filled the first well with a little batter.

  “That isn’t enough,” Maddy said. She added another large spoonful, which made the batter brim at the edge. As she took the spoon away, she dripped batter across the pan.

  “But that’s too much,” I said. “The madeleines have to have room to expand.” As I wiped away the excess drips of batter from the pan, I added, “Plus, Maddy, can you try to be a little more careful?”

  “Picky, picky,” she replied.

  We stared at each other for a moment, until Ella said, “How about if we do an experiment with the first pan? There are twelve wells in the pan, which means we can each fill four of them our own way.”

  “Fine by me,” said Maddy, and I agreed.

  As we set to work filling the wells, I felt as if we were the three bears: Mama, Papa, and Baby Bear. I filled my four wells with what I thought was the right amount of batter. Maddy added a lot more, and Ella filled hers somewhere in between mine and Maddy’s. We wouldn’t know until the pan came out of the oven which baker had it just right.

  When the oven reached the right temperature and started beeping, Mom came in from the deck, where she was—what else—working on lesson plans for her new class of fourth-graders. As she reached for the baking pan to put it into the oven, she paused, examining the pan. She scrunched up her lips, as if ready to say something.

  “Mom, we know,” I said. “They all look different. It’s an experiment.”

  “Uh, okay,” she said hesitantly as she closed the oven door.

  While the madeleines baked, Maddy, Ella, and I held off on filling the next pan. We wanted to see how the first pan turned out! Instead, we filled a sink with soapy water and cleaned up the bowls and measuring spoons. When we finished that, we started looking over other recipes for everything from tartelettes to éclairs.

  Suddenly the sweet smell of madeleines baking turned bitter. Smoke spilled from the oven, and the smoke alarm went off. Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “Mom! Emergency!” I called out the window to the deck, knowing that I wasn’t allowed to yank whatever was burning out of the oven on my own.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  As the smoke alarm shrieked overhead, Bonbon clawed frantically at her crate door. A crate is supposed to help calm dogs down, but clearly it wasn’t working. I opened the door to let her out.

  Bonbon raced out of the crate and around the counter so fast that her little legs slipped out from under her and she slid on her side. Frantic, she sprinted toward the screen door at the same moment that Mom came rushing in.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  As Mom stepped into the kitchen, Bonbon bolted outside.

  “Oh no!” I cried. “Mom, I have to go after her.” I looked around for my shoes, hoping I could get outside before Bonbon escaped through one of the gaps in the stone wall.

  But Bonbon was the furthest thing from Mom’s mind right now. She grabbed two hot-pads and flung open the oven door. She pulled out a pan with a small lava flow running over the side—charred and smoking.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thomas!” Maddy called above the alarm. “The batter must have overflowed. I put in too much
!”

  I slid into my flip-flops as Mom threw open the kitchen window to let the smoke out.

  Frantic, I stepped outside onto the deck and scanned the flower gardens, the yard, and the base of each tree.

  My stomach twisted.

  Bonbon was nowhere to be seen.

  onbon!” I called. My heart sank. I remembered when she’d stopped showing up outside the pâtisserie in Paris. I’d been putting out bowls of food and water for her every night, and then one day she just didn’t show up.

  She didn’t know Bentwick—or even this new house and neighborhood—very well yet. And that stupid fire alarm had scared the living daylights out of her. What if in her panic, she’d raced off and gotten lost? I couldn’t bear to lose her twice.

  “Bonbon!”

  I raced through the gap between the stone wall and the house and around to the driveway. “Bonbon!” I called. But there was no sign of her.

  Just then, a shrill yipping and yapping rose beyond our yard—the sort of sound Bonbon had made when she’d first met Ella’s dog, Murphy. I ran back around the house, and just as I reached our backyard, I spotted her.

  “There you are!” My heart settled back into my chest.

  Next door, in the middle of Mrs. Chatsworth’s backyard, Bonbon was nose to nose with Zulu, whose golden body was three or four times as tall. But that didn’t seem to matter to Bonbon. She zipped around Zulu, dashing one way and then the other, trying to get her to play. Bonbon dropped her head to her paws with her tail up in the air, wagging.

  On her cable, Zulu made mock dashes at Bonbon.

  I drew a breath of relief.

  “Oh good,” I said. “You’re going to be friends. But this playdate will have to wait.” I reached down, scooped up Bonbon under my arm, and carried her back to our house.

  Zulu whined and barked as we left.

  “Found her,” I said, returning to the kitchen. The alarm had stopped beeping and most of the smoke had cleared. Though Bonbon fought me, I put her back in her crate, which would be the safest place for her until things got back to normal.