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Awards and Praise for The Promise Kitchen First Place, Fiction, 2015, Royal Dragonfly Book Awards Winner, Best New Fiction, 2016, National Indie Excellence Awards Silver, Bill Fisher Award for Best First Book: Fiction, 2016, IBPA Ben Franklin Awards “First-time author and food blogger Peggy Lampman knows the exact ingredients needed to create an appealing story . . . an eye-opening and thought-provoking must read.” —San Francisco Book Review, 5 stars “A sweetly told saga, bubbling with appealing characters and food-related talk . . . A poor country girl and a fashionable city woman learn about life in a tasty novel that blends romance and recipes.” —Kirkus Reviews “Peggy Lampman is an engaging writer, capturing the heart of Southern living with wit, charm, and vivid detail as she alternates chapters between Shelby, Mallory, and Miss Ann . . . For readers who enjoy a Southern flavor to their stories, spending time in the company of these fine folks . . . will go down as easily as a slic
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OTHER TITLES BY PEGGY LAMPMAN The Promise Kitchen (previously published as Simmer and Smoke)
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2017 by Peggy Lampman All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542047821 ISBN-10: 154204782X Cover design by Laura Klynstra
For Lucy
Contents Start Reading PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR POLISH WORDS USED IN THE WELCOME HOME DINER Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three The Recipes Book Club Discussion Questions Author Note Acknowledgments About the Author
Pot Liquor: The broth leftover in a pot after simmering greens with smoked pork. Potlikker: Viscous brew, leaked from the soil, savory and bold. Heaven’s field of blackened greens, bitter and sweet.
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE FOR POLISH WORDS USED IN THE WELCOME HOME DINER Babcia: grandmother (BAHB-cia) Bolesławiec: a town in southern Poland famous for its pottery (BOL-e-swa-viets) Delikatnie: gently (de-lee-COT-neh) Dziadek: grandfather (JAH-deck) Gołąbki: stuffed cabbage (ga-WUMP-key) Obrzydliwe: disgusting (OB-ze-dlee-veh) Sytuacja swiatowa jest tragiczna: The situation in the world is tragic. (sit-u-AT-sia SHVIA-tova YEST tra-DICH-na) Włocławek: a town in central Poland on the Vistula River (vwo-TSWA-vek)
Prologue I take my seat behind the breadboard and plunge my hands into the sticky mound. The dough is a revelation, the suppleness warm between my fingers. “The magic rests between your hands,” my grandmother says, “and like your fingerprints, the bread will be your own.” I clutch the dough tighter, clenching these elements of life: flour of the earth, air, and water, which release the yeast. “Delikatnie,” she whispers, in her native Polish tongue. “Gently, my child. Let me show you.” As she kneads the mass, folding and turning, it contracts and then swells. She stretches and tucks the dough into a round. Beneath her touch, everything blooms. After returning to the stove, she stirs her spoon into a simmering soup. The kettle sings, the pans hiss. Yet the kitchen is silent. As I wake with a start, my body’s limp, loose, and my eyes are wet. I kick out of the sheets, and they twist around my feet. Adjusting the pillows smashed up against the headboard brings clarity; I’m twenty-four year
Chapter One Addie If you’re the last person to leave Detroit, don’t forget to turn off the lights. The saying amuses me, as it does my cousin Samantha, known as Sam among our friends. Several months ago, we bought a house and opened a diner together in the city. Perhaps we are, as my stepfather says, out of our minds. Time will tell. In the meantime, here I sit, settled into the chair at my desk, gazing through the office window. Braydon, who was our first hire, is in the kitchen garden, harvesting lettuces that we’ll use for tomorrow’s menu. A tall, thin man with a quiet manner and perfect teeth—white, shiny, and square—he possesses an air of gravitas. At this moment, however, his motions appear broad, his gesticulations wild. What could he be saying to Sam and Sandra—nicknamed Sun Beam—that would arouse such passion? I straighten with a jolt, my smartphone jarring me out of my reverie. Cascada’s “Everytime We Touch” ringtone alerts me it’s David, my live-in boyfriend. Feeling his pre
Chapter Two Addie The diner’s closed for the Memorial Day holiday today. It’s the first time we’ve shuttered the place since our grand opening in March. At last we’ve a day off, the weather pitch-perfect for the picnic we’ve planned. Sunlight spreads through the living room, the sky the brilliant blues of a peacock’s feather, and I stretch on the sofa, summoning the energy to face the day. Done with the frigidity of winter, of snow and more snow, followed by weeks of howling, bitter hail. I’d heard it on the roof, waking me in the morning, the downpour of frozen pellets pummeling our house like a machine gun. I’d heard it as I organized my backpack for work, click-clacking against the panes as I put on my fur-lined hat, as I tucked my hair into my down jacket. I’d heard the rat-a-tat against asphalt, plopping into pothole baths, as I waited for the bus that took me to the diner. And then came the rainy season. It was as if a spigot burst, and there was no way to stop the flow. Consider
Chapter Three Sam The buzzer zaps my nerves, a terrible jolt of a sound. I check the clock: ten fifteen. With a ferocious gnashing of teeth followed by an eerie whine, Hero gallops to the door. The Hound of the Baskervilles comes to mind, as if he races baying across the moor. With his white coat of fur, Hero resembles a ghost, as well. Standing on his hind legs, he stretches long against the doorframe, his front paws scratching the weathered oak panels. Amid his yowls, I hear a commotion, sounding like it’s coming from Addie’s bedroom above. She screams, “Stop it,” her words followed by a loud thud. A chunk of plaster dislodges from the water-stained ceiling and hurtles down, crashing next to my foot. Thank God it didn’t land on my head. Hero, oblivious, continues barking at the door, but his ruckus earns his room and board. Who needs an alarm with him around? If an unwelcome stranger pays a call, it’s amusing to watch the fool stumbling down the crumbling steps, hightailing it down t
Chapter Four Addie Chewing with deliberation, the woman looks up as I approach her table. She wears a billowing, sleeveless dress, patterned in a crimson-and-gold block print. A half dozen or so strands of sparkling beads drape around her neck, cascading into her significant cleavage. I’d put her in her midforties. After swallowing, she smiles. “What type of wood did you use to smoke the chicken?” She points her fork at the thigh. “It’s delicious.” This woman is Karen Bennington, famous in Detroit food circles for her cheeky up-to-the-minute restaurant blog. She’s also known for her outrageous wardrobe and is proud to proclaim she’s growing old disgracefully. Her persona is unapologetic: big, bold, and bright. “We used birchwood chunks for this batch,” I say, refilling her glass with cold tea. “And we harvested the first of the pattypan squash this morning in our kitchen garden.” She scribbles in a small spiral notebook and then removes purple-framed glasses that encompass half her fac
Chapter Five Addie “I’ve never seen you wear that,” David says, toying with the ti
ny cap sleeve of my dress. His fingers slide down to trace the piping at the top of the fitted bodice. “Mom bought it for me last summer. The last time we were shopping together. Pink and green, somehow, does not seem right in this city.” I eschewed my dark shade of lipstick, as well, selecting a pale-pink gloss. It complements the shiny ribbon, tacked around the seam at the waist. “The girl wears only black in The D.” Howling like a wolf, he runs his hands down my torso. I smile, fluffing the bell-shaped skirt. A subtle pattern of roses and vines are printed on the silk and cotton blend. It feels soft and cool as it billows around my calves. It’s odd how a dress can be transformative. Today I feel both modest and sexy. “Mom will be happy to see me wearing it.” David’s staying home today to work on the roof, so I’m borrowing his truck. He thinks shopping and lunch with my mom are all that’s on today’s age
Chapter Six Addie “I know, Mom, I know. I can’t believe it, either. The press is back to get a comment, and the line out the door has never been longer. I’ve gotta get out there.” She tells me, again, how proud she is. I’m grateful for the relationship Mom and I’ve been forging over the past two years, but I would never consider her my best friend. As an adult I get to select my closest friends, and I can defriend them, for instance, if they inflict wounds. But my mother, no matter the wounds that she’s inflicted in my past, will always be my mother. Best friend also implies equality in a relationship. Our therapist counseled us that healthy mother-daughter relationships are built on a hierarchy rooted in a mother’s unconditional love. Mom’s mother died when she was a child, and her dad, my deceased grandfather, was overwhelmed by the demands of his farm. I’ve never asked Mom if she had received unconditional love as a child. But from the snippets she’s shared about her solitary childh
Chapter Seven Sam “Ya got that right, Addie,” Lella says. “Just because a dude gives me a big tip, it doesn’t give him license to be lewd.” She chews her gum with abandon. “The know-it-all customers are also obnoxious.” A bubble emerges from her mouth, swelling into a shiny pink blossom. It’s Wednesday, 3:30 p.m. The floors freshly mopped, we’re seated around a six-top finishing up our weekly meeting. My eyes wander around the table: Braydon, Quiche, Lella, Paul, Addie. Lella’s bubble pops and she continues. “One woman said our goat cheese wasn’t local because it had the flavor of a grass that doesn’t grow in Michigan. She insisted it was crafted in Point Reyes. Wherever that is.” “Northern California,” Addie replies, adjusting a strap on her sundress. It’s pale blue with lemon-yellow piping around the middle, accentuating her long waist and slender frame. Her mother just bought it for her. Must be nice. “Superior cheeses do come from that region,” she continues, smoothing her skirt, “
Chapter Eight Sam It’s said, “All good things in moderation.” The last days of August must have missed that memo, because everything about this week is excessive. The excess of vegetables and fruit cracks a whip beneath my feet every time deliveries are made. The excess of heat in this kitchen—combined with the sloth of midday humidity—blankets my body like a wet quilt. Even my eyelashes drip with moisture. And then, there’s this excess of passion. I have the hots for Uriah so bad I can’t tell if the temperature is having this effect on me or not. If it were a frigid day in February, I suspect my cheeks would still be burning. A bowl of heirloom tomatoes, the sultriest of the nightshades, rests on my table beside me. I select a Cherokee Purple, which has a rusty, orange-red belly with lime green shoulders spanning out from the stem. Yesterday he picked me up from work. When we arrived at my place, he kissed me, pressing me against the bumper of his pickup. His breath smelled of citrus
Chapter Nine Sam “Jesus, Lord, I’m sweating like a pig. But I’m not complaining. Early September heat’s good for growing garlic.” Jessie glances out the window as she holds the door for Jévon. “But we could sure use some rain.” Judging from the empty truck bed, we must be their last delivery. In contrast to his mother’s mud-caked overalls, Jévon’s tall frame is dressed in a minimalistic look—clean and fresh. Today he’s wearing a white crew-neck T well fitted to his muscular build, and his pressed, dark-wash jeans are rolled up at the bottom. He walks into the diner and slides the case of sauce and bag of garlic onto the counter. “Good to have my boy helping me again,” Jessie says, linking her arm into her son’s. “Saving my back from the chiropractor.” “Sam. Quiche.” He nods at us. “Good to see you ladies. It’s been a while.” He looks around. “Where’s Braydon? I wanted his opinion on the Banksy mural sale.” Banksy, whose real identity is unknown, is a graffiti artist from England who cr
Chapter Ten Addie I’ve just finished cashing out from yesterday and check my phone for last-minute messages—perhaps some random catering opportunity we shouldn’t pass up. Nope. Not a thing. I look out the window. There’s nothing like the beauty of October on an Indian summer day. The air is warm and the leaves are splashed red and yellow gold against a hard, blue sky. I’ve a few minutes before my interview with a potential hire, so I tumble into social digital distraction. My fingers slide down the screen, pressing hearts, leaving comments about my friends’ lives on Facebook. I resist liking political rants and rages. Even if our ideologies are similar, I resent armchair activists who pound me over the head with their pissed-off opinions and hate-filled tirades. Online anger is cowardly, unproductive, and draining. Quit hiding behind your screen, crafting posts with your Dorito-crusted fingers. Cowgirl up and take action. My social media platforms gravitate to two subjects: food and ch
Chapter Eleven Sam The alarm on my phone rings its soft chime. Ugh. Six fifteen. Rise and shine. I untangle myself from the heat of Uriah’s arms and place a pillow over my head. I’m an eight-hour girl and had only five hours of sleep last night. Maybe I can grab a nap before tonight. We’re hosting a party here in the backyard after dusk. David’s building a bonfire. I sigh, toss the pillow toward the foot of the bed, and stretch. I could never get back to sleep, anyway. I’m not used to having a man in my bed. Lying on the floor, Hero is stretched out in the same direction as me. His head rests on his paws, a watchful eye, rimmed in pink, turned up to catch my gaze. Poor baby. He’s not used to a man, either. Leaning my torso off the edge of the mattress, I scratch him behind his ears, which perk at my touch. My movements and the tinkling chimes wake Uriah, who groans, pulling me back into his arms. He smells like lemon verbena, my favorite soap scent. I smile. We showered together after
Chapter Twelve Sam Sylvia pulls out a chair, taking a seat at the two-top where I’m working. Of late, she’s been wearing her hair in two braids, which she pins up and wraps around her head. It’s a darling style on her, reminding me of Heidi. Each week I notice something different about the woman, as if she’s trying on new looks, searching for the person she wants to become. “Brenda printed out the stuffing recipe you sent her.” Her willowy frame appears to flutter in her seat. “Thank you, Sam. I’m so excited. This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve celebrated since Daddy died.” Her wide-set eyes are luminous, dancing in anticipation. “She wants to know if you could get us some fennel,” she continues. “It’s a part of the recipe, and the grocery store where we shop doesn’t stock it.” “Of course, Sylvia. How many people will the recipe be serving?” “There will be twenty or so people. It’s mostly us women at High Hope. I guess we should triple the recipe.” “It would please me and Addie to be a
Chapter Thirteen Addie “Come on, Addie. It’s Thanksgiving. It’s bad enough we’re not spending it together.” David pours a cup of coffee and saunters to the counter. He’s spending Thanksgiving at his parents’ lake house. He strokes my arm as if he were strumming his guitar. “Let’s kiss and make up. We can pretend last night never happened.” “This whole relationship is about pretending, David.” I shake and fold a dish towel that’d been crumpled on the counter. “Why do you refuse to discuss the future? Your silence is becoming too loud in my head.” I face him, a vein throbbing in my temple. “It’s too powerful and can only be diffused by conversation. If I keep shutting
down, trying to keep the peace, I’m not being true to myself.” I nod toward the shelf. “Thanks for the vase, but you know what I was hoping for.” My mouth tightens into a stubborn line as my eyes scan the floors, looking for my shoes. Yesterday was my thirty-second birthday. At work, Sylvia made a cake, but Sam and I—as alw
Chapter Fourteen Sam There’s several inches of white stuff on the ground, the first of the season. Lunch rush is over, the diner’s closed, and the remaining staff is acting pathetic about the snow: ebullient, as if they’d never seen it before. Quiche told me the choir at the church is practicing for Gospel Fest, but it’s impossible to hear their voices behind doors tightly secured to keep the cold air at bay. A headache surrounds my eyes in a web of pain, and I massage the temples with my fingertips. Some kids made a snowman in front of the church and asked me for a carrot and beans to give Frosty a nose, mouth, and eyes. He’s leering at me from across the street. Wipe that silly grin off your face before I knock it off. It’s the Friday before Christmas, and I’m at my usual perch, finalizing the menu for next week. Man oh man, am I wound tight. Since Thanksgiving, this place makes me feel like a hamster on a wheel: it’s a continuous loop of stress. If we’re not filling special orders f
Chapter Fifteen Sam My heart feels as if it’s been shattered, pricking my throat and eyes, threatening to break down the dam. There’s another decision to be made, which may as well be made based on a coin toss. But I keep this conflict to myself, inside the deepest fissure of my heart, blessing the January stillness of white. The decision to make is mine alone. If heads, I could very well lose the love of my life. If tails, I will certainly lose my city, my interest in the diner, and Addie will be devastated. We took the morning off today, sleeping in, trying to recover from the holiday madness. Taking the bus to work, I glance sideways at my cousin. “I’m so freakin’ relieved we can put this behind us. To have this tension between us resolved.” Our shoulders bump together as the vehicle traverses the potholes and terrain of neglected asphalt. Head down, she’s absorbed in a book she keeps in a zippered pocket of her bag, retrieving it whenever she has a bit of downtime. “No kidding,” sh
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