My parents—aging hippies, refugees from the seventies—always encouraged me not to accept the status quo. I was even conceived in an Oregon commune. But when I was a baby, we returned to Michigan. We moved to the quiet community of Manchester, a twenty-minute drive from my grandparents’ Ann Arbor home. My folks purchased an old farmhouse, acreage, and sheep.
They make just enough money to pay their bills, and they paid off their mortgage last year. They’re proud of the organic business they’ve created selling lamb to restaurants and other venues.
Growing up, every Saturday during the summer months, my brother and I drove to Ann Arbor and sold the meat at the farmers’ market. When Addie was around, she’d come, too. We fantasized about owning our own business together. With elbow grease and determination, the opportunities in Detroit are granting us our wish.
It’s a beautiful day and here I sit, obsessing about men and work. No wonder I’m off-kilter. With a napkin, I wipe the remaining vinaigrette away from the now-empty container of asparagus and return it to my backpack. Inhaling the awakened ripening of spring, I smell the buds on nearby plants as they unfurl their fists. I relax, sighing, and happiness begins to bloom in me, as well. Nature has this effect.
David, taking note that Kevin and I are quiet, tears his eyes away from Addie and removes his smartphone.
“Take a look at this, you gorgeous babes. Kevin and I made a spreadsheet comparing costs of produce from Sanchez Imports and what you’re buying from Sarabeth’s Greens.”
He hands me his phone showing an Excel document lit across the screen. Calculations, charts? Damn it. I was just beginning to unwind.
“If you guys shift to Sanchez, you’d shave close to thirty-five percent from the bottom line of your produce costs.”
Addie’s neck muscles twitch as she glances at me to gauge my reaction. Now I’m annoyed. What right have they to tell us how to run our business?
“You guys, that’s unthinkable,” I say. “You know the importance of sourcing local. I can’t imagine you’d believe we’d consider this.”
“You’re always worried about having the funds to pay your staff. Not to mention utilities and rent,” ventures Kevin in a soft voice, his head ducking, as if to suggest apology. “David and I are trying to fix the problem.”
The guys may think they’re trying to help, but their words simply annoy and are having the opposite effect. Why do men always want to fix everything? Just be our sounding board and listen, mouths shut.
“Money’s money. Are gold nuggets implanted in Michigan corn kernels? Can a Traverse Bay cherry tempt me away from the latest episode of House of Cards?” David dangles an asparagus spear over his plate. “Can this vegetable keep me from pirating the next bootleg Dylan?”
He drops the asparagus to his plate and levels us with his gaze. “I think not. For most people, buying organic food, which happens to be expensive, is low on their list of priorities. Don’t you two want to stay in business?”
“Not if it means compromising our values,” I reply. “There’s a guy in upstate New York who makes every dish he serves from the acreage surrounding his home. His flours, his oils—everything. I’d love to make the trek and dine there, but there’s a ten-year wait list.”
“Damn it, David. Just listen to us,” Addie says, her voice rising sharply. “Welcome Home is about being proud of what we serve to our customers.”
I rest my hand on Addie’s shoulder. “Supporting Michigan farms and the people who work in our state is our way of helping the economy.” Addie nods her head in enthusiasm.
“Frankly, I’m surprised at you, David,” Addie says, before grabbing a napkin and sneezing into the folds. Sniffling, she stuffs the linen into her bag. “We’ve been together over four years and you love my cooking. Why? It’s because the ingredients are fresh, locally sourced, and, therefore, delicious.”
She grabs my hand and raises it as if to suggest sisterly solidarity. She just sneezed into the hand now clenched in mine. It feels moist. Yuck. Releasing her grip, she tips her head toward mine. “You could catch my cold if you touch your face. Sorry about that. Let me get you some sanitizer.”
She grabs her bag and rummages through the contents. Relieved, I hold out the palms of my hands, and she pours one of her remedies into them.
“There you go. Lavender and tea tree oil with a dollop of witch hazel.” Sitting rigid, I rub my hands together fiercely, irritated with David, who seems to be reciting grad-school text he recently memorized. Kevin, afraid of annoying me further, is silent. He spreads goat cheese on a cracker, edging out of the conversation.
“You’d better raise prices across the board. At least by twenty percent. Your margins are too slim. And sooner rather than later, so your customers don’t get used to the current prices.” Kevin shrugs, but nods, agreeing with David’s proposal.
I give David a salute. “Aye, aye, captain. You may be right about the prices, but you’re wrong about everything else.”
Addie titters.
Folding his arms across his chest, he turns to Kevin and pats him on the back. “My man, we just got whipped. But it’s nothing new. Business as usual on the home front. Why don’t we drown our sorrows? Splash something on my machismo, would ya? Open some cherry soda?”
Addie, laughing, reaches into her pack and pulls out the bottles filled with wine. Enough talk about work, already. It’s time to party. Turning her face into the crook of her elbow, she suppresses a sneeze. I’ll dole out vitamin C when we return home.
I take a sip of wine. Vanilla, currant, and tobacco. Delicious. Something to smooth the rough edges. A mosquito buzzes around the lip of the bottle and nose-dives into the Cab. My arm jerks, and half of the wine sloshes out, spilling over the front of my dress. I look down at my bustline. It looks as if I’ve been stabbed in the chest.
Addie cries, “Your dress. Your beautiful dress.”
Kevin winces. “Did anyone bring soda water? That should get it out.”
“I’ve got something better,” Addie says. “It’s a stain stick that removes red wine spills.” Once again, she reaches into her bag of tricks and pulls out what appears to be Chap Stick. She waves it across a horizon of blooming peonies. “Where I go, so goes my wine wand.” She looks at David and winks, as if carrying around stain stick was another one of their inside jokes.
That’s Addie, the magnificent magus. Forever the mother with a cure for all of life’s problems, remedies arranged on her tidy shelves as well as in her backpack. Spices alphabetized, cleaning solutions systemized, holistic cures organized—all the labels facing the same way. She rubs the waxy stick over the front of my dress and then sponges the stain with water.
“There. Almost gone.”
“I’m such a klutz.”
“It was nothing you could control.” She returns the stick to her bag. “The mosquitoes are fierce after breeding in all that rain. First they want our blood, and now they’re after our wine.”
David laughs, but Kevin’s face slackens as he gazes at the shadow of a stain on my dress. The spill ruined his fantasy of what he thought could be the perfect day. He’s such a nice guy. Totally cute and totally unaware of it. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I fall for a nice one?
I should stick with jeans and T-shirts. I’m the type of girl who’s better off with nothing nice. No nice dress. No nice guy.
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 face. She snaps a picture of the shredded chicken carcass with her phone. I hope she doesn’t put that on Instagram.
“I wish I had room for two meals,” she says, pointing to a plate at a table nearby. “Those lamb burgers look divine.”
“They have been popular. We’ll put them on special next Wednesday. Stop by if you’re in the neighborhood.” I glance about the room. Most tables, for a change, are occupied. “I must say, Karen, your Detroit’s Cookin’ posts featuring Welcome Home have certainly helped increase business. We appreciate your kind words.”
She wipes her mouth, slick from the reddish-brown barbecue sauce, and takes a lingering sip of tea before speaking.
“It’s my pleasure. I’m loving your food and the overall homespun whimsy of this place.” She points her forefinger at me. “I want to ensure you ladies stay in business. I’ve several thousand subscribers to my blog.”
“You can count me as one of them. Reading your reviews is the highlight of my week.”
It’s a good thing Sam’s in the kitchen. If she heard me brownnosing this woman, she’d want to barf. Still. I’m appreciative of the business her blog’s encouraged, and we must play the game.
“Could you bring me the bill?” Karen gestures to her plate. “This will be gobbled down by the time you return.”
“No worries.” I pick up the tea to replenish her glass yet again and then head to a four-top, refilling their glasses, as well. Our customers are especially thirsty in this heat. Thankfully, most of the orders have been filled, and our patrons appear content.
Returning to Karen, I hand her the bill, alongside a small brown box tied with twine.
“What’s this?”
“It’s our signature cookie. The Heartbreaker. A token of our appreciation.”
“I’ve sampled these gooey clouds from heaven. And that name, Heartbreaker.” She purses her lips, shaking her head. “Thank you. You ladies are simply too much.” She fans herself with a menu.
“We’re planning to install air conditioning. After such a chilly spring, these temperatures caught us off guard.”
“This heat is uncommon for June, but I’m glad the windows are open. That gospel singing from across the street is magnificent.”
I flash her a smile. “I agree. Our prep cook, Quiche, attends the church. I’d like to record their music. Maybe play it here on the Sundays when their windows are closed.”
I turn and retreat to the prep area. In the past few weeks, business has improved over 30 percent. And that jump comes on the heels of an embarrassing Yelp review. Someone wrote they found a clump of long blonde hair in their soup. How disgusting. I worry that Sam removed her bandanna while she was stirring the pot, and some of her hair fell in the soup. At least the comment didn’t hurt business—today’s sales are sure to break the record.
Maybe it’s the weather; more people are out and about. More likely, it’s the attention local food bloggers have been giving the diner. Sam says I should be thrilled with the uptick in business, and I am. But the diner is drowning in a vanilla milkshake: our customers, flocking in from suburbia, are a sea of Caucasians. Over 80 percent of our city is African American, and that stat’s closer to 100 percent around here. Where’s Detroit?
Our closest neighbor’s only ten feet from the diner, yet he sits on his porch, eyeing us with disdain. Why is that? What can we do to have our customer demographics represent our actual community of diversity?
At the moment, however, I’ve more pressing matters. When you don’t turn compost, the stench gets worse. I wave at Lella and Braydon, pointing toward my office. They nod, smiling. Those two can handle the floor from here. Smiling at patrons, I weave around their tables as I head toward the office, locking the door behind me. The backs of my thighs are moist and stick to my sundress as I sit at my desk. The window is open, and an electric fan circulates the warm air, as fans do in every corner of the building. Sadly, the last thing we can afford is air conditioning.
I remove the letter from the drawer and reread the familiar scrawl. Respond to it or burn it. Make a decision.
Bet a note from me’s a shock. It’s been a good ten years, but, at last, life cut me a break. I’m out of prison. Released—ha ha—on good behavior. I’ll be working for my dad. I thought of you every day and have something of yours you’d want. Please call me: 313-841-3020. (BTW: You don’t have to ask, but I’m clean.)
Graham
The only rebellious act, which, in retrospect, could have ruined my life, was falling for Graham Palmer when I was attending the University of Michigan. We met at Rick’s American Café, one of those typical heavy-drinking, heavy-pickup watering holes popular with students.
One of the things I like most about Michigan is its diversity. I was majoring in classical civilizations, and I had hoped to meet a guy from, say, Rome or Athens. Someone who’d inspire philosophical thinking. Someone with a worldly take on life. Typical I’d fall for a Grosse Pointe WASP.
The son of a father who owned a foreign-car franchise, Graham Palmer was a year older than me. I remember him from his brief stint at Cranbrook Upper—how could you not?
He was a straight-A dude with a bad attitude. In his second year at Cranbrook, the prestigious boarding school we both attended, he adopted a sinking-pants, splayed-finger, wassup Detroit gangsta swagger. It was borrowed from Eminem, a rap star who glamorized the music, poetry, and vibe of the streets.
This was the turn of the century, when heroin, ecstasy, and meth became purer and cheaper and took root in predominantly white, middle-class communities. Imagine the horror of parents in their mowed-lawn, Suburban-in-the-driveway cocoons, witnessing their Dylans, Lukes, and Adams getting high and copying the language and attire of the ghetto—the very place they had fled, en masse, after the riots.
Graham had the image down to a science. But it was a look that didn’t translate well in the regent’s office, not the image Cranbrook wanted to set for the rest of its students. Graham Palmer was a memorable addition while he lasted.
What a hoot seeing his face after a couple of cucumber martinis at Michigan. I’d just turned twenty-one, was in the middle of my junior year, and, at last, of legal age to drink. I was partying with a pack of girlfriends when Graham and I caught each other’s eyes across the bar, which was set into the arena like a fishbowl.
I can’t remember much about the next six months except that I was wired, burned out, and my GPA was sinking as fast as I could snort the next round. Sunday afternoons spent with Sam and Babcia were my life raft. One of those Sundays may have saved my life.
In my junior and senior years, Sam attended cooking school in Livonia, which is a thirty-minute drive from Ann Arbor. We made it a priority to spend afternoons with our grandmother after she’d returned from Mass. Our grandfather had died the year before, and it became our tradition to cook a meal together in her kitchen. Splashed with sunlight, the walls and open shelves were decorated with Bolesławiec, a Polish pottery.
After Babcia died, Sam and I divided her collection of ceramics. I selected the cream teapot with matching cups, two candlesticks, and a serving bowl. Sam selected the soup tureen and fermenting crock, which we use at the diner to pickle vegetables. The collection is hand-painted with royal blue, yellow, and pinkish-red peonies. Sapphire-blue butterflies, the uplifted shape and color of Babcia’s eyes, fly above the garden scene into the speckled heavens.
None of Babcia’s recipes were penned, but her eighty-six-year-old hands and taste buds bore the stamp of her own mother’s when she learned to cook in their Włocławek kitchen. This was during the era preceding Wo
rld War II, the years before the members of her family were forced to leave their home, and the city became occupied by Nazis.
Seventeen-year-old Krystyna, the delicate girl with the crystal-blue eyes, relocated with her family to an area outside Warsaw. It was there she met my grandfather, Fryderyk, whom we call Dziadek. While sandwiched between the war machines of the Soviet Union and Germany, they survived on whatever their ration cards and the black market could provide.
After the war, Babcia and Dziadek immigrated to America, where, at last, they were married. Dziadek, holding a PhD from the University of Warsaw in archeology, found work as a university professor at the University of Michigan. The couple made their home in Ann Arbor and parented two sons. They never forgot the horrors of war and taught our fathers that they were the lucky ones.
It was Babcia who inspired our love of cooking. With her deep disdain of manufactured foodstuffs, she instilled in her granddaughters a distrust of processed fare.
But we were slow learners. As a child, I remember our humiliation grocery shopping with her. With the intensity of a brain surgeon, she would study the ingredients on the kid-friendly fun-in-a-box packaging lining the shelves. She pronounced each word on the ingredient list carefully, as though she were tasting dirt. Her blonde wisps of brow furrowed as she tsk-tsked, muttering obrzydliwe—disgusting—in earshot of all the shoppers on aisle nine.
How horrifying it would be to run into a friend who could scrutinize our cart. Pizza, mac and cheese, and sugary cereals were the unrivaled preferences of our friends, the staple of birthday party and sleepover fare. No matter how much we begged, how much we cajoled, Rugrats mac and his partner, neon-powdered cheese, were denied. Sam and I’d retreat from the midcenter aisles, tears rolling down our cheeks, as Babcia led us to the periphery of the produce section—no man’s land—where fruits and vegetables rested quietly in their bins.
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 7
