by Darien Gee
But now is not the time to mention anything, and Madeline knows that timing is everything. She herself wasn’t in a position—much less interested—to listen to anyone’s advice when she was still finding her way out, and she doesn’t want Julia to feel like she’s lecturing. Julia’s doing the best she can, and Madeline sees that and knows that, in itself, isn’t easy.
She fans herself, trying to create a breeze with the new menus Connie has printed up. The ovens have been working nonstop and the kitchen is so warm it’s taking her longer to cool herself down these days. “I tell you, that girl is a godsend. I feel like I’m helping her rather than the other way around. She has the energy of a hundred men—or women.”
“Ah, youth.” Julia gives a wry smile. She gives Hannah a nudge. “You young kids make us old folks look bad.”
“Hey, I’m not that young,” Hannah protests, her chin tipped upward in a touch of genuine defiance. She gives Julia a nudge back. “And you’re not that old.”
Julia grins. “Fair enough.” She picks up a table tent with the daily special printed on it. There’s also a “Tea of the Week” special to encourage people to buy loose tea or bags as gifts, and an inspiring quote. “I like this,” she says. “ ‘My friends are my estate.’ Emily Dickinson.”
“That’s Connie for you,” Madeline says. She reaches over to another table and plucks the sign from there. “Each table has a different friendship quote.” She hands the table tent to Hannah.
“ ‘The ornaments of our house are the friends who frequent it,’ ” Hannah reads. “Ralph Waldo Emerson. I’m going to copy that and put it in my wallet.”
“I don’t know where that girl gets her ideas from,” Madeline continues. “Did you know that she ordered a self-inking stamp with our name and address? She stamps it on all of the blank index cards so that when people write down recipes and take them, they’ll always be reminded of us. It’s so much better than a regular business card! And the women adore her.”
Connie chooses to walk by at that moment holding an empty cherrywood cigar box. The three women quickly hush themselves while giving her wide, encouraging smiles. Connie arches a suspicious eyebrow as she adds a fresh selection of tea bags to the box, but doesn’t say anything and quickly returns to the sitting room.
“Oh, dear, she probably knows we were talking about her.” Madeline sighs as both Julia and Hannah burst out laughing.
“I think she knows we’re pretty harmless.” Julia says. “And possibly a little crazy, too.”
“Insane,” Madeline amends. “Certifiable.”
Hannah smiles along with them but then picks up a dessert spoon and rubs the smooth curve with her thumb. “Philippe wants a divorce. The papers came today.”
The mood instantly shifts. “Oh, Hannah.” Julia takes her hand and Madeline jumps up to offer a hug.
“In retrospect it’s so obvious. I think he actually pushed us to come to Avalon so he could buy a house and stick me in it, keep me naïvely unaware until he knew what he wanted to do. I was such a fool for believing his whole story about wanting to live in a small town, that it reminded him of his village in France, blah blah blah.” She looks disgusted with herself.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Julia tells her. “You didn’t have any reason not to believe him.”
Hannah wrinkles her nose, unsatisfied. “Looking back, I know there were signs. I just chose to ignore them.”
“Think of it more like a timing thing,” Madeline suggests kindly. “Everything unfolding as it needs to. You were doing the only thing you knew to do at the time.”
“But I could have just saved myself the heartache if I hadn’t gotten married in the first place,” Hannah says. “Why put myself through all this, even subconsciously, if I’m just going to end up with a divorce? I mean, really! I think I can do without this part.”
“True, but then you wouldn’t have ended up in Avalon and we wouldn’t have ever met you,” Madeline points out.
Julia interrupts. “I don’t know. That’s exactly the sort of thing that people used to say to me, and I hated it.” She quickly takes Madeline’s hand to let her know she doesn’t mean to offend her, and continues.” Someone who has never lost a child would say to me, ‘Well, at least he’s in a better place,’ or ‘All things happen for a reason.’ But what do they know?
“My son’s death should not be so easily explained. What is the real reason a ten-year-old boy has to die? That Gracie has to grow up never knowing her older brother? So we all become better people?” Julia shakes her head. “I hate being a better person. I don’t want to be a better person.” She says these last words bitterly, angrily blinking back tears.
Madeline holds Julia’s hand tightly and looks her in the eye. She understands this, she really does, but she wants Julia to understand one thing, something that once filled her with despair and, at the same time, saved her.
“Dear Julia,” she says quietly after a long pause. “What other choice do we have?”
Edie walks past the open doorway of the dining room, unsure of what to do. She’s just spent the past hour talking with the ladies in the sitting room, sipping tea and gathering history. She’s done it every day for the past week and found herself enjoying the chitchat, the conversation, the company.
But this morning she woke up and saw an email from one of her classmates. They were shortlisted for the Hillman Prize for an article on illegal immigrant detention. It was enough to remind Edie that she was there for a reason, and that it was time to get back to work.
She and Livvy have been meeting regularly to talk about Amish Friendship Bread. Livvy, despite her enthusiasm, is somewhat lacking in her note-taking and research skills, but it’s still been a big help and Edie is grateful for it. Edie feels ready to write the article, to see if she can stir up some bona fide interest in Avalon and the Amish Friendship Bread insanity that has taken over their town. Edie recognizes that there is a certain charm in the story, but so much of it is dependent on revealing the players involved, to putting names and faces to certain Avalonians. Based on Livvy’s notes and the dates of the recipes in the boxes, the earliest person to have the starter was Madeline Davis. That would have been sometime back in March, just about three months ago.
Edie’s own bag of starter met a disastrous end. She’d left it in a cupboard in the kitchen, unable to stand looking at it, and then promptly forgot about it. It was Richard who heard an odd knocking from inside a couple days later.
When they opened the cupboard door, a fully inflated Ziploc bag jumped a couple of centimeters toward them, tipping over an almost empty plastic container of thyme. Edie screamed and Richard had plucked the bag out, only to have the whole thing pop open and explode over the cupboard and the two of them.
Once Richard had gotten past the shock, he couldn’t stop laughing. Batter was dripping from his hair and shirt. Edie, on the other hand, was furious. It took a container of Clorox wipes and half a roll of paper towels to get everything cleaned up.
The smell of fermenting batter made her want to throw up. No, correction: She did throw up. Morning sickness, it seemed, was not reserved for the first trimester.
Fortunately Edie had a clear enough head to take a few pictures of the mess in their kitchen and already has the perfect caption: WARNING: THIS COULD BE YOU—STARTER CRAZE EXPLODES IN AVALON, AND IN ONE REPORTER’S KITCHEN.
Edie pretty much has the story written in her head, but the one thing she hasn’t been able to put together is the Madeline piece. She hasn’t figured out where Madeline got the bread from, and she’s put off interviewing Madeline until today. For some reason she thought Madeline would be younger, a roly-poly woman in her fifties wearing a gingham apron—Livvy made her sound that way, at least. Edie should have known not to make an assumption until she could see for herself. Now she feels a twinge of discomfort at pointing to Madeline as the instigator of all this Amish Friendship Bread hoopla. Edie has to remind herself that she’s a reporter who’s just reporting
the facts. It’s nothing personal.
There’s the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Edie jumps.
Connie, the punky girl who works at Madeline’s, is cutting her eyes at Edie, clearly disapproving. Edie knows it looks like she is eavesdropping on the women’s conversation, but she wasn’t, at least not intentionally. She was going in to introduce herself to Madeline and it was clear the women were in the midst of a private conversation. If anything, she was being respectful.
Connie’s voice is loud as she glares at Edie. “Madeline, I have some to-go orders. Do you want me to fill them?”
The three women look up and Madeline quickly puts on a welcoming smile. One woman with short strawberry-blond hair turns away and looks out the window. The Asian woman with dark hair just stares at her hands.
“What? Oh no, you keep working your magic with the ladies. I’ll take care of this.” Madeline comes over to collect the orders from Connie and gives Edie a sweet smile as she does so.
Edie feels her resolve faltering. Lately she’s been at the mercy of pregnancy hormones, crying at commercials for flu medication and then almost bursting into tears when someone cut in front of her on the road. She bought a “Baby’s First Year” scrapbook at the last meeting and has found herself weepy over the pink bootie die cuts and soft polka-dot ribbons.
Edie suddenly isn’t sure if she can do this. She doesn’t want to get attached to Madeline, feel sympathetic because of her age or her seemingly kind demeanor. She needs to stay objective, to finish what she set out to do. The Amish Friendship Bread story is quirky enough with plenty of soap opera antics to get picked up on one of the wires, provided Edie writes it right. And soon.
Connie is pretty good at sizing people up, and there’s something about the young woman with wire-framed glasses that Connie doesn’t trust. Her name is Edie something or other and she’s been coming every day for the past few days. She always has a ton of questions, and every now and then Connie sees her jot something in a notepad. Connie doesn’t want her harassing their customers, but the women don’t seem to mind, enjoying any opportunity to talk about their lives and when they first started baking Amish Friendship Bread.
“I think it was in April …”
“March. Right after St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Two weeks ago. Doris Donald left a bag on the windshield of my car. Didn’t even have the courage to ask me to my face if I wanted it!”
“I’m on my third starter, so maybe a month?”
“A little over six weeks …”
Connie doesn’t know why Edie is so interested, especially since she’s never baked the bread herself and refused on several occasions to take a bag of starter home from the Spare and Share basket.
Now, Madeline is shaking her head in admiration as she reads through the orders. “Connie, this practically rivals the business we did at lunch. You’re a marvel!”
Connie blushes, embarrassed by the praise, and forgets that Edie is standing next to her. She loves working at Madeline’s, and Madeline has practically given her carte blanche to do whatever she thinks is appropriate to help the business and offer good customer service. Connie not only feels useful, but needed. It’s a good feeling.
She knows she should say thank you, but instead she changes the subject, wanting to get the attention off her. “I was thinking that maybe we could offer an end-of-the-day meal replacement special. We’ll post it on the board along with everything else, and people would have to get their dinner orders in to us by eleven A.M. That’ll give us enough time to get everything ready and we won’t have to scramble at the last minute like this. If they don’t get it in, we don’t fill the order.” Connie knows Madeline loves the work, loves that people love her food, but it’s 3:00 P.M. and now Madeline has to go back into the kitchen after the end of a long day. Madeline is usually up at 4:30 A.M. getting everything ready. Connie doesn’t even show up until two hours later.
“I don’t mind the scrambling,” Madeline assures her, but Madeline does look peaked. She lets out a long breath as she looks through the orders again. “But maybe you’re right. We can talk about it some more this weekend. In the meantime, let me get going on these.”
“I’ll help.” Hannah, the musician, stands up and comes over to join Madeline. “I need to get my mind off things.”
Madeline puts a motherly arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “I’d love to have you in the kitchen with me.” They’re about to walk away when Connie sees Edie step forward.
“Hi, excuse me? My name is Edie Gallagher and I’m trying to learn a little more about Amish Friendship Bread.” She extends a hand to Madeline who shakes it. “I was looking through the recipes and it looks like you were the first person to start making Amish Friendship Bread in Avalon. Back in March?”
“Has it only been since March?” Madeline seems thoughtful. “I suppose the date is right, but I’m not the first person. I got my starter from this young lady here, Julia Evarts.” She nods to the woman still seated, the woman with strawberry-blond hair. Connie tries to mind her own business and not pry, but she knows that Julia Evarts is the mother of the little boy who died a few years back.
Edie quickly turns to Julia, fake exuberance oozing everywhere. Connie wants to gag. “Oh, really? Well, um, that’s great! Do you mind if I talk with you for a bit?”
The woman hesitates for a moment before shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but I actually have to go.” She starts to gather her things.
Edie persists. “Can I just ask where you got your starter from?”
“I actually don’t know,” Julia says. “It was on our porch when we came home one day. It was the starter plus several slices of the bread. Gracie found it first.” She smiles at the other women who are beaming at the mention of Julia’s daughter. “We were supposed to save the last slice for Mark, but I ate it. So we didn’t have a choice but to wait ten days and bake the bread ourselves.”
“Mark is your husband?” Edie is edging a bit closer now and Connie intentionally bumps her, as if to say, Don’t come any closer.
Julia is nodding.
“So you never found out who gave you the starter?” Edie asks.
She gives a noncommittal shrug. “I suspect one of my neighbors but no one has said anything to me about it.”
“Interesting. Do you think I could interview your neighbors?” The look on Edie’s face is hungry. Connie wants to shove her out the door.
Julia stands up, slinging her large tote bag over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m late picking up my daughter.” She gives Hannah and Madeline a quick kiss on the cheek before pushing past Edie and leaving.
“And we should get started on those to-go orders,” Madeline says briskly. She nods for Hannah to follow her into the kitchen and Connie waits a beat before heading back to the sitting room, throwing one more look of warning Edie’s way.
Edie is suddenly alone, the women having evaporated before she could ask another question. She knows she came on too strong, but that’s no reason to give her the cold shoulder. And Connie is one level up from a thug. Amish Friendship Bread thugs. Right here in Avalon.
It doesn’t matter. Now that she knows where it’s all originated from (and from Julia Evarts no less!), Edie knows exactly how to frame the story. She’s starting to feel tired and wants to go home and crawl into bed, annoyed that this pregnancy has completely sapped her energy by mid-afternoon. She snaps a quick picture of the empty tearoom then hurries out the door.
FRIEND OR FOE? AMISH FRIENDSHIP BREAD CRAZE TAKES OVER SMALL ILLINOIS TOWN
Reported by Edith Gallagher
AVALON, ILLINOIS—In a small Illinois town boasting a modest population, word of mouth is oftentimes the quickest and most effective way to spread the news. Now, only one thing threatens to travel even faster: Amish Friendship Bread and its ubiquitous goopy starter, complete with detailed instructions.
By now you or someone you know has been a victim of the Amish Friendship Bread craze that has
swept through America since the mid-1980s and made a recent resurgence in northern Illinois. It goes like this: Someone gives you a plastic Ziploc filled with fermenting batter called “Amish Friendship Bread” (incidentally, there seems to be no corroboration on the part of the Amish for actually coming up with this recipe). You give it a little love by squishing the bag daily, adding a few ingredients (flour, sugar, milk) on day six. By day ten, you add those ingredients again, split the starter into three new baggies, and bake with what’s left over. Then you get to find three friends who naïely agree to take a bag of starter, not knowing that in ten days they’ll be hard-pressed to find three friends of their own to pass it on to.
What’s the harm, you may say? Well, picture this: One person keeps a bag and passes three more to friends. All four people do the same, and so on and so on. After three “generations” (approximately one month), there are sixty-four bags of starter floating around out there. After four generations: 256. Six generations: 4,096. And by ten generations (approximately three and a half months): 1,048,576. You don’t even want to know what happens after fifteen generations.
Amish Friendship Bread is an excellent example of how epidemics get started. In a digital age, it’s incredible to see viruses spread the old-fashioned way. And all in the name of friendship.
“Oh, I’ll head in the opposite direction if I see anyone coming my way with one of those Ziplocs,” says Sue Pendergast, the organist at Avalon United Methodist Church. “I don’t mean to sound unchristian, but I find it very presumptuous of people to assume that I have time to do all this work to make what amounts to a simple sweet bread. It’s just not worth the trouble.”
