Friendship Bread

by Darien Gee

  Eleanor Winters agrees. “I heard that Martha Stewart had trouble figuring it out. If she had trouble, what hope is there for me?”

  As simple as the instructions may be, there are a few things you should be aware of. You cannot use metal utensils when mixing the batter as it will interfere with the fermenting process. According to Dr. Roland Fetters at the University of Chicago, the starter contains acids that will cause the metal to dissolve into it.

  “It’s a chemical reaction,” Dr. Fetters explains. “It will not only contaminate the starter, but it will kill it.” This small detail is responsible for the recent hazardous materials scare at the Avalon Police Department, when Cora “Miss Sunshine” Ferguson was found carrying a bag of starter on her person. If you’ve ever seen the starter, you’ll understand how it’s not difficult to be suspicious of it. Ferguson’s failure to elaborate on the substance resulted in a tri-county hazardous materials alert, costing taxpayers valuable time and money.

  The other thing to be aware of is that you must care for the starter every day, which includes squeezing the batter and letting out any air in the bag, otherwise it could result in mold or a clean-up job that will leave you cursing the person who gave you the starter in the first place (see picture to the right).

  Which brings us to the big question: How did Amish Friendship Bread make its way into this small town? No one is quite sure, but the earliest sighting harkens back to March of this year, on the porch of Mark and Julia Evarts. It was their daughter, Gracie, 5, who first spotted it, and while her mother claims to not know who gave her the starter, no one else recalls seeing (or eating) Amish Friendship Bread before that time.

  The residents of the town of Avalon are certainly split on whether the phenomenon that began with Mrs. Evarts has been a boon or a burden.

  “Friends don’t give friends Amish Friendship Bread,” says Earlene Bauer, the dispensing optician at the Avalon All Eyes Vision Center. “I throw it in the trash the minute I get a bag.”

  “I love the bread, but have the worst time sharing the starter with friends,” sighs Pearl Kirby, an avid birder who spends her days looking for white-breasted nuthatches in Avalon Park. “One person actually stopped talking to me. I finally gave up altogether.”

  But Claribel Apple is quick to disagree. “I think the bread is a blessing,” she proclaims. Apple spends her afternoons in Madeline’s Tea Salon where she and a handful of other ladies gather to swap recipes and compare notes in a room designated specifically for all things having to do with Amish Friendship Bread. “There’s so much negativity in the world, so many terrible things happening that can’t be explained. Why not make the world a better place with a little love and friendship bread?”

  Why not indeed? Provided you’re not diabetic, a little friendship bread can go a long way. You can beat it, freeze it, thaw it, and it’ll live on in perpetuity. You don’t even have to bake it on the tenth day—you can bake it on the eleventh day or even the twentieth, provided that you’re always feeding it. But for this reporter, I’m hoping the good people of Avalon will learn to be their own best friend and keep their starter to themselves. Or, better yet, Mrs. Evarts, come up with a starter for a pot roast dinner, and then we’ll talk.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Edie, how could you?”

  Edie looks up from her computer, surprised. Livvy’s face is red and she’s angry, the day’s paper clutched in her hand.

  “How could I what?” Edie’s inbox has been jammed with emails and her voice mailbox is full. The article wasn’t picked up by any of the newswires, but the flood of local attention has pleased her nonetheless. She’s obviously hit a nerve, which is one of the greatest compliments to a reporter in Edie’s opinion. She’s thinking about writing more articles on the subject, maybe a series on Amish Friendship Bread. “You didn’t like it? It was supposed to a humorous lifestyle piece. Did you read the part about the pot roast? I’ve been craving pot roast, don’t ask me why.” She smacks her lips and can practically smell it. Maybe she’ll have Richard do takeout again from the Avalon Grill.

  Livvy throws the paper on her desk. “Edie, Julia Evarts is my sister. You blamed her for bringing Amish Friendship Bread to Avalon! None of the research I gave you said that!”

  “I did some of my own reporting and that’s what I found. It’s not a big deal, Livvy.”

  “Not a big deal?” Livvy explodes. “Julia’s going to think I had something to do with this, that this is somehow my fault.”

  Edie suppresses a smile as she glances at the headline again. She’d written the story in less than an hour. She had planned to make a larger statement about life and world peace and the like, but the words just flowed onto the page so she went with it, and she’s glad she did. Edie can’t remember the last time she had fun writing an article. She credits the pregnancy to vamping up her creativity about a hundred notches. “How is any of this your fault? You didn’t do anything wrong, Livvy. It’s just an article—these are just the facts.”

  “I know that, but Julia won’t. She knows I work at the Gazette. She’ll think I put you up to this!”

  “So call her and tell her that you had nothing to do with it.” Edie is about to head to the break room for another cup of coffee when she remembers that she’s already met her caffeine quota for the day. Rats.

  Livvy is pacing frantically. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Edie knows the answer but she wants to hear Livvy say it. It’s the only thing Livvy hasn’t shared about her life. Edie pieced it together quickly between what Richard told her and what she found in the newspaper archives, but it’s curious how it’s never come up, as tragic as it is. In some way having this secret makes Livvy more human, makes Edie think that their friendship has a shot of going beyond these superficial lunches and bubble gum discussions.

  But Livvy just shakes her head, the look on her face so pained that Edie feels a morsel of regret. No question this would have been easier if Julia Evarts hadn’t been Livvy’s sister, but what can you do? “Look, Livvy, I know we thought it had to do with that Madeline person, but Julia had given the starter to her. She says someone gave it to her, but I haven’t been able to verify it. I don’t expect to, either.”

  “Edie, my sister has been through so much already! She doesn’t need to be back in the fishbowl again! I heard people in line at the bank talking about making her bake all the excess starter …”

  Edie has heard that, too, but actually thought it was kind of funny. “Come on, Livvy. You know they’re joking.”

  “I don’t care!” Livvy’s face is red. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have found the person who gave it to her and started from there instead …”

  “I can’t do that, Livvy, because I don’t think there was anybody else.” Edie says this gently.

  Livvy stares at her. “What are you talking about?”

  Edie blows out her breath. She didn’t really want to tell Livvy this, but it’s too late now. “No one other than Julia received a starter that week. Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? You yourself found a recipe for the starter on the Internet. It wouldn’t be completely out of left field to assume that she started the craze herself.”

  “Julia wouldn’t do that. Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. Attention? Think about it. You make the starter, dish it out to some friends, maybe some people you’re hoping to get to know, newbies to town who don’t know what happened five years ago. It starts up the whole sympathy thing again …”

  The color drains from Livvy’s face. “You’re saying she did this to get sympathy? For Josh?”

  “I’m just saying that people do things for all sorts of reasons. I mean, come on, Livvy. She hasn’t talked to you for years! She’s completely withdrawn. You think she started this whole thing to be friendly to her neighbors?” Edie reaches into a drawer and comes up with a bag of chips. “Dorito?”

  Livvy pushes the bag away. “Edie, Josh was my nephew. He was in my care w
hen he died.” Her voice is shaking.

  Edie looks at her, her gaze steady. “I know.”

  Livvy looks shocked but doesn’t ask how Edie knows. She raises her chin. “Well, if you know, then I’d think you’d be a little bit more sympathetic toward me and my family. I thought you were my friend!”

  “I am your friend. It’s just an article, Livvy—this isn’t personal.”

  “It’s personal to me, Edie! You have no idea what it’s like, to have the one person in the world who really knows you cut you off! How would you feel if Richard did that? Just stopped acknowledging you altogether, pretended you didn’t even exist?”

  Edie swallows. She hates seeing Livvy so upset, and at the same time she finds herself pushing back. She looks up at Livvy who is flushed, her fists clenching and unclenching. “Why didn’t you tell me before, Livvy?” she asks quietly.

  Livvy shakes her head, looks away. “What was I supposed to say?” she mumbles.

  Edie feels something unfurling inside of her. Livvy has been a good friend to her, much more so than Edie had expected or maybe even deserves. Maybe she should have thought this through more carefully, considered other options. But it’s too late now anyway.

  “Julia just wants everyone to leave her alone,” Livvy says, falling into the chair across from Edie. “Everyone, including me.”

  Edie sees something out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe not.”

  Livvy gives a wry laugh. “Trust me, I would know. Julia isn’t interested in seeing anyone, and I’m the first person on that list.”

  “I think you might be wrong about that, Livvy.” Edie nods down the hallway. “Because I think that’s your sister standing in your office.”

  Julia looks around the bare bones of Livvy’s office. It’s small, crammed with a desk and two chairs, a generic print of a flower on the wall. There’s a recent picture of Livvy and Tom, one that Julia doesn’t recognize. Tom looks a bit older, bits of gray sneaking into his hair, but Livvy looks the same, all smiles, peppy without a care in the world. No surprise there.

  “Julia?”

  Julia turns to see Livvy in the doorway. “Livvy.” She grasps the straps of her tote bag tightly, the skin around her knuckles white and taut. Seeing her sister close up has muddled her brain. She’s actually here to see Edie Gallagher, the reporter who wrote the article, but found herself asking the receptionist for Livvy’s office instead.

  When Mark had reluctantly showed her the newspaper, it took Julia awhile to place the reporter as the woman from Madeline’s the other day. Once she did it all made sense. The questions, the prying behavior. Didn’t they have to disclose that they were reporters or get permission to use your name in the newspaper? Obviously not.

  Julia decided to go to the Gazette to confront Edie, to let her know that she doesn’t appreciate being made into a scapegoat. She’s had enough of that, of people pointing fingers and finding yet another thing to whisper about behind Julia’s back. Mark was supportive, almost amused by the way she stormed about, complaining about the lack of privacy, the insensitivity of people who should know better.

  “You go tell ’em, tiger,” he’d said, and Julia stopped long enough to grin. She was back on her soapbox, one she hadn’t been on for a long time, and it felt good. Mark had a bemused smile on his lips. “God, I pity the reporter.”

  Julia ranted for a few minutes longer as she gathered her things. She was almost looking forward to a confrontation. Then she opened the front door and found the doorstep littered with anonymous bags of Amish Friendship Bread starter.

  Mark came up behind her and stared, dumbstruck. “What in the …”

  “This must be the equivalent of Amish Friendship Bread hate mail,” she remarked to Mark, who promptly scooped it all up and dumped it in the trash. It seemed like a waste, but Mark made the point that they couldn’t be sure what was in the baggies or how old the starters were. Plus, they weren’t exactly left in a gesture of friendship.

  “Maybe there will be drive-by starter shootings, too,” Julia had continued, earning herself a glare from her husband. She could picture water guns filled with batter aimed at the house.

  “This isn’t funny, Julia.” Mark was pissed. One of the bags was opened and some of the batter leaked onto Mark’s hands. “Disgusting.”

  She knows it’s not a joke but at the same time Julia has to admit that it is a little funny. After all, it’s just batter. It’s not like she’s spreading the avian flu or something.

  Both Madeline and Hannah had called, expressing their outrage over the article. Madeline said that both the sitting room and tea room were filled with indignant women threatening to petition the Gazette. Madeline and Connie had to ply them with protein (“Luckily I had a few quiches on hand …”) to get them to calm down.

  Now, Julia isn’t quite sure why she’s standing in Livvy’s office, and even less sure of what to say.

  Livvy licks her lips and walks quickly into the room. Julia can see that Livvy has small wrinkles around the corners of her eyes, some new freckles on her cheeks. The sun and Livvy don’t always mix, and Livvy always forgets to put on sunscreen. Julia has that old feeling of wanting to give Livvy advice, but Livvy isn’t a child anymore and Julia is no longer in a position to say anything.

  She clears her throat. “You look good,” Julia says, and she means it. Livvy has always been good with clothes, has always had an eye for putting an outfit together. She’s wearing a sky-blue tailored shirt and slacks with heels, a chunky bracelet around her wrist. Livvy looks professional and, like Mark said, more grown up. Her usually wavy blond hair is straighter, falling neatly past her shoulders. Julia stares at her sister standing only a few feet away and resists the urge to step closer, to seal the gap between them.

  “Thanks. You, too.” Livvy doesn’t look up. “You cut your hair.”

  Julia touches her hair—she’s still getting used to it. “Yeah, it was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

  “It suits you.” Livvy sits down at her desk, pushes around some papers. She’s obviously flustered. She avoids eye contact with her sister.

  Julia remains standing. She wishes she’d planned this better. She always pictured a confrontation charged with emotion, one outburst after another. Accusations. Apologies. More accusations. She hadn’t expected that it would be something else entirely, more warm and liquid, a desperate rush of longing that makes her want to burst into tears, to reach for Livvy.

  But Livvy is looking everywhere but at Julia, clearly ill at ease. Julia can’t think of what else to say, so she says, “Thanks for watching Gracie the other week. She had fun.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t know if you knew. I just … Mark seemed like he was in a jam …”

  “No, it worked out fine. Thank you.” Julia was surprised how it wasn’t as big of a deal as she thought it would be, her anger dissipating so quickly it was almost anticlimactic. “I mean, I was surprised at first …”

  “Julia, why are you here?” Livvy looks at her, her gaze steady. Wary.

  Julia clears her throat, adjusts her tote bag on her shoulder. “Well, the article that came out this morning …”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that,” Livvy says. She’s defensive—there’s a touch of vehemence in her voice, a hard edge Julia has never heard before. “I helped with the research, but I had no idea Edie had talked with you. I’m in sales; not editorial.” Livvy’s message is clear: It’s not my fault.

  Julia suddenly feels weary. Part of it is her bag, which is stuffed with who knows what. She keeps putting things in and forgetting to take things out. Right now it feels like it weighs a ton. She drops the bag into the chair and perches on the armrest, grateful for the reprieve. “I know. I’m not really all that bothered by it, though I wish she hadn’t printed my name.”

  “I agree. I already yelled at Edie.”

  “You did?” Julia hadn’t expected that, and yet she’s not surprised. She tries to smile.

  Livvy gives a sm
all nod, her eyes down. “It was completely inappropriate. But Edie’s a reporter, and she reports. That’s her excuse, anyway.” She picks at something on her keyboard, a frown on her face, her eyebrows furrowed.

  For a second, Julia feels like she’s having an out-of-body experience. She’s watching herself trying to have a conversation with Livvy and it’s painful, strained. Livvy doesn’t seem the least bit interested in Julia, and Julia hadn’t expected that, hadn’t even considered that such a thing could ever be possible. It’s all backward, with Julia being the one desperate for Livvy to see her, to say it’s okay. All the rage and fury Julia has carried around have transposed into a thinly veiled shimmer of resentment from Livvy, as fragile and brittle as fresh ice on a pond. Julia has run out of things to say and can’t move, afraid something might crack if she does.

  Livvy regards her sister suspiciously. For five years she’s done her best to stay out of Julia’s way, to give her the space she’s asked for. For five long years, Livvy had hoped—prayed—for an opening that would let her back into Julia’s life.

  But there was none. Julia hung up on her when she called, wouldn’t answer the door if Livvy were knocking. Letters were returned unopened. An accidental meeting in the grocery store or post office resulted in Julia abruptly turning on her heel and walking out, leaving Livvy to navigate through the clucks and disapproving stares.

  There were moments when Livvy’s loneliness overwhelmed her. More than once she parked down the block from Gracie’s Montessori school so she could watch Julia pick up her daughter, catch a glimpse of her sister, her niece. She would have said anything, done anything, to seal the rift between them. Anything.

  But now she’s not so sure. Maybe too much has happened. Julia has dealt her punishment and it’s worked—Livvy feels punished, has felt every terrible feeling Julia has wanted her to feel. She’s cried countless nights, has lost weight, hair, self-confidence. Tom talked about moving but Livvy wouldn’t, wouldn’t run from what she deserved.