Table of Contents
A PLUME BOOK
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
A PLUME BOOK
JULIA’S CHILD
SARAH PINNEO worked in finance for more than a decade before making the transition from breadwinner to bread baker. Her first book, The Ski House Cookbook, was published in 2007. Sarah writes about food and sustainability for lifestyle publications including the Boston Globe Magazine and Edible Communities.
PLUME
Published by Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Books (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, February 2012
Copyright © Sarah Pinneo, 2012
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Pinneo, Sarah.
Julia’s child : a novel / Sarah Pinneo.
p. cm.
ISBN : 978-1-101-55974-1
1. Businesswomen—Fiction. 2. Natural foods—Fiction. 3. Motherhood—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3616.I577J85 2012
813’.6—dc22
2011014815
Set in Horley Old Style
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For Mike, who was there at its inception.
For Rosemary, who yelled “push,”
and for Mollie and Denise,
who helped to feed and change it.
Chapter 1
Though I wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood, St. Agatha’s was easily found in the middle of a leafy Brooklyn street. With only a little hesitation, I grasped the ancient-looking brass knob and opened the door.
A half flight of stairs led downward, but on the third step my grip tightened on the banister. When I’d cold-called the chairwoman of the Park Slope Parenting Association to ask for the honor of addressing one of her Thursday coffee hours, I’d imagined a cozy handful of women chatting in the basement of the church.
Through the open doors I could see an impossibly large number of women and children. They knelt in groups on the carpet, baby blankets stretched between them, toddlers orbiting each cluster. An entire cavalcade of strollers was double- and triple-parked against one wall. It wasn’t a coffee circle. It was a toddlerpalooza.
I turned and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the sidewalk, groping with a clammy hand for the phone in my purse.
My only employee answered on the first ring. “Julia’s Child makes the best toddler food in the world! This is Marta speaking. How may I assist you?”
“Marta? It’s Julia.”
“Julia, it’s five minutes to four! Are you lost?”
“No, I found the church all right. I just . . .” I cleared my throat. It didn’t seem possible that all those people had come to hear me speak. “Could you double-check the date and time?”
“Why? Isn’t there anybody there?”
The sound of Marta’s sensible voice made me feel more than a little ridiculous. “Well, sure, but . . .” I could hear her rustling around on my desk, looking for the note. Our office is so small that our two little metal desks practically touch each other.
“Four o’clock, September 5. So go in there, chica, and knock’em dead. But listen, I’m going to have to turn on the voice mail and leave too.”
“Why? Do you have to pick up Carlos?” One of Marta’s very few flaws was her shaky access to reliable childcare. She occasionally ran short of help to watch her nine-year-old son after school.
“No. The Mobster called. Apparently there was a power outage sometime today, and when he got there this afternoon, the freezers were off. Everything’s back on now, but I thought you’d want me to go look at the product.”
“Oh,” I said quietly. That was very bad news. Our entire inventory was in those freezers. We needed that food for our small Brooklyn retailers and for a marketing blitz. I pictured all our hard work melting into a puddle.
“I’m going over there now to check things out.”
“Oh, Marta.” The full weight of the news continued to sink in, and the timing couldn’t be worse. “We need that food for the trade show!”
“Hmm,” Marta said with unmistakable hesitation. “We’ll see . . .”
“Marta? What do you mean, ‘We’ll see?’ ”
“Julia, they’re waiting for you. Go and do the coffee hour, and we’ll talk about it afterward.”
“Talk about what?”
She sighed. “I opened the mail after you left. The trade show returned your check. There’s a letter that says our company doesn’t meet the show’s . . . Hang on.” There were more sounds of paper rustling. “ ‘Annualized gross revenue’ cutoff.”
“Those bast—” I swallowed that last syllable just as two young mothers pushed their strollers past me toward the church doo
r. I moved a few paces up the street and lowered my voice. “No kidding we’re small. That’s why we need the trade show!” It was the only way to meet the national grocery buyers who would not take my calls.
“Chin up, Julia. We’ll get through this. Not everything is going wrong.”
“It isn’t?”
“Well, for one thing, this call has lasted at least two minutes without your phone dropping me. And more important, you are about to preach the gospel of Julia’s Child to a bunch of hippies just like you. Right now. So go inside and tell the über-boobers of Brooklyn just how terrific we are.”
“Okay,” I whispered.
Marta hung up, and I wearily turned to face the church once more, but my confidence was sapped. It had now been a year—a year!—since I’d hatched Julia’s Child, with the crazy idea that I had something the rest of the world needed. But I was still nowhere near breaking even. The wheels of commerce were stuck deep in tiny orders, misbehaving appliances, and brand-new opportunities for public humiliation.
Beside the church door stood a statue of St. Agatha. Her head was tipped gently to the side, stone palms open in a gesture at once calm and forthright. “Patron Saint of Fertility, Families, and Peace” was inscribed at her feet. What I needed was the patron saint of stage fright and poorly funded business ventures.
Just then another mom came jogging toward me, red hair flying. Good manners prevailed over cowardliness, and I opened the door for her and stepped inside.
“Thank you!” she gasped. “I hope I’m not late.”
As she passed by, I observed an infant napping in a carrier on her front and a toddler slung in a pack on her back. I’d had no idea that combination was physically possible. The rear of the backpack was plastered over with bumper stickers. “Eat More Kale” suggested one of them. “Make Dinner, Not War” commanded another.
In spite of my grim mood, I smiled. A friendly audience was the reason I’d come to Park Slope. Although I hadn’t managed to sell any of my products to the big Manhattan stores, the little Brooklyn shops I’d approached had been more receptive.
And of all the Brooklyn neighborhoods, Park Slope is known as the most left-leaning, granola-eating, tree-hugging one. It’s populated by mothers who nurse topless everywhere and grind their own millet at the food co-op.
In Park Slope, even the playdough is whole grain.
Steeled by the possibility of a receptive audience, I finally descended the short flight of stairs into a many-windowed room. A frizzy-haired woman sat just inside the doorway, behind a folding table. She had a coffee can and a little sign: “Suggested contribution is $3.”
I approached her. “I’m, um, Julia Bailey.” She wore a black crinkle skirt, enormous beaded jewelry, and an infant in a sling.
“Julia!” she said, jumping to her feet. “I’m Nadja. We’re so happy you could come today!”
“Thank you. The pleasure is all mine.” I held out a hand, but she leaned across the table and grabbed my shoulders in a tight embrace. I reciprocated carefully, mindful of the little person strapped to her chest.
“Listen,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “My two-year-old loves your Apple and Cheddar Muffets! I bought out Luigi’s on Fifth. Will there be any more soon?”
I sucked in my breath with the pleasure that an actress must feel the first time she’s recognized on the street. “Of course there will be! We deliver to Luigi’s on Friday. The day after tomorrow.”
“Terrific!” she exclaimed. “River will be so happy. Won’t you, River?” She beamed at someone on the floor behind her.
I peered over the table to see a little boy with long curly hair busily yanking on the wheels of a toy truck. He ignored us.
“So this is . . . the group?” I asked carefully. There was still a chance that the hundred or so people in the room were there for something else.
“Of course!” My hostess smiled.
“Okay,” I said, attempting to swallow my fear. “Where would you like me?”
“I set up the computer over there.” She indicated a podium and a screen against one wall. “When you’re ready, give me a wave, and I’ll introduce you.”
“Perfect,” I said with more nonchalance than I felt.
Aiming for the front of the room, I stepped carefully between the sociable clusters. Coffee and cookies were spread out on a table near the podium. Hoping to stave off nervous dry mouth, I stopped for a drink. One urn was labeled “Fair-Trade, Shade-Grown, Locally Roasted Organic Coffee” and another contained “All-Natural Decaf.” I poured myself a chai.
A precociously tall preschool girl stood on tiptoes, her fingers just brushing the edge of the carefully labeled cookie stand (“Organic! Nut Free! Seed Free!”). There were crumbs on her pinafore. “What’s the magic word?” she asked.
The toddler beside her had cheeks so round that when he smiled up at her, his eyes nearly disappeared. “Pease!” he chimed. The hand he extended toward his sister had the same pads of baby fat as Wylie, my own toddler. It was all I could do not to pluck him up and give him a squeeze.
My little burst of longing reminded me that if it weren’t for Julia’s Child, I would be having a quiet afternoon at home, curled up with my two boys in our own undersize living room. My eyes flicked again toward the door, measuring the distance to the only escape route.
I took a deep breath. It was just the stage fright talking.
I made my way over to the podium and booted up the presentation I’d brought. “Chickens Don’t Have Fingers,” my title slide read. “Whole Foods for the Whole Family.” Marta had found a graphic of a chicken wearing gloves. A day ago I’d found it funny. But now the sight of it made me queasy.
Ms. Aranjo—Nadja—came bounding over, her jewelry and her infant bouncing against her. She checked her watch. “It’s four o’clock on the nose,” she said. “Shall we?”
I nodded, trying not to tremble.
She grabbed a little microphone off the podium and flicked it on. “Welcome, parents!” she said brightly. “First off, a couple of housekeeping notes. There will be a chicken pox party at Norah Jorgensen’s home tomorrow afternoon. Her infected son, Franz, will be happy to play with your unvaccinated children ages three and above from two until four. And next week at this time, we’ll be hearing from Kira at Cobble Hill Midwifery on the topic of Saying No to Circumcision.”
“And now I’d like to turn our attention to today’s guest. Ms. Julia Bailey is someone who tackles the age-old question of ‘what’s for dinner?’ on a professional scale. Her children’s foods, labeled Julia’s Child, are for sale in our very own neighborhood. But don’t go looking for the Apple and Cheddar Muffets at Luigi’s because River has eaten them all! Heh heh. Please welcome Ms. Julia Bailey to the Slope!”
A small amount of polite applause could be heard over the toddlers’ din. Nadja handed me the microphone, and I was on.
“Uh, thank you, Nadja,” I heard myself say. Thank you indeed! She’d just promoted my product so warmly and well that I questioned whether I had anything satisfactory to add. I hadn’t faced an audience since my last dance recital in the seventh grade. And as mortifying as I’d found it then to prance around in spandex, at least I hadn’t been expected to say anything intelligent.
The microphone felt slippery in my hand. I couldn’t remember how I’d planned to begin my remarks.
A couple of yards in front of me, a toddler began to shriek. His mother reached into her diaper bag. Her hand emerged a moment later with a baggie full of green grapes, each presliced against the risk of choking. She handed him half a grape, and an instant later the child plunged his hand into his mouth and was quiet.
I raised the microphone.
“I have always found extreme pleasure in watching my own children eat,” I began. “It starts right at the very beginning. You bring home this new baby, this loud little stranger, and for those first few weeks you have only one job. When the baby is nursing happily or attacking his bottle—as long as he’
s sucking down calories—everything is right with the world. Good mom! You win!”
I scanned the audience for signs of agreement. But it was wiggly and noisy out there. A moist spot formed between my shoulder blades. It seemed impossible to compete with all the babies and toddlers in the room for their mothers’ attention.
Having no alternative, I soldiered on. “We are rewarded for our loving attention when the little screamers begin to get fat. There’s nothing sweeter than finding several chins hiding under the baby bonnet or—my favorite—knees that resemble the folds on a shar-pei puppy.”
A woman sitting on a blanket in front of me chuckled, and I felt immediate gratitude. At least someone could hear me.
“The joy continues into toddlerhood. One-year-olds are hungry creatures, and now they can eat nearly anything, as long as you cut it small enough. I actually believe that we’re wired to feel pleasure and accomplishment when they do. Endorphins must be released when you watch those chubby hands shovel in the food. You could actually hook up sensors to a mother’s brain and then show her a video of her child eating broccoli and giggling. Her synapses would start firing like she’d just won the lottery. I guarantee it.
“But then your toddler turns two. Now that the little darling has a full set of teeth and can chew anything at all, suddenly he won’t. At two the appetite slows down. Suddenly, every mom has a picky eater on her hands, a child who will eat only on alternate Tuesdays and only foods that are beige.”
At this there was a little swell of laughter. And with it I felt something akin to the acceleration of an engine on the open road. Because it wasn’t just the size of the crowd that scared me but the possibility that they wouldn’t understand why I spend much of my week in a closet-size office, trying to placate the picky eaters of America. Even on days when my business didn’t hover near the brink of collapse, I sometimes worried that I was the only inmate in the asylum.
I smiled at the crowd. “So now Mom gets edgy. Toddlerhood can feel like a personal failure. I’m sure you all know what happens next.” I made my voice shrill. “ ‘Two more bites of chicken, Maddox! Then you can have the cookie!’ ”
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