Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“He is. He took care of my yard work all summer long, and now he’s fixing my porch. And he won’t take a dime for it. I’ve been paying him in cookies!”
Daphne smiled and patted Grams’s arm. “Your cookies are probably worth more to him than money. From what I understand, he could use a little TLC.”
“I think so too,” Grams whispered conspiratorially.
“Well, I’d better get back to work.” Daphne nodded in my direction. “Nice meeting you, Stella. Enjoy your visit. Come by the inn for dinner if you can.”
I smiled at her. “I’d like that.”
“Stella, dear, I’ve got an idea.” Grams took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go home and bake a pie.”
“What?” I nearly stumbled as Grams pulled me along. Where on earth did she get her strength?
“I’m in the mood for an apple crumble. We can stop by the market and get some local apples. And some shortening. I think I’m nearly out.”
“Shortening?”
“Yes, dear. For the crust.” She looked over at me and sighed. “It’s time for you to learn how to bake. I don’t understand how your mother failed to teach you.”
“Mom worked, Grams. She didn’t have a lot of extra time.”
“Don’t get me started on that, dear.”
“And I don’t really eat a lot of—”
Grams stopped moving, turning to look at me with an expression that said don’t try my patience. “Stella Devine, I am going to spend this afternoon teaching you how to make the perfect crust and an apple pie so delicious it could make a grown man cry. I don’t give a hoot in hades whether or not you ever eat one, but a woman should know how to make a homemade pie! Oh, I know you’re a modern girl with your blue jeans and your jazzy little phones and your Snap Face chatting, but I’m old-fashioned, I’m your grandmother, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, so what I say goes.”
I was laughing by the time her diatribe ended, and she sniffed, tossing her wrinkled pug nose in the air. “You watch. You’ll be thankful someday.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said, linking arms with her as we walked down the sidewalk together. “And I’m lucky you want to teach me. I promise to be a good student.”
She patted my hand. “That’s my girl.”
Eight
Grams
I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.
If ever I had a magic spell for making a man fall in love, it was baked into my apple crumble pie.
No less than three of my friends had made it for fellows who were dragging their feet, and next thing you know, they were down on one knee. We used to call it Cupid Pie! I felt confident that if anything could get Mr. Woods to open up to Stella, that was it. So we were going to make him one, and she was going to bring it to him.
But I wasn’t going to tell her that.
I’d tell her I always baked two pies, and then I’d tell her I didn’t have any room in my freezer for the second one, so why didn’t she just take it next door?
Clever, wasn’t I?
I was a bit concerned that she was just going to take it over there without giving any thought to what she was wearing or how she styled her hair or what she’d say to him. Oh, I know it’s the inside that counts and all that, but it doesn’t hurt to wrap the nicest gift in the world in some pretty paper, does it? Truly, I am a feminist, but I do think some of the lessons my generation has to pass down are still helpful.
Last night, she was only gone for five minutes. Five minutes! Perhaps he’d taken one look at her comfortable shoes and thought her bread was buttered on the other side.
I’d have to see what I could do.
Nine
Stella
It took us all day just to bake two pies. All day.
No wonder people bought their baked goods at the store these days! Who had this kind of time?
But there was something really nice about listening to Grams talk about memories of baking with her mother and grandmother, or with my mom when she was little. I realized she was passing down more than just a recipe—she was sharing a family tradition, and I made up my mind to pay attention so I could teach my own daughter someday, if I was lucky enough to have one.
I had a lot to learn. Even though she’d been forewarned, Grams was astonished at my ignorance when it came to baking. My questions befuddled her.
“Why do the butter and shortening have to be cold?”
“You put vodka in the dough?”
“What’s a pastry cutter look like?”
And my technique wasn’t too good at first, either.
“For heaven’s, Stella, I said roll it out gently! Don’t get mad at the dough!”