In The Recipe Box, beloved author Viola Shipman spins a tale about a lost young woman and the family recipe box that changes her life.
Growing up in northern Michigan, Samantha "Sam" Mullins felt trapped on her family's orchard and pie shop, so she left with dreams of making her own mark in the world. But life as an overworked, undervalued sous chef at a reality star's New York bakery is not what Sam dreamed.
When the chef embarrasses Sam, she quits and returns home. Unemployed, single, and defeated, she spends a summer working on her family's orchard cooking and baking alongside the women in her life—including her mother, Deana, and grandmother, Willo. One beloved, flour-flecked, ink-smeared recipe at a time, Sam begins to learn about and understand the women in her life, her family's history, and her passion for food through their treasured recipe box.
As Sam discovers what matters most she opens her heart to a man she left behind, but who now might be the key to her happiness.
The Recipe Box is a warm and heartfelt audiobook listeners will love.
Release date:
October 29, 2019
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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Sam Nelson sipped her latte, staring out the window of the coffee shop, waiting for the rain to stop. She watched garbage men in yellow slickers jump out of trucks to pick up the trash, the deafening noise causing her head to throb. She was still bleary-eyed with sleep, and the scene looked blurred and too bright, as if it were a paint-by-numbers portrait.
Sam shut her eyes to still her mind, and her head suddenly whirred with colorful images of apples, the kind a child might draw—smiling, dancing, hanging from trees. A coffee grinder and milk frother roared to life, accompanied again by the sound of trash trucks, and Sam’s eyes popped open. She realized she was unconsciously rubbing the necklace she wore every day that was hidden under her uniform. She pulled it free and ran her fingers over the key that hung from the chain.
Starbucks was jammed with those who, like her, rose at dawn to start their day: construction workers, Wall Street traders, emergency room doctors, eager assistants.
And struggling pastry chefs like me, she thought, looking around the coffeehouse.
But mostly others like me who were so sleepy leaving this morning they also left their umbrellas at home, she realized, her face breaking into a slight smile.
Sam watched the rain slide down the window in great sheets, the sky heaving, the city stopping for once—even at dawn, when everyone was waking and had somewhere to be—Mother Nature forcing everyone to halt for one brief moment. And then, as quickly as the rain had started, it stopped, the surprise summer thunderstorm over. Sam rushed out onto the sidewalk, the crowd dispersing in different directions like water bugs on a lake.
The humidity of the summer day suddenly smacked Sam directly in the face, like being hit with a warm, wet washrag, her grandma used to say.
Sam was rushed along in the wave of those who were now late and had somewhere to be.
I do, too, Sam thought, but I don’t want to get there.
Sam walked briskly downtown, sipping her latte when she slowed to cross the streets. She could already feel the first of three espresso shots coursing through her veins.
She looked at the city streets coated in rain, the early light illuminating their inky blackness, their darkness beautifully framed by the lighter concrete gutters and sidewalks.
Broadway looks just like a big blackberry galette, Sam thought, before shaking her head at the terrible analogy.
That would have earned a C minus in English lit, she thought, but my instructors at culinary school would be proud.
Sam slowed for a second and considered the streets. So would my family, she added.
New York had its own otherworldly beauty, stunning in its own sensory-overload sort of way, but a jarring juxtaposition to where Sam had grown up: on a family orchard in northern Michigan.
Our skyscrapers were apple and peach trees, Sam thought, seeing dancing fruit in her mind once again. She smiled as she approached Union Square Park and stopped to touch an iridescent green leaf, still wet and dripping rain, her heart leaping at its incredible tenderness in the midst of the city. She leaned in and lifted the leaf to her nose, inhaling, the scents of summer and smells of her past—fresh fruit, fragrant pine, baking pies, lake water—flooding her mind.
Sam’s knees suddenly felt like the jellies her family made, and she took a seat on a nearby bench and took out her phone, guilt overwhelming her as she clicked on the e-invite she had received a dozen times over the last few months.
MULLINS FAMILY ORCHARDS & PIE PANTRY IS TURNING 100! AND OUR MATRIARCH IS TURNING 75!
WE HOPE YOUR FAMILY WILL JOIN OURS FOR THIS ONCE-IN-A-LIFETIME CELEBRATION!
PI = 3.14159 (WHO ARE WE KIDDING? PIE = LOVE!)
Sam stared at the last line. Are they still using that same old slogan? she thought, but the word FAMILY stuck in her vision, and when she shut her eyes, it floated in front of her eyes, just as the images of apples had earlier.
She clicked on messages from her grandma and parents: Hope you can make it! Miss you! Love you!
Sam’s family hadn’t officially pressed her to return for the celebration—too proud, just like me, Sam thought—but what am I supposed to do?
I can’t ask for time off to go home, she continued. He would never give it to me. And opportunities like this don’t just fall in your lap in New York City.
Sam opened her eyes and, as usual, passing New Yorkers were shooting her second glances as they passed, confused as to why a woman would be wearing all white in a city that typically outfitted itself in the darkest of colors.
Sam had to confess that she looked like a Disney character—some sort of ice princess perhaps—in her chef’s whites and blond hair.
“You the last virgin in the city?” a man yelled as he zipped by on his bike.
“You wish!” Sam yelled back.
Subtlety was not New York’s strong suit, and the city had taught her to be tough.
So did my grandma, Sam thought, touching the tree’s branch as she stood, thinking of her Grandma Willo. She taught me to bend but never break, just like her name, just like this tree.
Sam shook her head, checked her watch, and groaned. She picked up her pace, zipping past the Flatiron Building before turning and skirting Madison Square Park to head east on 23rd.
She kept her head down, sipping her latte and counting every single step as she did every morning to avoid reality—48, 49, 50, 51—glancing up every so often just to avoid running into someone and to check out familiar window fronts.
208, 209, 210 …
Sam stopped and lifted her eyes to see the bright yellow awning jutting out over the rain-slicked sidewalk, smiling brightly, falsely, just like …
Sam tried but couldn’t halt the thought that had already formed, the one that popped into her head every single morning.
… an insipid reality star.
“Move, lady!” a passerby said to Sam, who was still stopped directly in the middle of the sidewalk—much to the chagrin of other New Yorkers. “It’s called a bakery.”
A kind-looking woman walking her dog slowed and asked Sam, “Are you hungry? Do you want something from the bakery?”
For some reason, Sam shook her head no and showed the woman her Starbucks cup. The woman looked at Sam and said very seriously, “He’s famous, you know,” pointing to the bakery.
“I know,” Sam said, staring up at the awning. Happy-faced pies dotted the fabric, like little baked suns, the venting on each crust designed to make the pies look like they were smiling with adorable deep dimples.
Her stomach lurched as it did every morning when she read the bakery’s name: DIMPLES BAKERY.
Sam walked up to the door of the shop and gave it a yank, her arm reverberating.
What the…? she thought. Sam placed her face against the glass and held her hands around her eyes, her breath steaming the window. Why is it still dark?
She began to fish for her keys when she heard, “Hey, Michigan!”
Sam turned and smiled.
“Hey, Jersey!”
This had become their greeting since Sam and Angelo Morelli, the deliveryman for a well-known East Coast organic produce company, met a year ago. Although Angelo was born and raised in Brooklyn, Sam first met Angelo when he was delivering Fresh Jersey tomatoes for a classic southern tomato pie Trish was making. Between his accent and the tomatoes—which Sam instantly fell in love with—Sam had inadvertently referred to Angelo as “Jersey,” and the nickname had stuck.
“How were the Hamptons?” Angelo asked through the open window of the delivery truck. He jumped out, ran around to the back, and threw open the corrugated door. Boxes of fresh fruit and produce—a rainbow of bright colors and rich textures—were piled up in crates and boxes, ready to be delivered.
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