Grace, Baker Extraordinaire
B y Saturday things had fallen into a rhythm. Grace and Mom were taking turns on the early shift and the late shift (Grace had offered to take the early shift every day, but Mom wouldn’t let her). Grace had only managed to get her run in on days she started later, but some exercise was better than none.
Grace had also bought a bell at the hardware store and put it over the grocery store door. She’d expected Doc to grin and comment on it, but he’d just looked at it with raised eyebrows when he came in. Mom said it drove her crazy to hear the jingle every two minutes, but Dad said he’d often thought they ought to have a bell over the door.
After several days working in the store, Grace came up with another idea for improvement. She broached the idea to her parents one night as they were sitting on the porch.
“The one thing I miss from the grocery store I go to in California,” Grace said, “is the fresh-baked goods section.”
“What do you mean?” Mom asked. “All our baked goods are fresh.”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t mean from the suppliers. I meant things made there, at the store. Breads and rolls and coffee cakes and cookies and stuff like that. They’re especially nice for a quick breakfast. I was thinking this morning, when I was eating cold cereal, that it would be nice to have a muffin or something. I bet a lot of other people in Fraser’s Mill would feel the same way.”
Ever since Hannah Fraser had been disappointed in her search for coconut water, Grace had been thinking about ways to stock more interesting items. Business had seemed slower lately than she remembered from years past. Maybe a fresh baked goods section would draw more people to the store.
“You mean we would bake things ourselves to sell at the store?” Mom asked. “Don’t we have enough to do as it is?”
“I could do it,” Grace said. “Especially in the mornings when I don’t work early. I wouldn’t go crazy—I would just make a few things. I looked up the food laws around here, and Michigan has a Cottage Food Law that says you can sell baked goods and a few other kinds of things in a grocery store without getting special permission or having a separate kitchen, as long as you label them properly.”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “If it takes off and does well, people will still want the baked goods after you leave in six weeks. I don’t have time to do all that. And your father doesn’t know the first thing about baking.”
“We can call it a summer special,” Grace said. “Only available for a limited time. We could put a sign out front to advertise them.”
“I think you oughtta let her, Liz,” Dad said. “It can’t hurt to have some special items in the store on occasion. Besides, I wouldn’t mind some fresh-baked goods myself.”
“The things we get from the supplier are perfectly fine,” Mom said. “And I baked you a pie last week.”
He chuckled. “Don’t I know it. That pie was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“It was a peach pie,” Mom told Grace.
“How do we have peaches at this time of year?”
“They come from California, but it’s better than nothing,” Mom said. “That was the day before your dad broke his foot. Since then I haven’t had time to even think about baking.”
“Well, is it okay if I do it for the store?” Grace said. “I won’t leave a big mess in the kitchen. It won’t be a problem for anybody, I promise.”
Mom rocked slowly in her chair. “It’s all right with me. Just don’t run yourself ragged. How are things going getting ready for the National Board certification?”
“Oh, it’s going all right,” Grace said. “I’ve been working on it just about every evening. Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be fine.”
§
The first chance Grace got, which happened to be Monday morning, she set out to bake some delicious items to draw the townspeople to the store.
She probably shouldn’t make things too complicated. Lots of places sold pies, but rolling out pie crust took a lot of work and always got flour everywhere. Gingersnaps were simpler, and she had a favorite recipe she had discovered years ago in an old cookbook, that used a secret ingredient: vinegar. Something about the vinegar gave the gingersnaps a special flavor.
She had all morning to bake. The gingersnaps would probably take about an hour and a half, including all the baking time for multiple batches. She wanted to make at least two different things. Apple crisp was a popular treat, and it wasn’t as fiddly to make as pie crust. Besides, it took only a few ingredients. Grace put on an upbeat oldies playlist and went to work.
Dad popped his head in the door. “Good luck with your baking,” he said. “I’m working on an order to our supplier. I’ve got to figure out what we’re getting from the farm before I order any vegetables.”
“I’ll bring you some cookies when they’re done,” Grace told him. “I’m glad you’re figuring out the inventory stuff, because I’m terrible at that sort of thing.”
“Then I’ll just have to show you,” Dad said. “I know you’re only here for the summer, but it’s a good thing to learn. Not that you don’t have enough to learn already, with that certification and everything.”
He went back to his work, and Grace went back to her baking.
People kept bringing up the National Board certification, as though Grace might have forgotten it. It was true, she’d been spending more time thinking about the grocery store than the National Board lately, but she didn’t need anybody to remind her how important it was. She’d buckle down to work on that soon, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. But she also wanted to improve the grocery store.
The gingersnap recipe made a massive amount of dough. She hoped lots of people would want to buy cookies, or her family would have to eat the ones that went stale. It was a pity—whenever the store had leftovers, they were usually at the point of being old and unappealing. But eating them kept them from being wasted.
The last batch of gingersnaps was in the oven. Grace pushed back her hair with a sticky hand, surveying the pile of used bowls and measuring cups and spoons. She’d better deal with those and then get to the apple crisp.
She found a large, flat pan with raised edges that would be perfect to make a large crisp. It would probably fit a quadrupled recipe. She’d better check pan size conversions online.
Grace almost forgot about the last batch of gingersnaps while she looked up pan sizes on her phone. The timer had gone off without her noticing. Some good timers were! Grace raced for the potholders and took the cookies out. They were a little dark. Those ones would have to be for the family—she didn’t think she ought to sell them.
Time to start the apple crisp. What a lot of apples the recipe called for! Grace didn’t have enough, so she went to the store to get more. She’d need to tally up the prices of all the ingredients she used so she could make sure she wasn’t losing money selling the baked goods.
Back in the kitchen, Grace found herself grateful for her music playlist and for the sunny, pleasant kitchen. Mom always said wallpaper was a pain and no one wanted old-fashioned, brightly-colored Pennsylvania Dutch pictures anymore, but Grace thought it gave the kitchen a homey look.
At long last she had peeled all the apples, mixed them with sugar, spices, and cornstarch, put together her oat crumble for the top, and got the whole thing in the oven. Now she could work on the labels for the cookies and apple crisp.
In the middle of typing out a list of ingredients on her laptop, Grace noticed a ringing noise. Wait a minute. That was the kitchen timer. Why did she keep tuning it out? The apple crisp must be done.
She’d better not have burned this too. Grace snatched up the potholders from the kitchen table and flung open the oven door. Thank goodness. The huge pan of apple crisp was the perfect shade of golden brown. Grace whisked it out of the oven, and a searing pain shot across the back of her right hand.
“Aah!” Grace nearly dropped the pan, but set it on top of the stove just in time. In her hurry to take the pan out of the oven, she must have tipped the pan sideways. Boiling, sticky juice had poured all over her hand.
It hurt so badly, Grace couldn’t think straight. Cold water. She ran to the sink and turned on the faucet, running the water as cold as it would go.
“Gracie?” Dad called from the next room. “What’s going on?”
“I burned my hand!”
The cold water numbed her hand a little, which took away some of the pain, but she knew once she took it out again it would be bad. Two different blistered areas had already formed across her knuckles.
She heard the sound of crutches come into the kitchen.
“What happened?” Dad asked.
“The pan tipped when I was taking the apple crisp out of the oven.” Grace tried not to cry, but her eyes were streaming.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Dad surveyed the hand under the running water. “That looks bad. You oughtta get Doc to take a look at it.”
Oh no, not Doc. She didn’t want to have to talk to him.
“I’ll be all right,” Grace said through clenched teeth. “We have those burn dressing things in the store, don’t we? In the first aid section? I can get one and bandage it up.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” Dad said. “That’s a pretty big area. I wouldn’t risk it getting infected. You’d better show the doctor.”
“Maybe it’s not that bad,” Grace said. “It probably says online what kinds of burns you need to see a doctor for.” She pulled her hand out of the cold water. Searing pain again. “Ow. I’d better keep it under the water. Would you look up burns for me, Dad?”
“Sure.” Dad crutched his way to the laptop at the kitchen table. Grace held her hand under the tap and tried not to think about how much it hurt.
Why hadn’t she been more careful getting that pan out of the oven? She had baked fruit-filled things before. She knew better than to tip the pan.
“Gracie,” Dad said, “it says here that you should see a doctor for burns on the hand, because they can be more serious. You’d better go to the clinic. You can get an ice pack from the freezer and ice it on your way over.”
Grace wasn’t about to argue with internet wisdom. She wiped her eyes with her non-burned hand and went to get the ice pack and a paper towel to wrap around it. Even with the ice, her hand hurt like fire. She put on her shoes and headed next door to the doctor’s office.
§
Grace found herself in the small waiting room she remembered from growing up. The chairs were different, though. They must have been replaced. Four other people were waiting: a mom with a runny-nosed toddler, an elderly lady on oxygen, and a young guy with his arm in a sling. The toddler was playing with one of those big bead-sliding toys they always seemed to have in medical offices. Grace picked a chair far from everyone else and sat down.
A door opened, and Dorothy walked out. “Grace,” she exclaimed. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I burned my hand.” Grace held it up.
“Ouch, that looks bad. What happened? Were you working in the store?”
“No, I was making apple crisp.” Dang it, Grace’s eyes were watering again. She didn’t want to cry in public.
Dorothy shook her head. “I’m sorry. That looks miserable.”
“I think the ice pack is helping a little.”
“That’s good. Doc probably has some fancy burn dressings that will help too. Back in the day we used to put butter on burns. I guess you’re not supposed to do that anymore.” Dorothy shook her head. “Thank goodness for modern medicine. Well, I hope it feels better soon.”
“Thanks,” Grace said.
Doc’s head appeared in the doorway of the next room. “Ethan,” he called.
The woman with the toddler began to extricate the toddler from the bead toy. Doc waited for them in the doorway, looking tall and professional with a white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck.
Grace sank lower in her chair. It would be great to be invisible. She needed medical attention, but did Doc have to be the one to give it? He’d better not tease her about needing his help.
Doc’s gaze fell upon Grace, and his eyebrows shot up. “Abby, you can sit Ethan on the exam table,” he told the mom with the toddler. “I’ll be right in.”
He approached Grace. “You’re about the last person I expected to see in here.”
Grace made a face at him. “You know any other doctors closer than Cadillac?”
Doc motioned toward Grace’s hand. “What happened to you?”
Grace took off the ice pack so he could see the blistered expanse of the burn.
Doc pursed his lips. “That looks painful. But you shouldn’t ice a burn. Have you run it under cool water?”
“Yes, I did. I used the coldest water from the faucet.”
Doc shook his head. “I see why you might think that was a good idea, but you should only use cool water on a burn, not cold water or ice. It can damage the tissue.”
“Oh.” Of course she was doing something wrong. Every time she saw Doc, she was in the middle of some embarrassing, messy, or uncomfortable situation. Grace put the ice pack on the chair next to her.
“Are you okay to wait for a few minutes?” Doc asked. “I’ve got a couple other people to see. If the burn hurts too much you can run water over it in the bathroom, but not too cold.”
“Sure.”
Doc disappeared into the exam room. Grace leaned back in her chair, wishing she’d brought a watch, or her phone, or anything to check the time. If Doc had to get through three appointments before her, it could be a long time. Without the ice pack, her hand felt much worse. Maybe she should run water over it like Doc had suggested. No, somebody was in the clinic bathroom.
Looking down, Grace realized her clothes were splotched with flour. She must look like a mess—her hair was coming out of its ponytail and falling in her face, and her eyes felt swollen. What a way to be out in public.
The wait took forever. Grace must’ve been missing her work shift by now. Dad probably told Mom what had happened—hopefully Mom wouldn’t be expecting her down at the store.
Two more people came in, a woman with a walker and a middle-aged woman helping her. The woman with the walker—a smiley, chatty woman—told Grace she was having trouble getting diabetic shoes. Doc would help her out.
“He’s just the nicest, friendliest young fellow,” she told Grace. “Always listens. Like I was his own grandmother he was trying to help. And so smart. Knows everything there is about doctoring.”
That was an impressive testimonial to Doc’s skills and bedside manner. It was hard for Grace to envision him with all those qualities. But clearly this woman appreciated him.
Finally it was Grace’s turn. She went into Doc’s exam room, which was pristine. Everything looked like it had just been scrubbed and polished. He must spend a lot of time cleaning it, unless he hired a cleaner.
Doc was all business. “Why don’t you sit on the exam table,” he told her. “Let me wash my hands.”
Grace sat on the paper-covered table, swinging her feet. The burned hand felt as bad as ever.
Doc washed his hands and pulled on a pair of blue gloves. He rummaged through a drawer. “How did you get burned?”
“I was taking an apple crisp out of the oven, and the pan tipped and spilled juice all over my hand,” Grace said. “The juice was sticky—I think that made it worse.”
“Do you have any other burns?”
“Just my hand.”
Doc pulled a tube of something out of the drawer. “This is an antibiotic cream,” he said. “Let me see that hand again.”
Grace held out her hand, and Doc took it in one gloved hand to scrutinize it. “You’ve got a second-degree burn,” he said. “That must be painful. The blisters haven’t broken open, so that’s good—there’s not as much chance of infection. But when you’ve got a burn like this that goes deeper than the surface, you can’t tell how deep it really is. I’m gonna put antibiotic cream on this and bandage it. You’ll have to keep the bandage dry and change it once a day. Then you’ll need to come back in a few days so I can evaluate it.”
Grace sighed. “All right.” Would he get to the antibiotic cream already? Maybe that would make it feel better.
Unfortunately, the antibiotic cream didn’t do a thing for the pain. But Doc applied it surprisingly gently. He taped a bandage over Grace’s hand, not sticking anything to the burned area. His face was serious, and Grace realized why the townspeople liked having him for their doctor. He showed not just competence but also sympathy. Although the hand hurt just as badly, Grace found herself relaxing.
“You might want to take an over-the-counter pain reliever,” he said. “That’s going to hurt for a while.”
“Okay,” Grace said.
He put more bandage materials in a small paper bag. “Are you right-handed?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s rough. You’ll probably need someone to help change the bandage. If that’s too much for you and your parents, feel free to come back over here, and I’ll help with it.” Doc took off his gloves in the methodical way doctors always did, balling the first one up in one gloved hand and taking the second one off inside-out. He had nice hands, agile-looking, with long fingers. “Well, feel better soon.”
“Wait a minute,” Grace said, getting down from the exam table. “I haven’t shown you my insurance card, and I haven’t paid a copay or anything.”
“Oh, I’ll bill you, don’t worry.” Doc grinned. “I know where you live.”
He might be good at bandaging things, but he was still insufferable.
Back at home, when Grace went to put the bandage materials in the medicine cabinet, she hardly recognized the wild-haired, streaky-faced, flour-daubed creature staring back at her from the mirror. She had gone over to the doctor’s like that? Well, it’s not as though it mattered. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
She wasn’t keeping score or anything, but if she had been, it was currently Doc—4, Grace—0.