Chapter 11
When I return to the farmhouse, Hannah and Alice are still down at the pond, fishing.
I seize the opportunity to squeeze in a few moments alone to settle my mind.
I want to talk to Alice as soon as possible—to relieve the growing concern about what she might not be telling me—but after dinner seems like a better time.
Instead, I head to the attic. I want to start sorting Rose’s box of recipes.
It’s the kind of busy work that has always cleared my thoughts.
I leave a box of leftover Ebelskivers on the kitchen counter—Brady insisted I take some to Alice and Hannah—and make myself a cup of Earl Grey.
I’m determined to make some headway organizing what’s inside the box.
When I step fully into the attic space, I let out an audible sigh.
I take in all the books, the comfy chairs, and crafting and art supplies.
It really is a haven. Very hygge. No wonder I liked coming up here when I was a toddler.
I spot the recipe box on the table. As I lift the lid, my fingers ache with anticipation. What will I find inside?
Being a food anthropologist, I find recipe histories fascinating.
Recipes—once called receipts—and cookbooks in general are really the gift of widespread literacy.
As more and more people learned to read and write, and they became more mobile, the desire to record and duplicate cherished family recipes expanded.
Early recipes contained a list of raw ingredients with no instructions.
They were meant to merely jump-start the cook’s memory of how to make a dish.
When instructions were added later on, they were initially vague and comparative in nature, as in “bake until done” or “add a chunk of butter the size of an egg.” Eventually, with the influence of cooks like Fannie Farmer, recipes became more detailed, providing exact measurements for all ingredients and precise cooking instructions with indicators, like “bake until golden brown and firm around the edges,” that left less room for error.
Inside the box is an assortment of recipes—some handwritten on loose papers and others on cards, some clipped from newspapers, and some typed.
Many of the dishes are likely from the Depression and World War II times.
They use the words “thrift,” “mock,” and “economical,” usually indicative of a time when people were concerned about food costs and dealing with rations.
I see a recipe for porcupine meatballs—meatballs made of ground beef and rice, meant to stretch ingredients when meat was scarce—and one for cabbage stew and applesauce cake.
There are recipes for egg salad and asparagus soup.
One yellowed paper contains a recipe for something called Lucy’s Victory Cake.
Was there a Lucy in the family? I’ve never heard the name mentioned before.
I also notice something strange about the recipe.
The amounts for everything—the flour, sugar, and eggs—are huge, much more than for a typical cake recipe.
It’s as if the recipe has been designed for catering purposes.
I wonder at what occasion this cake made an appearance in my great-great-grandmother’s life.
Christmas morning for a large family? Women’s social group luncheon?
As I slowly remove papers from the box and sort them into piles by type on the table, I soon discover a thin leather-bound notebook. My breath catches. It looks like a diary or journal, and it’s quite weathered. Could I have stumbled upon Rose’s inner thoughts? Her deepest hopes and dreams?
But when I crack the spine, I see it’s not a diary at all.
It’s some sort of ledger, with a list of names, dates, and room numbers, plus notes in the margin on food and bedding preferences.
Inside the front cover, in cursive, I see several dates.
The ink is smeared, but I can still make them out: May 1943–August 1945.
Thrilled to have found a primary source of this kind, I gently slip the ledger into a manila envelope to protect it—I know from working at the museum how quickly an artifact can get damaged in transit—and dash back downstairs, where I find Alice and Hannah back from fishing.
They are now sitting on the porch swing with glasses of lemonade, reading Stuart Little.
“She’s a bookworm,” Alice says, as I join them on the swing, falling in line with their rhythmic swaying. “Just like her mama.”
I kiss Hannah’s forehead. It’s hot and sweaty. She smells like grass and dirt and sunshine. I notice a dusting of powdered sugar on her chin. They must have discovered the Ebelskivers.
Before I have time to mention the ledger, Alice asks, “How did things go today?”
I tell them quickly about the baking class, and the three students from Denmark, Sweden, and Norway.
“Can I dig up more worms for fishing?” Hannah asks when I’m finished. “Alice says the fish will be biting again after dinner.”
“Of course,” I say. “But stay where we can see you.”
Hannah scoops up a metal pail and small garden spade from the edge of the porch, then marches down the steps, heading across the grass to the mud underneath the oak tree.
She squats to dig up worms. I realize how my daughter has transformed in the past twenty-four-plus hours.
She’s come alive here, I think. Just like Alice did while staying with Rose, all those years ago.
Were my early years here with Alice filled with equally rich moments?
“You know, she hasn’t asked for her iPad since we got here,” I note.
“All kids love nature. Before the world teaches them not to.” Alice points to the envelope still in my hand. “What have you got there?”
“Something pretty special. I found it upstairs in the box of recipes,” I say, slipping the ledger delicately from the envelope. I hand the thin booklet to her. “I think your grandmother Rose ran a boardinghouse here.”
Alice opens the booklet, then taps her index finger to the dates listed.
“This was during World War II. I think a lot of people opened their homes to boarders during that time. People needed affordable lodging, and it was a good source of income.” She shakes her head as she flips through the pages, as if she can’t believe her eyes.
“Rose certainly kept excellent records.”
I look over her shoulder, watching Alice study the piece of history in her hands.
“See the names of the boarders,” I say. “Clara Clark, Esther Monroe, Peggy Kelley, Sarah Rosen . . . and look, their hometowns and universities are listed too. They must have been college students. Women joined the labor movement during the war. I wonder if these women came to this area for work? And needed a safe place to stay? You know, like Rosie the Riveter.”
I picture the iconic poster of a woman showing off her bicep under a denim blue work shirt, her brown hair covered by a red and white-polka-dot bandanna, the words We Can Do It! above her image.
I can see the wheels in Alice’s brain spin as she looks away for a moment.
“A boardinghouse,” she repeats. “You know, I’ve found some items in storage over the years.
Two dining room tables, each with six matching chairs; three couches, two loveseats, and three reading chairs; fifteen coffee cups with saucers, fifteen dinner and dessert plates, fifteen sets of white twin sheets; and fifteen white towels. To be exact.”
“That’s an awful lot of couches and coffee cups and sheets and towels for a woman living by herself,” I say. “They must have been from the boardinghouse.”
Something clicks. Lucy’s Victory Cake. I tell Alice about the recipe, how it seemed like the ingredient amounts would result in a huge cake—or three or four smaller ones.
“Obviously, she had to feed a crowd,” Alice notes.
“But who is Lucy?” I press. “You said Alice had just the two sons, right? Albert Sr. and Hank? No daughter?”
“That’s right. I’m not aware of anyone named Lucy in the family.” Alice pauses. “Maybe she was one of the boarders? Maybe she’s listed in the ledger?”
We scour the book but can’t find the name.
I steal a peek at the carved wooden sign hanging above us beside the farmhouse door.
“Rosehill.” A tingle runs down my spine.
This house possesses such history. The people—Rose and her family but also these girls in the ledger—who once called this farmhouse home.
I am overcome by a sense of place and time.
“Alice, I’m so happy Rose left this house to you,” I say.
I watch Alice’s face crumple. She closes her eyes and tears fall.
“Alice, what is it?” I ask, holding my breath as I prepare for her answer.
She wipes her eyes. “I haven’t been totally honest with you, Maggie,” she says. “I asked you to come here for a reason.”
I was right. Alice invited me here to say goodbye. I quickly check on Hannah in the yard. She seems too far away to hear anything, too absorbed in her worms.
Before I can reply, Alice goes on. “I feel so ashamed. The truth is, I haven’t been a very good steward of Rose’s home. I’m going to lose the house and the farm come the fall.”
My mind quickly tries to make sense of what I just heard. “What? You’re going to lose the farm? How?”
She lets out a deep sigh. “I took a home equity loan to pay for the commercial kitchen, and I haven’t been able to make my loan payments. If I don’t pay back what I owe, plus interest and penalties, by October 31, they’re going to default on the loan. And I’ll lose all of this.”
My mind wrestles with this new information. I thought Alice was financially capable. She draws income from the commercial kitchen and runs a successful jam business. And she seems so assured.
“When were you going to tell me?” I ask.
“I wanted to tell you,” she starts, “but it’s not easy to admit. It makes me feel weak. Like a failure. I feel irresponsible.”
I take her hands and hold them between us.
“You have nothing to feel ashamed about. And this does not make you weak. Running an independent business in this very commercial world is hard. You took a financial risk building that kitchen—a space that benefits so many local artisans—and you just need more time to prove it was worth it.”
She smiles. “That’s the thing. These folks are competing with online conglomerates and grocery superstores and warehouses.
Local farms have been hit hard by drought and a terrible storm earlier this spring.
To be honest, they can’t always make their rent.
But if I revoke their leases, they can’t make their products, which means they can’t sell their products, which means they lose even more income.
I thought I could take the financial burden for them, for a little while at least. But with the adjustable rate on the mortgage and the current economy, unfortunately, I’ve gotten in over my head. ”
“Is that why you asked me here? To help you financially?”
She shakes her head. “I wanted you to have the chance to come back and experience this place before it was too late. I always dreamed you’d come back.
And I wanted you to stay, at least for a little while, and absorb the beauty of this farm as long as it was possible.
But I didn’t want you to come out of obligation or pity,” she explains.
“I wanted you to come back here for you, not me.”
“I am. You are me.” I pause. “And I want to help. I have some money put away.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” A dark cloud crosses her face. “Because even if I pay back what I owe, that’s really just a Band-Aid. I don’t have guaranteed income for future payments.”
I immediately think of Elena’s husband, Jim.
He’s a retired financial adviser. My boss is always saying how much her husband misses work, which was one of the reasons she decided to retire as well.
Jim is also a huge history buff. If I contact him, explain the situation, I bet he’d let me pick his brain, help me figure out if I can swing investing in Alice’s farm.
“We’ll figure it out. Together,” I promise to Alice, without mentioning my plan.
Alice turns the ledger in her hands, and a moment of silence passes between us. I change the subject for now.
“Who would know more about this boardinghouse?” I look in the distance at the nearby farms. “Is it possible any of your neighbors know why these girls were staying here?”
Alice shakes her head. “I can ask, but it’s doubtful. By the time I came to live here in the ’70s, it was all new families. The original farmers probably got too old, and their children didn’t want to run the family businesses. Farming isn’t easy or lucrative.”
My fingers instinctively reach for my phone or laptop, anything where I could quickly type into a search engine and produce an immediate answer.
At work, I usually do my initial, broad research online, then acquire the necessary books and articles to read more deeply.
But as Alice promised in her letter, she has no internet service and her cell reception is spotty.
Waiting for answers feels like both a challenge and a reward.
It’s rare to sit with mystery in the modern world.
Delayed gratification.
For now, I take a deep breath of country air and run my hand along the white wood siding behind the porch swing, my fingertips catching on its weathered texture.
If only these walls could talk.