Chapter 27
In the weeks before the farm-to-table dinner, time moves both swiftly and slowly.
The days are long, the nights short. We juggle the demands of putting on the event with running Brady’s baking camp.
And the two often intersect as his students take on challenges from sourcing food to prepping ingredients.
I balance it all while also working remotely, often rushing back to the farmhouse after a session so I can clock back in.
By the end of the day, my brain feels mushy; working on a computer for so long makes my eyes bleary and my head feel like it’s filled with helium.
But reading with Hannah helps counteract the sensation.
Of course, her skills have improved so much this summer; she’s the one reading to me.
Before the exhibit opened, I was so busy, I didn’t have the bandwidth to even sit down with her most nights.
But now, our daily thirty minutes of story time is what restores me.
And fortunately, I don’t have to raise Hannah alone anymore.
Without Sean, I was the center of Hannah’s universe, the parent who cleaned and bandaged her skinned knee one day, and the next, taught her how to do magic tricks with a deck of cards; I was the parent who reviewed her math homework packets and enforced tooth brushing, but who also slept in twenty-minute intervals by her side when she had a tummy virus.
Now, while I’m playing sous-chef, Alice runs her own version of a summer camp, blending activities to keep both Hannah’s brain and body healthy, from nature hikes focused on animal habitats and leaf recognition to hand-eye hobbies like crocheting and puzzles.
After baking class, the Scandi Trio takes over, enriching Hannah’s afternoon with baking tutorials, hair braiding, and watercolor painting.
By dinnertime—we don’t eat lunch together most days, but a family meal is the rule every night—Hannah is bursting at the seams to share her day.
And I revel in the joy and comfort of these other adults also positively influencing her life.
It takes a village.
During all this, when we have time, Alice and I also continue reading Rose’s letters, each drawing a clearer picture of her pain at the loss of Hank and Esther, her growing attachment to Lucy, the camaraderie of the WLA farmerettes, and ultimately, Rose’s courage to persevere.
There are many letters, and because we are reading them in chronological order, we still haven’t figured out what happened to Lucy, what Peggy meant that day when she said He took her.
And we still can’t bring ourselves to open Lucy’s Christmas gift.
Not yet. Every time I think about ripping the paper off, something stops me. It never feels right.
Often, during these chaotic weeks, when I’m in the throes of kitchen work, from Brady’s camp to organizing details of the farm-to-table dinner, I think back to Alice’s suggestion of selling my scones at the farmers market. I can’t help but smile.
We had no idea how immersed in food my life would soon become.
As the dinner date nears, I try to stay calm.
I know it’s normal to panic before a major event—especially one requiring people to show up in large numbers, especially with Alice’s farm on the line.
The enthusiasm of the early brainstorming days, always full of possibilities, is replaced with “What if?” worries.
I’d been through this many times at the museum; the day an exhibit opens is one of the most nail-biting occasions for a curator.
It’s a point of no return. Will people come? Will they like it?
It’s the epitome of vulnerability.
While everything seems to be going according to plan, there’s a lot left to chance.
The weather is fine today, but in five days’ time, a summer storm could pummel the Midwest, causing people to cancel on the dinner or have to remain in the barn.
It could ruin the outdoorsy atmosphere of our event.
Or our refrigerators and freezers could putter out and leave us without safe food storage to feed hundreds of people.
While I thought I’d panic-planned for all scenarios, something else surprises us.
“Art Cavanaugh isn’t coming on Saturday,” Brady announces at breakfast.
“But he’s our celebrity guest,” Alice notes from her post at the stove, where she prepares a Dutch baby pancake to serve the crowd.
“And we’ve advertised that he’ll be here,” Katrine chimes in.
“Why can’t he come?” I ask.
Brady shrugs. “Something about another last-minute opportunity he couldn’t refuse.”
“But he committed to our event,” Katrine argues. “He gave his word.”
“He said one of the other food editors would come,” Brady offers.
“But none of them are as famous,” Katrine asserts. “None of them have a cookbook. None of them have a TV show about food.” She begins pacing the kitchen floor.
“Who else could we get?” Brady asks, throwing his hands in the air. His hand has healed and the bandage is now gone. “Especially on such short notice?”
The room falls silent as we pull out drawers in our mental file cabinets, frantically searching for a person, a name, as big as Art Cavanaugh.
Or better yet, bigger. And not just someone, but someone one of us has a connection to, an association worthy of a short-notice favor of this kind.
Being a museum curator, almost everyone I exhibit is dead. They are literally history. Except one.
Ruth Rivers.
Would she do it?
My heart says yes. This event is everything Ruth Rivers is about.
While she enjoys international fame and is based in Los Angeles, her Midwest roots run strong.
It’s part of her appeal: her Minnesotan “dontchaknow” accent, even after twenty-five years in California; her humble ways, despite being the premiere chef and baker of Hollywood, catering award-show events and the Instagram-worthy birthday parties of movie stars’ children.
But can she do it?
Probably not. She lives thousands of miles away and follows an impossible schedule, between cookbook events, TV show tapings, and running her own whole grain–based bakery in LA.
I remember there was only one night we could book her for the museum exhibit, and we scheduled that a year in advance.
How could she possibly come to St. John’s Ferry, Wisconsin, in five days’ time?
Impossible.
But shouldn’t I at least try?
Katrine is right. It’s a bit embarrassing to promise Art Cavanaugh and then not deliver. But guests would understand if we got someone even better. And Ruth Rivers is that someone. She blows Art Cavanaugh out of the water.
“What about Ruth Rivers?” I say into the silence.
Katrine’s eyes bulge. “You know Ruth Rivers?”
“Kind of. I interviewed her for a museum exhibit and met her last month at the opening. She is so down-to-earth.”
“I know. I love her. I follow her on social media,” Katrine says with newfound energy. “Oh my god! Wait a minute! She’s here.”
The three of us look at her quizzically.
“What do you mean?” Brady asks.
“She’s here.” Katrine points to the floor. “In the Midwest.” She grabs her phone and scurries to pull information up on the screen. “She just posted yesterday that she was taking a much-needed break back home. And there was a picture of some old flour mill in Minneapolis.”
“The Mill City Museum,” Brady blurts.
“Right, so she isn’t far away,” Katrine notes. “A couple hours’ drive. She’s on vacation, I think.”
A chill runs down my spine. What are the odds that Ruth Rivers is only a two-hour drive away and on a break from her rigorous schedule just when we need her most? It’s almost too good to be true. I try to keep my expectations in check. I still have to ask her, and she still has to say yes.
“Do you have her publicist’s contact info?” Brady asks me.
“Better,” I say. “I have her cell phone number. She called me when I interviewed her. I was never planning on using it again. But . . .”
The three of them stare at me, willing me to move.
“Well, what are you doing sitting here talking to us?” Alice asks.
In the hours after my phone call with Ruth Rivers, I move about in a sort of dreamlike daze.
I can’t believe I had the nerve to call the Ruth Rivers and ask her to attend the event at Alice’s farm, in the tiny nobody’s-ever-heard-of-it town of St. John’s Ferry.
And more so, I can’t believe she said yes.
Quickly, and without much begging on my part.
“Maggie, I’ll be there,” she said.
And while this was supposed to defuse our anxiety, instead it upped the ante and tripled the pressure.
Now we aren’t just putting on a dinner to save a farm.
We’re putting on a dinner worthy of Ruth Rivers, worthy of people’s expectations of a Ruth Rivers event.
My exhibit opening had been catered by a renowned chef in Chicago.
I hadn’t had to worry about the food at all that night.
This time, the food is everything.
On the other hand, Katrine’s job, working with members of the village council on publicizing the event, couldn’t be easier. All they have to do is inform the media of Ruth Rivers’s appearance. Her name would do the rest.
And that’s exactly what happens. Soon, the Chicago, Minneapolis, and Milwaukee news stations commit to covering our dinner. And in just a day, the remaining tickets sell out, with a waiting list of hundreds, prompting us to develop an online donation site.
This small-town event—to celebrate Midsommar, to highlight the hard work of local food artisans, to honor the dying breed of Midwestern farms, specifically Alice’s farm—is now bigger than anyone could have imagined.
The news even travels to California, to my mother, who calls my cell the very next day.
“When were you going to tell me about this event you’ve been planning?” she asks.
“I already did,” I say. We talked about it two weeks ago when I called to check in. But I remember hearing computer keys clicking in the background. She was only half listening while answering emails.
“No, you said you were putting on a dinner,” she retorts. “I thought it was some Midwest-community-potluck-in-the-church-basement kind of thing. But this is a major event. I mean, Ruth Rivers! That’s amazing!”
My mother obviously did not remember that Ruth Rivers was featured in my museum exhibit, or that she actually attended the opening.
“I heard your event is already sold out,” she goes on. “Otherwise, I’d be there.”
A twinge of guilt zaps my stomach. I hadn’t considered asking my mother to attend.
I didn’t think she’d want to travel all the way to Wisconsin.
I didn’t think she’d enjoy it. To her, eating was just something you had to do each day.
She didn’t seem to derive much pleasure from food and, therefore, got no delight from looking at food, talking about food, or preparing it.
I thought she’d be too busy. But people can surprise you.
“Oh, well, Mom, you’re family,” I quickly say. “If you want to come, I can still get you a ticket. No problem.”
“Really? Oh, that’s nice of you.” A pause. “Though really, I shouldn’t. My schedule is tight, and I have my summer school classes. It’s such short notice. Had I known about it earlier.”
You did know about it earlier. I bite my tongue.
“Anyway, congratulations. I’m so proud of you. Making the news!”
There is more I could tell her. I could explain how the past few weeks have felt more like a real summer than I’ve had in decades, the kind of summer I used to have when I was a kid.
Summers of great physical and emotional and spiritual change, summers that marked the end of one school year and the beginning of the next. Transformational.
I could tell her that of all the jobs I’ve ever had, this one—simultaneously putting on this event and serving as Brady’s camp sous-chef—has been my favorite, and I don’t want it to end.
The work is constant and encompassing and challenging, but I love it.
Even after a long day, when I go to bed with a sore back and achy feet, I wake the next morning ready to tackle it all again.
I have never felt this engaged with my work before.
I could tell her about Brady, that I am falling in love with him, and that it is the most exhilarating and scary feeling, all at once.
I could tell her that sometimes, a lot of the time lately, I fantasize about not going back to Chicago at all, about staying here, living this life every day.
But I don’t tell her any of these things. They feel like secrets, meant only for someone who can understand them. And while my mother fed me, clothed me, and paid for my education, something always seemed to be missing from our conversations.
A bad connection, garbled with static.