Chapter 30 #2
“I’m not surprised,” Ruth explains. “I’ve gathered he doesn’t like attention, the media.
I don’t either. But he’s been able to stay out of it better than me.
I feel obligated to participate in all that—mostly for my fans, my publicists are pretty persistent too—but he doesn’t seem to have that same hang-up.
With Christian, it’s about the food. Plain and simple.
No fanfare. He could really be in the spotlight.
His lack of fame—for instance, you not having heard of him—is his doing.
If he’d let the foodie world control his popularity, he’d be one step down from James Beard. ”
We leave Hannah and Alice to finish up the vases and head upstairs, where I show Ruth her room. “There’s fresh linens,” I say. “And a basket of snacks and water next to your bed here and some toiletries in the bathroom. Some books and magazines. A candle.”
“This is simply darling, Maggie,” she says, gesturing to the bedside table, where I also placed a vase of fresh flowers, similar to the bouquets Alice and Hannah are making. “I feel like I’m in a fine B & B.”
I smile. “So about tonight,” I start, “I’ll run through a quick outline with you now, and then give you some time to settle in, have some tea, relax.”
“Sounds perfect.”
I detail the night’s events, culminating with the bonfire.
“A bonfire? How lovely,” she says.
“It’s tradition. The major festivals in Scandinavia all have them. They believed the fire warded off evil spirits. But it’s really all about celebrating life and love.”
“Life and love.” Ruth seems to ponder this. “Two of my favorite things.”
I want to pry—to ask her if she’s dating, has someone special in her life—but it doesn’t feel like the right moment.
“Me too,” I say instead.
When I return, the commercial kitchen is in a state of organized chaos, like any back-of-the-house before a major event. Lots of moving parts, a sense of urgency, a rhythmic hum, pivoting action. All hands on deck.
I’m surprised to see Christian making what look to be raspberry caves.
It’s a simple thumbprint, jam-filled cookie—a popular Swedish treat—and so it somehow feels like watching Julia Child make a box of mac and cheese.
Brady should have assigned him something more complicated.
But when I look at Christian’s face—the concentrated joy evident in his relaxed smile and soft, focused eyes—I realize I may be the only one who thinks his talents are being underutilized.
Christian looks up and meets my eye, then waves me over.
Grabbing an apron on my way, I meet him at the bench.
“Would you like to help me with the hallongrottor?” he asks.
“Hallongrottor,” I repeat. “Raspberry caves. Absolutely. Looks like you already made the dough. Did you use the industrial mixer?” I ask, pointing to the other side of the kitchen.
He raises his hands. “These are the only mixers I need.”
“Really? You mixed the dough by hand? Doesn’t that melt the butter too much? From the heat of your hands?”
“That’s exactly why I use my hands.” He raises a finger into the air.
“We don’t want cold butter like we might for pie dough or biscuits or scones.
We want room temperature, even warm, spreadable butter.
We want this dough soft and pliable. We want to be able to shape it, and we don’t want it to crack. ”
And this is why we have Christian Knudsen making the raspberry caves.
“That’s amazing,” I say. “A small detail that makes a huge difference. We’re lucky to have you.”
He shrugs, unable to fully receive the compliment. “I’m not any smarter or more skilled than other bakers. I just have a lot of experience. And most importantly, I’ve learned from that experience.”
I nod. “What can I do?”
“We’re going to scoop and roll the cookies into balls, then put them into these muffin tins.”
I see the muffin tins, each lined with adorable paper cupcake liners boasting a raspberry design. “Do the muffin tins keep them from spreading too much?”
“That’s right. They keep their shape when baking.”
“So we’ll roll them all out and then go back and place the indentation?”
He shakes his head. “Normally, that would be the most efficient way. Keep doing the same action instead of switching between actions. But in this case, it’s really important that we make the thumbprint immediately. Otherwise, the dough will dry and the cookies could crack.”
“That makes sense. So roll, then imprint?”
“Exactly. I’ll roll, and you make the indentation with your thumb.”
“Should I use a tool instead?” I ask, considering how the cookies will look on the display table. “So they look uniform?”
“To be honest, I find uniform a bit boring. I like the oblong shape of the thumb. These are thumbprint cookies, after all.”
I find his relaxed approach refreshing. “You’re the boss,” I say.
We work side by side in rhythm. It’s easy but meditative. We must look so productive, Katrine comes by with her phone and snaps a few action shots.
“For social media,” she explains. “To hype the event.”
I notice Katrine seems to pause and stare at her phone screen.
“Did they come out alright?” I ask. “Are my eyes closed?”
She looks up at the two of us and smiles. “Nope. They’re perfect,” she says, before moving on to the next station.
After a few minutes, Christian and I resume chatting as we work. He asks me about why I came to St. John’s Ferry, how I came to put on this fundraising event. He even asks about Brady.
“He seems very fond of you,” Christian says.
I smile, but act surprised. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s looked over this way a number of times since you walked into the kitchen,” he notes. “I doubt he’s looking at me.”
I laugh. “He could be. He thinks the world of your work.”
Christian shakes his head. “No, no. I can tell. It’s you he’s watching. He really cares for you. You’ve grown close recently?”
Close. Yes, we are close. I think back to last night.
How natural it felt being in his arms. I always imagined the first night with a man after Sean would feel off, like the first time using your arm after getting a cast removed.
I thought it would be clumsy, clunky. But it felt normal, as if I’d been resting my head on his shoulder my whole life.
“I really like him,” I say, surprised to be telling this man I just met about my feelings for Brady.
“Good. Life’s too short to spend time with someone you don’t like.”
Alice and Hannah peek their heads in to check on preparations. Hannah rushes to me, throwing her arms around my waist. Alice follows behind.
“She said she missed you,” Alice explains.
Moments like this remind me that every time Hannah fights for her autonomy, there is an opposite reaction, a reattachment.
She often wants to venture out on her own, but always comes back to ground herself again.
It’s the push and pull of the parent-child relationship that I assume will continue through her high school years, and maybe even college.
We haven’t spent much time together the last few days because of the dinner.
After all this is over, we need to reconnect. We should do something special.
“Who is this young lady?” Christian asks.
“This is my daughter, Hannah,” I say.
Hannah still has her arms around me but looks over at him. He crouches down to her level—he’s easily six four, so not an easy feat.
“Hello, Hannah. I’m Christian.”
“Are you a chef?” she asks, as ignorant of his fame as I had been.
“I’d like to think so. But, to be honest, more of a baker.”
Hannah spots the cookies we’ve begun making. “What are those?”
“Raspberry caves,” he tells her. “Would you like to help?”
She releases her grip from my waist. “Yes, please.”
“Good. You see those little holes we’re putting in the center of the cookies? Those are the caves. They’ll be filled with the most delicious raspberry jam—jam your Aunt Alice made. You can help make those holes with your thumb.”
I watch Hannah lift her thumb.
But her thumb is too small, I think. Her imprint won’t match the others in size or depth or shape. And these aren’t just cookies for a family holiday. These are for display purposes too. They have to taste good, but they also have to look good.
Before I can say anything, Christian puts his thumb next to hers. “Your thumb is smaller than mine,” he notes. “So you’ll need to use your thumb twice.”
“Twice?” she asks quizzically.
He takes her hand and shows her the movement. “Yes, this way.” He pushes her thumb into the cookie. “And then this way,” he adds, turning her finger forty-five degrees in the other direction before pressing it into the dough.
Hannah pulls her thumb back and smiles. “It’s a heart!” she says.
“And think how pretty that will be when filled with raspberry jam,” he says.
“A red heart!” she exclaims.
“That’s right. These will be the extra-special cookies on the table. Not everyone will get one. They will be rare. In fact, only the people who notice the heart will take one. And that’s why you’re here. To make the special cookies for people who need a little love in their lives.”
She smiles. “Okay, but first I have to wash my hands,” she announces before running to the sink, with Alice in tow.
“You’ve trained her well,” he says to me.
“Thank you,” I say. “For including her. It’s hard to have important work to do and also be flexible with kids.”
“Parenthood is hard,” he says.
“Do you have children?” I ask.
He pauses. “Yes,” he says hesitantly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He shakes his head. “Please don’t apologize.”
We work silently for a beat.
“I wasn’t a good father to her,” he finally says. “But I’m trying to be now.”
I think back to what Brady said to me, when I told him Alice and I hadn’t been in touch until recently.
“Well, now is all that matters,” I say.