Chapter 31 #2
“We live in an ever-changing world. And we’ve come far.
Medical advancements. Technology. Bigger and better.
And that’s inevitable. But in the midst of all of that change, we need something to hold on to, something to ground us.
To call us home. For me, beyond my grandparents’ farm, that’s always been food.
It’s how I count my days. After decades working in this industry, I can tell you it’s not an industry without change, without struggle.
Sometimes, it’s downright challenging. But I believe it will always endure.
Because food is both a basic need and a luxury.
It fills our stomachs but also feeds our souls.
“Yes, tonight is about Rosehill. It’s about saving one of America’s farms, a slice of history. It’s also about food. I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to enjoy that delectable menu just described to us. But as I stand here tonight, I see in all of your faces what tonight is really about.”
She pauses, and I feel everyone hanging on her words.
“Hope,” she finally says. “We promise to be formidable in the face of challenge and change. Tonight is about having the courage to think better times are ahead. It’s about doing something to assure that outcome.
And every single one of you has helped make that happen.
In coming here tonight, you’ve chosen to contribute to your community, to maintain history, to make connections with others, and yes, to eat some absolutely amazing food.
So let’s pat ourselves on the back for a job well done and feast! ”
The applause is cacophonous in the high-roofed barn and doesn’t die down quickly.
Finally, as the salads are brought to the tables—the bright red of the berries and beets contrasting with the creamy goat cheese—the diners begin to make small talk.
As the noise dies down to murmurs, I sit quietly, pondering Ruth Rivers’s speech.
It was, in some respects, a prayer before eating.
And perhaps a mantra for this entire trip to St. John’s Ferry, which turned out to be so much more than I could have ever imagined.
As I clink glasses with Brady, Alice, and Hannah, I feel Ruth’s sentiment in my bones.
Things are good now.
But even better times are ahead.
As the evening dies down, I find my mother at the dessert table, a brownie and several hallongrottor in hand.
“Maggie, everything is absolutely delicious,” she says. “I can’t stop myself.”
I smile. “Thanks. I just can’t believe you’re here, Mom. I know it’s not an easy trip from LA.” The closest major airport is in Minneapolis, two hours away. Coming here likely required a layover and a rental car.
“It wasn’t, but I’m glad I came,” she says, taking a bite of a raspberry cave.
“So the dinner was worth the trip?”
“Yes. But I didn’t mean the food. Seeing you, this.
” She gestures all around. “It’s remarkable what you’ve accomplished.
You have a real gift for all this. For cooking, hosting, bringing people together.
You always have.” She pauses. “I didn’t understand when you were a kid, and I know I wasn’t supportive when I should have been.
I regret that. I guess what I’m trying to say is .
. . I’m sorry. Truth is, I’ve never seen you happier. ”
While I didn’t think I needed it, her apology and approval of my current lifestyle—everything I’ve put my heart and soul into in the past month—feels like a blessing. Permission.
“These are to die for,” she adds, raising one of the raspberry cookies from her plate.
“Hannah actually helped make those,” I tell her. “This Scandinavian baker came to help us at the last minute, and those were one of his contributions.”
I look for Christian in the crowd, hoping he’s finally come out of the kitchen to enjoy the event, but I don’t spot him. Instead, the Scandi Trio approaches; their huge grins signal they have some kind of news to share.
“Maggie, Diane, you won’t believe it!” Johanna blurts. “We’re going viral!”
“Katrine posted the pictures online,” Nora adds. “And the social media world is oohing and aahing about the food. They’re also donating to save Alice’s farm.”
“Here, see for yourself,” Katrine insists, handing me her phone.
My mother looks over my shoulder as I scroll through the photos.
They’re stunning. Katrine is a natural photographer, capturing just the right angle, the best lighting.
In some photos, the food is in focus, while the background is blurred.
In others, everything seems saturated in sunshine.
It’s all a feast for the eyes, the kinds of images I’ve seen posted by food celebrities.
“Great job, Katrine,” I tell her, still swiping through the photos.
I land on the picture of Christian and me in matching aprons.
Our hands are deeply engaged in the work.
But for just that moment, we looked up at Katrine.
We have the same expression on our faces, like we’re caught off guard but embracing the distraction.
It’s a delightful photograph, playful and raw.
“Oh, I love this one,” I say.
“Who is that?” my mother asks, pointing at the photo. Her blunt tone harkens back to my childhood, the I’m not in the mood for games voice.
“Christian Knudsen,” I explain. “He’s the Scandinavian baker I was just telling you about, the one who made the raspberry caves.” I look for him again in the crowd. “I was going to introduce you.”
My mother takes Katrine’s phone from me and stares at the photo; her eyes freeze, then flit. She looks visibly deflated, her wrinkles piled like a shar-pei.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“Yes, yes, fine.” She pushes the phone back into my hands. “But I do think I’ve had one too many of these sweets. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head back to the house for a little bit.”
She hurries away, practically stuffing her half-full dessert plate into Nora’s empty hands. I just stand there, shell-shocked.
“What was that about?” Katrine asks.
I still hold Katrine’s phone and look back at the screen, at the photo of me with Christian.
“She looked like she’d seen a ghost,” Johanna says.
I study the photo, taking in each of our features. Christian’s eyes, my eyes. His nose, my nose. His lips, my lips. His chin and jawline, mine. We look alike. Eerily alike, actually. Is it just the photo? The way the light hits us?
“I saw it too,” Katrine says.
“What?” I ask.
“The resemblance.”
Yes, Katrine had paused to look at the photo right after she took it.
“Wow. Yeah,” Nora says, also eyeing the photo. “You could be father and daughter.”
We could. And yet, that’s absurd. Christian couldn’t possibly be my father. But as soon as that thought lands, my brain refires.
He’s the right age, about the same age as my mother.
He’s European.
Christian.
Chris.
“I wasn’t a good father to her,” he’d told me earlier. “But I’m trying to be now.”
But the most obvious clue? The way my mother just behaved. Johanna was right. She did look like she’d seen a ghost.
A ghost from her past.