“Point of view is important,” I said, setting down my peeler. He was closer than I expected and I found myself staring up into the incredible green eyes, bright and curious. “So what did you bring me today?”
Without taking his eyes from mine, he thumped lightly on the stack of boxes. “Lettuce—a few different kinds, including a new blush variety. Big mess of fennel and garlic bulbs. Leeks, celery, and a big fat rutabaga. And a special treat, the first strawberries.” He lifted a small paper bag from the top of the pile, opened the top, and I peered inside. Nestled at the bottom were a handful of plump strawberries, pinky red and speckled with fragrant green leaves.
“Mmm.” I breathed in. “That smells like summer.”
“Doesn’t it?” he answered, pulling out one of the tiny fruits. “It’s a new variety we’re trying this year—brown sugar strawberries. A low yield so far, but it’s about the sweetest strawberry I’ve ever tasted.”
“Yeah?” It looked the same as every other one I’d ever seen.
“Go on. Try it,” he said, offering me the strawberry.
“I don’t take candy from strangers.”
“It’s not candy, and we’re not strangers. We painted together.”
“And fell down a few times.”
“Exactly,” he nodded, holding it out once more. “Put this in your mouth.”
“That’s exactly what a stranger might say,” I said, but opened up.
He dropped it onto my tongue, his eyes crinkling when I let out the tiniest sigh.
“That’s a great fucking strawberry.”
“I like to think so,” he replied. We looked at each other exactly two seconds longer than was necessary, then moved on.
“So what’s with all the walnuts?” I asked, looking at the big basket.
“There’s an old grove on the property, and we’re always rolling in them. So I started adding them to the foodshare, and people love them.”
Suddenly inspired, I said, “I’ll make a black walnut cake! I haven’t made one in ages, and I could make a few, based on how many nuts you’ve brought me.”
“I feel like so many of our conversations have been nut based,” he said.
I tilted my head sideways, my thoughts drawn back from visions of thick frosting to the very handsome farmer in front of me. “Agreed. How can we change that?”
“You wanna come see my farm?”
“Hell yes. Should I bring some walnut cake?”
He nodded, and I made him feed me another strawberry.
Summer lovin’, happened so fast . . .
After the lunch shift, I got out some cake pans and went to work. I’d found the recipe in an old church cookbook that I came across at a flea market when I was in school. I frequented them and garage sales for exactly this kind of thing—especially old cookbooks from bake sales and church socials. Spiral bound and usually well used, they contained recipes that stood the test of time. Meat loaf, chicken and dumplings, brisket—they were still around for a reason. But I particularly loved the desserts, especially the cakes. Good old-fashioned cakes like triple coconut. Hummingbird. Spice. Black walnut.
I’d gone straight to the black walnut cake recipe in this cookbook because it was on the most worn-out page. The pages with the spatters and the spoon rest stains were the ones used most often, so you knew they’d be good. And this one was no exception. Given to the First Methodist Church cookbook by a Mrs. Myra Oglesby of Latrobe, Pennsylvania, this black walnut recipe was “in my family for generations. My mother used walnuts from her mother’s trees, picked by hand and shelled by the fire.”
I loved this idea. I loved that the cookbook had grease stains and chocolate speckles throughout. I loved that someone a hundred years ago sat by a fire and shelled walnuts. In much the same way a quilt could tell a story, so could a recipe. You could approach an old recipe like a detective and whittle out clues about the people who had written it. Did a recipe call for shortening or butter? Margarine or oleo? The term oleo was used only by people of a certain age, so I could often date the recipe based on this one word. Occasionally, I’d get very lucky and find an old recipe box that contained handwritten index cards, and I’d marvel over the penmanship. People used to write! In cursive! On purpose!
And how charming, albeit frustrating, to find that some of these handwritten recipe cards included measurements only the family would understand. “Two spoonfuls of vanilla using the old blue enameled spoon.” “Three dashes of vinegar from the green glass cruet.” “Add salt till Uncle Elmer’s face pinches.”
The black walnut cake was a labor of love for Mrs. Myra Oglesby, and for anyone who used her recipe to bake for their family and friends. Of all the recipes I’d come across, this one was my favorite. Thick, rich, stacked high with three layers, and flecked with walnuts and cinnamon. The surprise was the slight tang from a cup of buttermilk, and the flecks of coconut that were spread throughout the cake. But the highlight? Delectable cream cheese frosting, whipped fluffy with egg whites and creamy butter.
As I pressed the final touch of chopped walnuts onto the outside edge of the cakes, I glanced out the diner’s big front window and saw that it was almost dark. Where had the time gone? I quickly hurried the cakes into the old-fashioned glass display case by the cash register, where the desserts had lived since the thirties, and turned off the lights. Letting myself out the front door and into the soft early summer evening, I stopped, suddenly overcome by how truly beautiful my hometown was. Had I been taking it for granted all these years?