The City Baker's Guide to Country Living: A Novel - Couverture souple

Miller, Louise

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 1101981210 ISBN 13 : 9781101981214

Editeur : Penguin Publishing Group, 2017

Synopsis

"Mix in one part Diane Mott ­Davidson's delightful culinary adventures with several tablespoons of Jan Karon's country living and quirky characters, bake at 350 degrees for one rich and warm romance." --Library JournalA full-hearted novel about a big-city baker who discovers the true meaning of home-and that sometimes the best things are found when you didn't even know you were looking When Olivia Rawlings-pastry chef extraordinaire for an exclusive Boston dinner club-sets not just her flambéed dessert but the entire building alight, she escapes to the most comforting place she can think of-the idyllic town of Guthrie, Vermont, home of Bag Balm, the country's longest-running contra dance, and her best friend Hannah. But the getaway turns into something more lasting when Margaret Hurley, the cantankerous, sweater-set-wearing owner of the Sugar Maple Inn, offers Livvy a job. Broke and knowing that her days at the club are numbered, Livvy accepts. Livvy moves with her larger-than-life, uberenthusiastic dog, Salty, into a sugarhouse on the inn's property and begins creating her mouthwatering desserts for the residents of Guthrie. She soon uncovers the real reason she has been hired-to help Margaret reclaim the inn's blue ribbon status at the annual county fair apple pie contest.   With the joys of a fragrant kitchen, the sound of banjos and fiddles being tuned in a barn, and the crisp scent of the orchard just outside the front door, Livvy soon finds herself immersed in small town life. And when she meets Martin McCracken, the Guthrie native who has returned from Seattle to tend his ailing father, Livvy  comes to understand that she may not be as alone in this world as she once thought.   But then another new arrival takes the community by surprise, and Livvy must decide whether to do what she does best and flee-or stay and finally discover what it means to belong. Olivia Rawlings may finally find out that the l[...]

A propos du livre

Extrait :

***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected copy proof***

Copyright © 2016 Louise Miller

Chapter One

September

The night I lit the Emerson Club on fire had been perfect for making meringue. I had been worrying about the humidity all week, but that night dry, cool air drifted in through an open window. It was the 150th anniversary of the club, and Jameson Whitaker, the club’s president, had requested pistachio baked Alaska for the occasion. Since he asked while he was still lying on top of me, under the Italian linen sheets of bedroom 8, I agreed to it—even though I was fairly certain that baked Alaska would not have been on the menu in 1873. But Jamie was a sucker for a spectacle, and his favorite thing on earth was pistachio ice cream, which his wife wouldn’t let him eat at home.

I added sugar to the egg whites, a spoonful at a time. As they whipped up into a glossy cloud of white, I leaned a soft hip against my butcher-block worktable and surveyed the kitchen. Now, I’ve wielded my rolling pin in trendy city restaurants, macrobiotic catering companies, and hotels both grand and not so grand. You would think a Boston Brahmin private club like the Emerson, with its dim lights, starched linen, and brass-studded leather chairs, would have a deluxe kitchen. But no matter what the dining room (or what we in the business call the front of the house) looks like—even if we’re talking duct-taped Naugahyde benches hugging tin-rimmed Formica tables—the back of the house, the kitchen, is always the same: a sea of stainless steel. Tables, bowls, freezer all gleaming in a cold gray. Whisks and spoons hanging in orderly rows. A mixer with a hook the size of my arm bent to beat bread dough. It’s comforting. No matter how many times I changed jobs, I could always count on the kitchen: the order, the predictability, everything familiar and in its place.

I was swirling the last slope of meringue across the layers of ice cream and cake when I heard the champagne corks pop in the neighboring Jefferson Room. Glen, the GM, sprinted into the kitchen.

“Almost ready, chef?”

I held out my sticky fingers. “Hand me that blowtorch.” The blue flame swept across the meringue, leaving a burned trail of sugar in its wake.

A swell of baritone voices thundered through the swinging door, pounding the Emerson Club anthem into the kitchen.

“That’s our cue,” Glen said.

I ran my fingers through my freshly dyed curls. I had gone with purple this week. Manic Panic Electric Amethyst, to be exact. Not historically accurate for a chef in the nineteenth century, but it’s not like I was a guest.

With my thumb across the lip of the bottle, I doused the confection with 150-proofrum and hoisted up the tray. “Light me on fire.”

Glen lit a match and carefully set the flame to the pool of rum in the hollowed-out eggshell tucked into the top. In a flash, the flame caught hold and spread across the waves of meringue. Glen raced in front of me, holding open the doors. I stepped into the room to the last notes of the anthem. The crowd burst into applause.

The tray must have weighed forty pounds. Silver is heavy, and they don’t call it pound cake for nothing, never mind the ten gallons of pistachio ice cream. But I stretched my mouth wide into a smile and walked about the room, squeezing between the closely set tables and standing with the members as they snapped pictures. The flames were dying down but not quite out. Jamie stood at the back of the room, by the floor-length windows, his arm wrapped tightly around his wife’s waist. Their children were by their side, miniatures of their parents, one in a dark suit, the other in a crinoline dress. A light sweat broke out across my brow. How strange that the flames were getting smaller but I was growing hotter by the second. The room was crowded. Members were packed in small groups on every inch of carpet. Somewhere, I knew Glen was counting heads and mumbling to himself about maximum capacity. I elbowed my way through, my biceps straining as I carried the tray above my head, trying to avoid catching anyone’s gown on fire. The club treasurer put his arm around my waist, his palm resting lower on my hip than was respectable. “One for the newsletter,” he said. My smile widened. I tightened my grip on the tray. Jamie looked over at me then, his eyes vacant, skimming over and then past me. He whispered in his wife’s ear. She laughed, glancing in my direction. It was the last thing I saw before the tray slipped from my fingers and hit the floor.

After the abrupt end of my shift, I stopped by my apartment just long enough to stuff some clothes into a canvas bag and pickup Salty, my chunky Irish wolfhound mix. I drove north for three hours, fueled by the desire to be called “hon,” blasting the heater to dry my sprinkler-soaked hair, which was sticking to the back of my neck like seaweed. Salty, who just barely fit in the backseat, pressed his cold nose to my ear and sniffed. The scent of burned velvet clung to my skin. A slow-motion video of those last moments in the Jefferson Room played over and over in my head. A tablecloth had caught fire first. It might not have been so bad if it hadn’t been the tablecloth under the four-foot ice sculpture of a squirrel sitting upright with an acorn in its outstretched paw. The flames caused the squirrel to melt rapidly. When its arm snapped off, the sculpture tipped over, taking the table with it. A wave of oysters, clams, and shrimp flew into the panicked crowd before hitting the floor. The flames caught the edge of one of the antique velvet curtains, which ignited like flambéed cherries. And that’s when the sprinkler system kicked in.

At the sign for exit 17, I pulled off the highway and into the glowing parking lot of the F& G truck stop. Inside, I lingered by the hostess stand, watching dozens of pies rotate in their glass display case: sweet potato, maple walnut, banana cream. A waitress in a pastel uniform seated me in a corner booth away from a table of rowdy truckers, but even from across the room their gruff laughter felt comforting. My dad would bring me to the F&G for lunch whenever he let me tag along on his delivery route from Boston to the Canadian border—mostly just on school vacations, or if I needed a mental-health day. The last time I had been there with him was to celebrate having passed my driver’s exam. I leaned my head back against the booth, staring at the tractor-trailer wallpaper, yellow with grease, age, and smoke.

Half an hour later, I forked the last piece of pie into my mouth, chocolate pudding thick on my tongue. The waitress refilled my coffee mug and grabbed my debit card and check. I dug around in my purse, pulled out my cell phone, and, sliding down low in the booth, dialed my best friend Hannah’s number.

“Hrmph?” Hannah groaned into the phone. “Hann, it’s Livvy. I’m at the F& G.” I scanned the dining room. No truckers were giving me the “get off your cell phone” glare.

“What flavor did you get?” Hannah paused. “Livvy, what time is it?”

“Black bottom.”

The waitress’s lace-trimmed apron filled my view. I looked up to see her mouth set in a rigid line.

“Just a sec,” I mouthed.

“Declined,” she said, waving my card in the air before slapping it on the table.

“Livvy, are you still there?”

“Sorry, Hann.” I pawed through my messenger bag and pulled a couple of crumpled dollar bills out of the bottom. “Listen, can I come over? In about an hour? For a few days?”

Hannah made a clucking sound. “Bring me a piece of key lime.”

 

My black Wayfarers could block out the beams of sunlight that stabbed at my eyes like little paring knives but they couldn’t block out the smells. Earth, onions and herbs, and the pungent aroma of goats and ground coffee challenged my ability to keep last night’s piece of black-bottom pie in its place. I wasn’t hungover, exactly. That fine line between still drunk and sobering up was more accurate. Hannah had woken me at seven, despite the fact that I had arrived at her house at one thirty in the morning. She met me at the door bleary-eyed, traded the bottle of Jack Daniels that she kept solely for my visits for the key lime, and went wordlessly back to bed. I opted to watch Vermont Public Access—a repeat of a sheep-shearing contest—while polishing off a tumbler or two. But today was Saturday, farmer’s market day, and Hannah insisted on arriving before it opened.

The Guthrie Farmer’s Market was held every Saturday from eight in the morning till one p.m. in the high-school parking lot. Four aisles of white tents stretched across the pavement. By the entrance, between tents, an elderly man dressed in hunting gear scratched out dance tunes on a fiddle.

Hannah was on a mission. She headed straight for a display of sunflowers, walking as fast as a person can without breaking into a run. I took a slow meander through the tents in search of coffee, Salty in tow. Ceramicists hefted thickly glazed mugs. A pair of knitters, needles clicking, turned the heels of socks. A woodcarver stood whittling away at a scene of a black bear and her cubs in the pine trees. Hannah, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers to her chest like she had just won the Mrs. Coventry County pageant, found me in an herbalist’s tent, rubbing lavender-scented lotion into my palms. I leaned over to her. “They should name this Eau de Grandmother.”

She looked over my shoulder at the herbalist to make sure he hadn’t heard me. We strolled from tent to tent, Hannah filling up her wicker basket with vegetables. “Are you okay?” she asked. “You look pale.”

I sighed. Arriving at work before dawn and finishing after the sun went down did give me a vampirish hue. Hannah, however, still had a healthy summer glow. I was pretty sure the Clinique counter had something to do with it. I slipped the tips of my fingers underneath my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Honey, spill it. Why are you here?” I leaned my head on her shoulder. “Because you’re my oldest, dearest friend in the world and I missed you?”

Hannah was the one person I could always count on. She was the kind of friend who showed up when you were too depressed to get off the couch and would proceed to clean your apartment and return your overdue library books before sautéing you a pile of vegetables for dinner.

“And you drove all the way up here in the middle of the night? In your work uniform? You were here five weeks ago.”

“How about I was desperate for a piece of pie and ended up at the F&G, and it seemed like a shame not to visit when I was so close to Guthrie?”

Hannah looked at me with practiced patience. “I’ve known you long enough to know that after your shift you crave beer and French fries, not pie.”

I glanced down at my hands. They were veiny, like my grandmother’s.

“I may have caused a small fire at work.” “Oh my goodness. Was anyone hurt?”

I thought of Jamie’s wife. She had on an exact replica of the dress Ginger Rogers wore in Top Hat, the white one with all the feathers. “No, no. Not hurt. Just wet.”

“Jesus, Liv. Do you think you’ll be fired? Could the guy you’re seeing help?”

Hannah knew I was seeing someone from the Emerson, but when she pressed for details I just told her it wasn’t serious. She wouldn’t have approved of the fact that, at sixty-four, Jamie was exactly twice my age. Plus the fact that he was married. “No one ever really gets fired from the Emerson,” I said as I nervously ripped the husks and silk off random ears of corn. “More like encouraged to ‘take a break.’”

She scanned the parking lot. After a few moments she linked her arm in mine. “Let’s go see if there are any sticky buns left. They’re award-winning.”

The deeper we elbowed our way into the mass of hungry townsfolk, the harder my head began to pound. My stomach did a little shift as the smell of manure-caked work boots reached my nostrils. I really should never drink whiskey.

“Uh, Hann? I’m going to have to sit this one out. Get me something greasy.”

Hannah wrinkled her nose. “How can you eat grease with a hangover?”

“It’s healing,” I said as I headed out of the fray.

The fresh air was delicious. I found a quiet spot under a tree on the edge of the parking lot and plopped myself down, leaning my back against the rough bark. Salty sniffed at the grass, turned around three times, then finally lay down beside me, stretching his legs out in front of him.

It seemed like the whole town was at the market that day, and half of it was in the sticky-bun line. Hannah had explained that the market was the only time the farmers ever saw one another during the harvest. Between customers they traded seeds and service, exchanged news of crops and births, and gossiped. Apparently, the rest of the townspeople were there to do the same. I watched a tall, slight man unloading wooden crates of apples, plaid shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. Sharp-nosed and thin-lipped, with dark eyes framed by black plastic eyeglasses, haircut and shave long overdue. He felt familiar. Then I realized I was remembering a man in a Walker Evans photograph taken during the Dust Bowl.

I scanned the crowd for Hannah and found her speaking to an older woman with her hands on her hips whose sky blue cardigan hugged her narrow shoulders. She frowned. Hannah patted her arm and pointed to me, her expression cheerful. The woman looked over and studied me, her lips pursed.

My cell phone, which I had jammed in my back pocket out of habit, vibrated. Here in the mountains my cell service was spotty at best—six missed calls. I felt like I had swallowed a biscuit whole.

“Livvy,” Jamie shout-whispered on my voice mail, “Where are you? I’m worried. Call me.”

“Olivia, it’s Glen. Just making sure you’re okay. The club is going to be closed for a couple days at least while they assess the damage. The fire marshal has a few questions. Call me on my cell.”

“We’re having trouble lighting the grill, chef.” It was one of the prep cooks. “We thought you could help us start the fire.” Howls of laughter in the background before the message clicked off.

 

Hannah’s perfectly French-manicured toes appeared in my line of vision. I pressed the off button and threw the phone into my bag. When I looked up, a cinnamon roll the size of a hubcap had replaced Hannah’s face. Creamy white glaze glistened on the curls of pastry.

“Here you go,” Hannah said, handing me the sticky bun. I tore off a hunk and popped it into my mouth, chewing gratefully. Hannah took a dainty bite. “Hmmmm, I haven’t had this much sugar in months.” She slipped the pastry into a waxed bag, then licked her fingers. Hannah will tell you that she counts carbs, but I know the depth of her sweet tooth. She reached into her purse, pulled out a cloth napkin and wiped her fingers, then drew her skirt around her legs and sat down next to me. “So, how long were you planning on staying?”

I eyed her sideways. “Not sure. Are you worried I’ll still be here when Jonathan comes back from the conference?” Hannah’s husband and I have agreed to disagree on just about everything. It upsets her sense of equilibrium to have us both in the same room.

“No, ...

Revue de presse :

"Miller elevates the story by turning it into a Pinterest fantasy of rural America. . . [Her] visions of bucolic Vermont landscapes, cinnamon-scented kitchens and small-town friendliness make this reverie of country life an appealing one." --The New York Times Book Review

“This book is super cozy—probably because it takes place in a small town in Vermont, and because the protagonist has a dog named Salty, and because she’s a baker who spends her days working at an inn. Okay, it’s Gilmore Girls.”—Bon Appetit, “8 Food Novels You Need to Read this Summer”

"Add in some romance and mouth-watering food descriptions, and Louise Miller’s debut novel is a giant serving of comfort food. Treat yourself." --RealSimple

“[An] endearing debut. . . Miller, a pastry chef herself, writes about food with vivid detail, but her rhythmic prose is even crisper when her interests converge [and she] also excels at characterization, revealing her protagonist’s complex pasts in subtle ways.” –Publishers Weekly

"Beautifully light and rich. . . . Comforting without being cozy, this is escapist fiction for those who want a quieter—and tastier—life." --Elle.com

"Pies aren’t simple. Neither is Livvy or The City Baker’s Guide to Country Living. All three, however, are capable of warming the heart." --PopMatters

“With insight, warmth, and humor, Louise Miller describes life in a kitchen as only an experienced baker can. A magnificent debut.”—J. Ryan Stradal, author of Kitchens of the Great Midwest
 
“This book comes with a warning: do not read while hungry. Absolutely charming and perfectly delicious. Bliss.”—Natasha Solomons, author of The Song of Hartgrove Hall
 
“A soup-to-nuts treat.  If only Livvy Rawlings could move her whisks and mixing bowls into your own kitchen to work the magic Louise Miller spins throughout these scrumptious pages.”—Mameve Medwed, author of How Elizabeth Barrett Browning Saved my Life 
 
“Genuine and sweet (with a pinch of salt), THE CITY BAKER'S GUIDE TO COUNTRY LIVING is a feast for the senses, for the head and the heart. With great warmth and generosity, Louise Miller brings a place and its lovable inhabitants to life. I adored this book; it made me want to dance. And eat.”—Kate Racculia, author of Bellweather Rhapsody
 
“Louise Miller knows that a great story is like a prize-winning apple pie—warm, full to the brim with character, and not too sweet.  Her descriptions of the Vermont countryside, the Sugar Maple Inn, and baker Livvy Rawling's desserts make you want to pack a bag and head out for a long weekend in New England.”—Erica Bauermeister, author of The Lost Art of Mixing 
 
“A warm, fresh look at finding one's way and making new choices in life.  It was studded with satisfying nuggets of wisdom throughout, like dabs of butter in a homemade pie, every baker's--and writer's--secret ingredient of choice.”—Ellen Airgood, author of South of Superior 

"Louise Miller's debut is like a walk in the Vermont woods on a sunny day: crisp, bright, colorful, soul-reviving....Delicious.” —Brenda Bowen, author of Enchanted August

“I fell in love with the community of Guthrie, VT, the soul-healing landscape, the quirky characters, and the sumptuous desserts Olivia Rawlings creates for them.” —Juliette Fay, author of The Shortest Way Home

“Compulsively readable and written with deep tenderness. . .  in a rare book that not only whets the appetite, but makes the heart a little more whole.” --Erika Swyler, author of The Book of Speculation

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Penguin Publishing Group
• Date d'édition: 2017
• ISBN 10: 1101981210
• ISBN 13: 9781101981214
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 352