CHAPTER 1
It only took twenty-eight years and one bad take-out meal to unlock my superpower. Okay, “power” might be stretching the definition. I don’t fly or shoot beams out of my eyes or have absurd strength. I may be able to bring supreme joy, though … by baking. Like my mom and all the other women in the Jin family line before her.
Legend has it that once upon a dynasty, my ancestors lived in a tiny village that had been punished with drought. For two long years they suffered, until every villager had reached the last of their wheat reserves. Using her final grains, our Jin ancestor poured all her hope for the future into the batter and baked a tiny cake—but not for herself. She fed every last bite of pastry to her sickly mother; on her deathbed, the matriarch smiled and blessed her daughter and all future daughters down the line. The matriarch’s soul rose to the upper realms, and whether it was because of her pleas to heaven or the celestial notice of a daughter’s devotion, a miracle happened. The skies opened, filling the earth with cleansing, nourishing rain. The villagers rejoiced, and every Jin pastry from then on has spread joy.
With a last name like ours, of course the family shop is called Gold Bakery because Jin literally means “gold” in Mandarin. Not that I’m good with the language. I’m a third-generation Chinese American, so I’m surprised any vocab has stuck with me. That, plus being raised in the small town of Pixie, California, where most people don’t look anything like me—which meant getting bullied as a child and feeling out of place as an adult. White faces all around me. Except in a certain beloved cul-de-sac in our quaint downtown. The three shops nestled close together there might offer the most diverse demographics around Pixie.
Besides Gold Bakery, my bestie Kelvin owns a store next to ours called Love Blooms. His floral arrangements are gorgeous, and I’m not just saying that because I’m biased. We’ve been pals ever since our diaper days.
Paz Illuminations is on the other side of us, and the owner is my godmother, Alma Paz. She’s in her sixties or her seventies (I’ve never quite pinned down her age) and gives out enigmatic bits of wisdom while providing the latest on-trend candles through her physical store and Etsy offerings.
Meanwhile, Mom and I are traditional and focused on our small, curated selection of treats. We offer our customers what we call our specialized supply of two types of baked goods. Mom has perfected Grandma’s pineapple buns and also created her own magical spin on egg tarts. Per tradition, recipes are only passed by Jin word of mouth and a carefully monitored apprenticeship. I’m not sure what happened, because none of the other Jin secret recipes made it to America when Grandma, my Po Po, immigrated over.
Po Po was going to continue the Jin tradition here since her magical baking also worked in the United States. Mom dutifully followed in her footsteps; she adored being a magical Jin and described how she felt wrapped in sunshine when crafting pastries, as though the ancestors had bestowed on her a mighty glow of approval. The baking skills had come easy to Mom, her fingers moving in a quick, confident rhythm whenever she mixed and kneaded.
Then I was born, and I broke the trend. Instead of crafting magical treats, I ended up staffing the cash register. Admittedly, it’s gotten tedious over the years—but everything changed last night when I unleashed my own superpower.
Because when I say magic, I really mean it. There’s true magic in Mom’s baking, just as there was in Grandma’s, that creates feelings of temporary bliss in our customers. Every daughter in our family, across the ages, has discovered her own baking recipe that provides pure joy to others. I thought the magical talent had skipped me—until now.
So today, I rushed out the door with a renewed sense of optimism. After sprinting past the other stores in the cul-de-sac, I arrived at Gold Bakery just before opening time. I should’ve taken Mom up on her offer to wake me in the wee hours of the morning, but I didn’t want to get up that early. Thank goodness our small apartment is a short distance away, just around the corner from the shop.
“Sorry,” I said to my mom when I showed up, huffing and puffing. (While I looked wild from my run, Mom appeared as put together as ever, from her side-swept bob to her unwrinkled white linen apron.) “I’m used to cashier duties. I should have come in a lot earlier to prep.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “Your body’s not yet trained to getting up so early.” Mom placed a calming hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready for this, Felicity?”
I swallowed hard. “I sure hope so.”
Mom checked her pocket watch. She doesn’t wear anything on her wrists—it’d interfere with the baking. “You still have time before the first customer arrives to try out the recipe.”
“Do you think it might not work? That it was a fluke?” I asked as I surveyed the glass display case in the front of the shop. Mom had already set out trays of her scrumptious pineapple buns. No real pineapple in them, but the crisscross marks on top of the buns made them appear like the eponymous treat. The pastries were golden in color and perfectly round. Her signature egg tarts must be somewhere close by, too. Maybe she was letting their smooth custard centers cool down before she slid the tarts alongside the pineapple buns.
I took in the smell of sugar and happiness floating in the air.
“Felicity, I believe in you,” Mom said.
“But my track record isn’t that great, remember?” I gave her a lopsided smile. As if she could forget. We’d tried for years in the kitchen to shape me into a worthy Jin baker.
She batted away my doubts. “Those were growing pains, Felicity.”
Twenty-some years is a lot of growing pains. Ever since I could mix batter, I’d tried to bake—and failed. Forget about making pastries that brought happiness, I couldn’t even create edible treats. I would burn the cookies and flatten the cupcakes. My mom had continued to encourage me all throughout that time, but after I turned twenty, I’d avoided baking. Too much heartache.
And yet, I said now, “Let’s go for round two.” Hopefully, my night magic also worked during the day. I went to the kitchen in the back.
The beautiful space brought forth mixed emotions. The baking equipment all gleamed a sparkling silver, polished daily by my mom. A massive triple-deck industrial oven stood sentry at the rear wall, overlooking two long silver tables in the center, at the ready for pastry-making. Off to the sides, we had a drop-in stainless steel sink and our refrigeration units. The modern married with the whimsical in the kitchen, what with the bright tangerine-colored tile floor, the pastel glass bottles of ingredients, and the teal pendant lamps dangling from the ceiling.
I loved the cozy warmth and heady fragrance found in the kitchen, but I’d also experienced many culinary fails in this very same baking arena. What would happen today? I gathered my needed ingredients, starting with the eggs. After cracking them, I was grateful not to have flung yolk everywhere, though I found myself scooping out bits of shell from the bowl. My nerves must be getting to me.
Mom perched at a nearby counter, watching my every move. She was like a mama bird waiting for me to spread my wings and soar in triumph … I only hoped I wouldn’t fall flat on my face.
“Sorry, but could you give me a little space?” I said. “Maybe you can put some egg tarts out on display?” I thought I could do this, but having an audience distracted me from the peace I needed to replicate the recipe.
My mom nodded understandingly and carried off a tray of the mini pastries out through the arched doorway. I whipped the eggs and some sugar together while she busied herself in the front.
Suddenly, she straightened and darted to the glass door at the entrance. We weren’t even open yet. Who could she be hurrying to see?
“Kelvin!” my mom said, a delighted squeal to her voice. “Felicity’s in the back. Why don’t you go see her?”
Maybe she thought he could provide moral support. Or perhaps because he’d been on the scene last night, she thought he’d bring me good luck. Well, I might need it.
I could hear the clomping of his size-twelve feet even before he strode through the kitchen archway. He sure loved those sturdy Doc Martens.
“Hey, Lissa,” he said, the only person I let get away with a nickname.
“Hi,” I said, showing him the mixing bowl. “Does this look like the same amount of batter as I made last night?”
Kelvin shrugged. “Beats me. Anything I can do to lend a hand?”
I glanced at his white Henley shirt, a sharp contrast to his dark skin. “Ha. You better roll up those shirtsleeves if you don’t want them to get messy.”
He chuckled. “I trust you, and you did great yesterday.”
True, but I’d created the fortune cookies on a whim after I tried the horrible ones we’d gotten with our Chinese takeout. After years of avoiding baking anything at all, I’d been struck by a sudden inspiration. In my mind’s eye, I could envision the fully formed fortune cookies. Then the recipe had materialized in my imagination, and my fingers had happily danced along to each step I’d pictured. Last night, I’d successfully baked fortune cookies. Only two of them, but they’d been edible and had smelled of enchanting possibility.
Could I do it again? I mentally went through every part of the new recipe to calm my nerves. Okay, I think I’ve got this.
I turned to Kelvin and asked, “Can you get the butter for me?”
He took out a stick from the fridge and handed it over. I removed the wrapper, placing the butter in a dish and into the microwave.
Mom returned as I added the melted butter and the other needed ingredients to the bowl. She cupped a hand behind her ear and leaned in toward me.
“I can’t hear you.” My mom nudged Kelvin. “Can you check her lips? Anything happening there?”
I stopped mixing. “Mom,” I said, “come on.”
“It helps me when I bake,” she said. “The joy comes out of the cheerful sounds we make.”
“Does it really?” That was Mom’s theory. She figured that the humming she did while baking infused her egg tarts with love. Mom claimed that my grandmother, Po Po, had also sung while she made her exquisite pineapple buns; I couldn’t reach that far back in my memory to know for sure since she’d died when I was a toddler.
I gave Kelvin the side eye now. “Please don’t stare at my lips.”
“Can’t help it, they’re gigantic,” he quipped. Whatever.
Kelvin and I were purely platonic. He’d gone for a romantic promposal our senior year, but I told him we should go as pals. He’d been in the friend zone for so long, I never allowed my mind to contemplate an alternative. Now, I debated whether to dump the bowl of batter on him and his pristine shirt. It would serve him right.
I swear the man could read my mind because he gave me a subtle head shake.
Time to concentrate, Felicity. I focused on the bowl before me, my senses centered on the soothing vanilla essence drifting in the air.
My mind visualized the completed fortune cookies, and my hands, on automatic pilot, completed the meditative motion of whisking in slow, concentric circles. After a couple of minutes, I scooped out tiny portions of the golden batter onto a baking mat and carefully placed the tray in the preheated oven.
“Here’s hoping.” I crossed my fingers and set the timer for six minutes.
The fortune cookies I’d made last night—the pair of them—had been yummy. For once. Kelvin and I had munched on the cookies with glee. Or maybe that was because we’d wanted to get rid of the taste of the mediocre takeout. We’d (unfortunately) ordered from Foo Fusion, the new restaurant that had sprung up right outside of Pixie’s town limits.
The timer dinged, and I pulled the small batch of three cookies from the oven. They smelled like vanilla spice and everything nice. I couldn’t detect the same sweet scent of magic that usually wafted from my mom’s creations, but then again the stress might be blocking my senses.
With fumbling hands, I managed to shape the newly baked discs over the rim of a mug to get the distinctive fortune cookie fold. I set them aside to cool, but my mom snatched one up right away.
“Time to find out,” Mom said, popping the cookie into her mouth. She closed her eyes and chewed.
I bit the side of my cheek as I waited for her verdict.
“Delicious.” A smile bloomed across her face. “Only a hint of happiness in it, but that should increase over time.”
Kelvin soft-punched me in the arm. “You did it, Lissa. Congrats.” He was the only one I’d ever shared my family’s magical history with—recklessly so in a childhood game of Truth or Dare, but I’d pinkie-sworn him to secrecy. I doubted he even believed me … until his mother fell ill. The treatments stopped working in the end, and only our pastries brought her comfort. At her funeral, Kelvin had pulled my mom and me to the side, thanking us for the “precious, truly magical” moments. My mom got flustered I’d shared the Jin secret, but Kelvin’s earnest gratitude softened her heart. She eventually forgave me and accepted Kelvin into our inner circle of trust.
And now, my mom wasn’t the only one with magic at her baking fingertips. After all these years, I had finally claimed my birthright. It felt so good. Redemptive almost, especially after all of my previous fails.
My best friend smirked at me. “Even though fortune cookies aren’t really Chinese.”
“Well,” I said, “they’re made in the USA like me.” Authentically American.
“So I guess now is not the time to tell you about their Japanese roots?” Kelvin said.
I goggled at him. Wait, what? “Uh, can you save the history lesson for later? I’m trying to stake my baking claim here.”
“Whatever their origins, you did it, Felicity. Made these beautiful fortune cookies.” Mom rubbed her hands together. “Guess we’ll be unveiling a new line of pastries at Gold Bakery today.”
I glanced at the remaining two cookies left on the baking sheet. Since I had to fold the treats by hand before they cooled, I could only make tiny batches of three at a time. It’d take a while before I’d be able to fill an entire tray.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you,” Kelvin said as he grabbed a cookie. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Copyright © 2024 by Jennifer J. Chow.
