Chapter One
They say that family can be more than our family of origin—that family can also be found. I had found my family in the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains where I’d spent the last few years carving out a new home and a new future in my childhood town of Ashland, Oregon. My small family of Mom and me had expanded dramatically. Carlos, my husband, had recently joined me in the Rogue Valley and his son, Ramiro, was taking a year away from his studies in Spain to do an exchange program here in Ashland.
It felt like an abundance of riches to have Ramiro with us for an entire year. And as if my heart weren’t already overflowing, my circle had expanded to include so many more people whom I adored. Like Doug, aka The Professor, Mom’s husband, who had become a second father to me. There was my best friend, Lance, my childhood friend Thomas, and his wife, Kerry. Plus, there was my entire team at the bakeshop. Sometimes it was hard to remember how small I’d made myself on the Amour of the Seas, the cruise ship that had taken me from one far-off port of call to the next. Ironically, even though Ashland could hardly be considered a major city, my network of friends and family continued to grow, like a rising yeasty bread dough spilling over the top of a metal bowl.
Bread had been on my mind as of late. After a full summer of baking and traveling, we were settling into the shifting seasons. Carlos and I had flown to Spain to pick up Ramiro for the start of his summer holidays. From there we ventured to Italy for two weeks with Mom and the Professor and Lance and his paramour, Arlo. It had been the stuff of dreams and the vacation I hadn’t realized I had desperately needed. Carlos surprised me at the Trevi Fountain with a new ring to symbolize our recommitment to each other. Our travels took us to the lapis waters of Lake Como, wine tasting at old-world vineyards in Tuscany, and all of the historical sites in Rome. Seeing Italy through Ramiro’s eyes had been an utter delight. We ate way too much gelato, devoured pasta, and drank copious amounts of espresso. For fourteen days, my mind wasn’t filled with recipes or staff schedules. I checked out in the best possible way, savoring the time together with the people I loved.
On the flight home, as my head had fallen on Carlos’s shoulder, he had whispered in my ear, “Julieta, you are more relaxed than I have ever seen you. Let’s make a pact to get away more often, sí?”
“Yes,” I had replied as my eyes fought to stay open. “You’ll get no argument from me on that.” It was true. Since I had returned home to Ashland, I hadn’t had much of a break. I’d been so focused on Torte, our family bakeshop, my staff, and managing our other endeavors—our boutique winery, Uva, and summer pop-up ice cream shop, Scoops—that I hadn’t taken time for myself. Italy had changed that. It had served as a reminder that I needed to take my own advice. I was constantly checking in with my team to make sure that they were practicing good self-care, but I didn’t afford myself the same grace. When we returned to Ashland, I made a pact to change that. Even if it was a quick getaway to the coast or a weekend trip to San Francisco, Carlos and I needed to preserve time for ourselves. Time to recharge in order to be fully present for our customers and staff.
Don’t forget that promise, Jules, I told myself on an early September morning as I arranged yeast, sugar, flour, and salt on Torte’s expansive kitchen island.
We had been home from our vacation for just under a month and Ramiro was starting school tomorrow. I couldn’t believe how fast summer had flown by. It was probably because we had soaked up the time together, taking Ramiro on day trips to the Oregon Coast, Crater Lake, and the mountains.
Now it was time for routines again. School for Ramiro and baking for me. Torte had been hired to cater a corporate event that was quickly turning into much more work than I had originally anticipated. It had begun with a call from Miller Redding, a personal assistant—or as he called himself, a PA—for Bamboo, a tech company from Los Angeles. He had reached out to me before we left for Spain and Italy about the potential of hosting an event in Ashland in September. His boss had tasked him with finding a venue and caterer for Bamboo’s annual corporate leadership retreat. Ashland and Torte were at the top of his list, thanks to Arlo.
Arlo was the interim managing director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (OSF) and Lance’s boyfriend. Apparently, Bamboo had been a corporate sponsor at the last theater company Arlo had managed in LA. Miller hadn’t taken much convincing. He flew up for a long weekend in early August and signed a contract on the spot for Torte to cater a “lit” (his word, not mine) corporate retreat.
The leadership team would arrive on Friday. We were hosting a dinner here at the bakeshop for them that evening. Then we would head to the Rogue River, where we would prepare meals while the team went on a rafting trip. Miller had arranged for glamping yurts and a full kitchen to be set up at the campsite on the banks of the Rogue River. We would be responsible for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks for the weekend rafting trip. I had catered plenty of off-site events over the years, but this was going to be a new challenge: creating high-quality, artisan fare over open flames and on camp stoves.
My team had helped sketch out menus. The goal was to prep as much as we could at Torte, like bread that could be sliced for decadent raft sandwiches and breakfast French toast, as well as cookies, pies, and brownies that we could bake ahead and pack into camp. It was a bummer that the event was coinciding with Ramiro’s first week of American high school. He had promised me that it was no big deal.
“Jules, I will come for the weekend when school is out and go tubing in the river. The Professor says he will teach me how to raft. It will still be warm, yeah?”
“It should be. September is my favorite month for weather,” I had told him. “Warm days and cool evenings with a touch of a breeze and the first hints of changing leaves. Yes, it will be perfect for floating the river.”
The Rogue River had been deemed a Wild & Scenic River in the 1960s. The vast wilderness canyon was known for its breathtakingly rugged scenery, salmon runs, and whitewater rafting. Adventure seekers like the group from Bamboo could raft the upper sections of the river and get their adrenaline pumping with some class III and IV rapids. But there were also plenty of lazy spots on the river for floating in inner tubes, swimming, and fly fishing. It was the perfect opportunity for both solitude and team bonding.
Having Ramiro come with us for the weekend sounded like an ideal compromise.
With that thought in mind, I turned my attention to bread. I had been the first to arrive at the bakeshop this morning and had already gone through the opening checklist—lighting the bundles of applewood in the wood-fired oven, setting the other ovens to proofing temps, and most importantly starting a strong pot of our Torte signature fall roast.
I tied on one of our custom fire-engine red aprons with blue stitching and a chocolate torte in the center. Not only did I want to get a head start on our bread orders for the day, but I intended to use a few loaves to test sandwich recipes for the weekend and for Ramiro’s first day of school lunch. Okay, I was probably going a little overboard with packing a lunch for a high schooler, but this was my first time being a stepmom (a term I was not a fan of, by the way) and I wanted to do everything in my power to make sure that Ramiro knew this was his home, too.
Once the kitchen had hummed to life, I started the bread dough by pitching yeast, adding a touch of sugar, and warm water, but not too warm. If the water temp is too high the yeast will start to die off. And no one wants a dead yeast.
While the yeast began to bubble, I measured flour. One tip that I always taught new staff members was to measure flour with a spoon. Most home bakers tend to scoop flour with a measuring cup, which doesn’t give a precise measurement and can lead to packing too much flour in the cup. Instead, I would demonstrate how to spoon flour into our large measuring cups and then level the top with the edge of a knife. This would ensure a proper reading and not alter the recipe with too little or too much flour.
Once my yeast had doubled in size, I added flour and a touch of sea salt and set the mixture to knead in our industrial mixer with a dough hook. Trust me, I love to knead dough with my hands. I’ve found that one of the best ways to work out life’s stresses—literally and figuratively—is by getting your hands deep in the dough. But sometimes on busy days, like today, letting the mixer do the heavy lifting had its advantages.
My first batch of bread was our classic white bread. I would form the dough into loaves and brush them with a generous amount of melted butter and a dusting of sea salt before they baked in the pizza oven.
Andy, our resident barista turned expert coffee roaster, arrived as I shifted my attention to sourdough and honey wheat bread.
“Morning, boss.” He took off his puffy vest and hung it on the coat rack near the basement door. His youthful face was bright with energy. Andy was an anomaly. Most of his peers would be in bed until noon. I knew that like me he’d probably already been up for an hour tinkering with his latest coffee roast. “You can tell that fall is on the horizon. It’s getting chilly out there in the morning.”
“I know; I love it.” I shot him a grin.
“Same.” He lifted a canister of beans he had brought from home. “You’re really going to love my new roast.”
“What is it?” I strummed my fingers together in anticipation.
“I haven’t landed on the name yet but think of it as an ode to September.” He swept his muscular arms toward the basement door. “If September could be a coffee, this is it.”
“Ohhh, I can’t wait to try it.”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have a taste ready for you.” Andy motioned above us. He had finally grown into his height. When I had first met him, he used to walk around in a permanent slump, but as he had matured his posture had, too. It was nice to see him transforming and becoming a more confident version of himself.
He went upstairs to fire up the espresso machine and prep the coffee bar. I brushed flour from my hands and adjusted my ponytail. As I placed racks of bread in the oven to proof, I reflected on how much Andy had grown since I’d known him. He’d gone from being a slightly goofy college student to a mature young man who had a pulse on the latest trends in the coffee industry and an innate ability to create delicate and intricately flavored roasts.
The rest of the team trickled in slowly over the next hour. Marty, our resident bread expert, ambled over to my workstation after he had washed his hands and tied on a fire-engine red Torte apron.
“Uh-oh, is there something you need to tell me, Jules?” His bright cheeks matched the apron. Marty was in his sixties with silver hair, a gray well-trimmed beard, and eyes that had experienced plenty of sorrow yet still held a bright spark of joy.
“No, why?” I wrinkled my forehead and looked up from the next batch of dough I had started.
“I was worried I’m going to be out of a job.” He pointed to the loaves resting on the island. “After all, you’re baking my bread.”
I let my mouth hang open and shook my head. “Never. No way. This place would crumble without you. I was just trying to get a head start and help you out because I’m going to use some extra loaves for testing recipes for this weekend’s Rogue event.”
“Whew.” He wiped his brow. Some of the heat faded from his face.
“Marty, seriously, you know how much I appreciate you, don’t you?” I met his eyes.
He smiled and winked. “I do.”
Marty had come to us after his wife died. He had been a bread baker in San Francisco and moved to the Rogue Valley to be closer to family. A fortuitous ad placed at the right time had brought him out of semi-retirement and to us. I’d never been more grateful. Marty was such an asset to the team, for his bread-making skills, but also for his wisdom.
Our staff swayed younger, which was a good thing in my opinion, but Marty and Rosa, our front-of-house manager, had balanced that. I liked the mixing of ages on our team. Bethany, our social media superstar, was constantly trying to convince Marty to set up an online dating profile and he was teaching everyone how to play bocce.
“Good, because I would be lost without you, like lost out in the dense Siskiyou Forest without you.” I poked my finger in the bouncy sourdough. “I will also gladly hand this dough off to you and get a batch of breakfast pastries going.”
He tipped an imaginary cap. “Many thanks, my lady.”
I chuckled and brushed flour from my hands.
Andy appeared from upstairs carrying a tray of coffee tasters. “All right, who’s ready for some morning Joe?”
“Me.” I raised my hand. “Always me.”
Andy passed samples around to Marty, Steph, Bethany, Sterling, Rosa, and me. Then he stood back and appraised us like a zoologist studying animals in the wild. “Okay, be honest. It’s a brand-new roast, so don’t hold back. Give me the truth.”
“What are we drinking?” Sterling held his taster beneath his nose.
“It’s a bourbon, pecan Torte blend with touches of caramel and low acidity. It should be sweet with a full body.” He motioned for us to try it. “That’s why I want your honest opinions, though. I’m not sure if I need to tweak it a bit. Maybe add more nuttiness? Spike up the dark notes?”
I took a sip of the roast. As promised, it tasted like September in a cup. The pecan flavor came through first, followed by a hint of the sweet, buttery caramel. Rich bourbon undertones finished off the coffee. “This is incredible. I think you nailed it,” I said to Andy.
He blew me off with a wave. “Come on, boss, I want the dirt. Give me the gritty feedback, too. Don’t hold back. I can take it.”
“I am.” I looked at everyone else. “I swear, it’s delicious. It tastes like fall. There’s nothing I would change. The sweetness is balanced by the bourbon, and the pecans give it a nice earthiness.”
“Agreed,” Bethany chimed in. “It’s my new favorite.”
“Everything is your favorite.” Andy gave her a fake scowl.
“That’s not true,” she protested. “Remember your pepper coffee? I wasn’t a fan of that, and I told you it was a bit too much.” She stuck out her tongue and grimaced. “So much pepper.”
Andy gave her a sheepish look. “Yeah, okay. That’s fair. I guess I just want this one to be a winner.”
“Are you going to use it in a latte?” Steph asked. She had neatly arranged a stack of custom cake orders at her decoration station.
“I’m not sure yet. I’m going to play around with a couple of ideas,” Andy replied. “I feel like this roast stands alone. It’s called Ode to September and I’m not sure I want to dilute it, you know?”
Steph stared at her taster like she was examining a crime scene. “I actually saw a recipe last night for a cake with almost these exact flavors. It might be cool to try to pair this roast on its own with a slice of cake.”
Bethany clapped. “Now you’re speaking my language. That’s the kind of stuff that goes viral on social. Let’s do it.”
“I’m intrigued by your recipe,” I said. “I still want one more dessert option for the event this weekend.”
“I’ll find the recipe for you,” Steph said as she tucked her violet hair behind her ears. “You bake it. I’ll decorate it.”
“Oh yeah, we could do something super cute for fall,” Bethany agreed. “Like a luscious beige buttercream with sweet bright red and green apples and fall leaves. What do you think?”
Steph nodded. “Yep. I’m with you.”
Marty had moved next to the speaker system. “Since you mentioned Ode to September, how about if we kick off the morning with some ‘Ode to Joy’?”
The swelling sounds of the melody reverberated through the kitchen.
“It’s settled.” I finished my coffee. “We’ll collaborate on a dessert to pair with your blend.”
Andy grinned. “I better get brewing, then.”
He went upstairs and the rest of us gathered to review the morning schedule. September brought a slight reprieve from the crush of summer tourists. The Elizabethan stayed open through the end of October, when OSF would go dark for the winter, so Ashland still saw its fair share of out-of-town visitors, but not to the same level that we experienced during the peak of summer.
“What are you thinking for today’s special?” I asked Sterling. He had taken on the role of sous chef over the last couple of years and was thriving in the position. Like Andy with coffee, Sterling had a discerning palate. Food combinations came naturally to him. The only thing he lacked was professional training. Carlos, Marty, Mom, and I had all helped mentor him in that area. He was a sponge when it came to taking in knife techniques or how to mise en place. I knew that soon he would be ready to strike out on his own. I was equally excited for him and dreading the day he would come to tell me he had landed a position running his own kitchen. It was evitable in the business. If I did my job correctly, then there was a high likelihood that some of my staff would eventually grow their wings and fly away from Torte’s nest.
I sighed.
Don’t think about that now, Jules.
“I was thinking of a creamy tomato Parm soup with cheese tortellini,” Sterling said. He had rolled up the sleeves on his hoodie, revealing a collection of tattoos that stretched across his forearm. “We can serve it with Marty’s roasted garlic and herb flatbread.”
“Count me in for that.” I gave him a thumbs-up.
Bethany went through the list of custom cake orders, which she and Steph divided up. Rosa offered to make her grandmother’s cinnamon sweet potato pastries as one of our breakfast specials. I took on our daily cookie and muffin offerings as well as the bourbon pecan torte, and Marty would be responsible for finishing each of our signature breads.
Within a few minutes the kitchen was alive with the aromas of fall and the sound of happy chatter amongst our team. I quickly fell into a calming rhythm as I whipped vanilla cake batter until it was light and fluffy. After a summer of adventure, I was lucky to be home and in the place I loved with people I adored. What could be better?
Copyright © 2023 by Katherine Dyer-Seeley.
