Chapter One
They say you should embrace the seasons of life. It wasn’t hard to do amidst the ever-changing landscapes of the lush Rogue Valley. Mother Nature had a way of reminding me to pause at the sight of the pinkish sun rising over the Siskiyou Mountains or delight in the sweet bundles of birdseed that someone left along the fenceposts in Lithia Park to feed the dark-eyed juncos.
Beauty was literally all around me. My problem was more about centering on the moment. Being fully present and not spiraling into imagined worries and plans for my future. As we leaned deeper into winter, I had been somewhat successful at embracing my new quest. It helped that my husband, Carlos, was here to stay. He had opted to make my hometown of Ashland, Oregon, his, too. Having him in our little hamlet in the southern Oregon mountains filled me with a level of joy I hadn’t known was possible. Plus, Ramiro, his son from Spain, had been living with us for the last six months.
We enjoyed a leisurely holiday break, cozying up in front of the crackling fireplace as snow drifted down from a dark December sky, dusting Grizzly Peak and blanketing Ashland in a soft coat of white. There were family meals, sledding afternoons, game nights, baking copious amounts of Christmas cookies, and weaving in Spanish traditions, like making Ramiro’s favorite treats, roscos de vino. The festive donut-shaped biscuits were flavored with a touch of sweet wine and nuts. Their icing sugar coating made them look like they had been dipped in snow. I had made a batch for our family bakeshop, Torte, and customers had raved about the cookies. They also wanted to know what gave the “wine rolls” their unique flavor and consistency. A baker should never reveal her secrets, but in this case, I explained that the cookies used a base of ground sesame seeds and a splash of anisette liqueur to achieve their flavor. Thanks to Ramiro, roscos de vino had a permanent place on Torte’s winter menu.
Ashland’s Elizabethan charm was heightened in December and January, when snow covered the Tudor-style rooflines in the plaza. There was a sleepy vibe in town, with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival dark until early spring and only a handful of tourists who came seeking snowy adventures. That was one of the things I enjoyed most about living in the Rogue Valley: the shifting rhythm of each season.
With the holidays behind us, we were shifting gears to get ready to ring in the new year and welcome house guests in the form of Ramiro’s mom, stepfather, and little sister. They had graciously agreed to share Ramiro with us for a year so that he could do an exchange program in Ashland. I’d been nervous at first about connecting with Sophia, Ramiro’s mom, but after weekly FaceTime chats with her and Luis and Marta, I couldn’t wait for them to arrive. We had spent the two days before Christmas preparing the house and packing the pantry with everything we might need to entertain our international visitors.
The Torres family was arriving in time to celebrate the new year with us before they continued south to California for more adventures. Sophia and I had been emailing almost daily. I sent her updates on Ramiro’s soccer scores, pictures of him baking at Torte, and check-ins about how her only son was doing halfway around the world. Our friendship had blossomed over the miles. It was almost like having a pen pal, and Sophia’s genuine gratitude for something as easy as texting her a quick pic of Ramiro in his homecoming tux gave me new appreciation and insight into how hard it must have been for Mom to let me take off on my own global travels.
The morning their flight was due in, Ramiro bounded down the stairs and poured himself an espresso. It had taken me a little while to adjust to his Spanish habits, like breakfast espresso. Not that I was ever one to turn down a strong cup of coffee.
“Today is the day, Jules.” He beamed as he added a glug of heavy cream to his mug. “I cannot believe they are finally coming.” He sounded more excited than he had been Christmas morning.
“I know. It’s going to be so much fun to have them here and show them Ashland. Are you sure about the snowshoe tour? It won’t be too late for Marta?”
“She’s twelve. She’s going to love getting to stay up past her bedtime.”
“As long as you’re sure.” I had booked a midnight snowshoe on Mount Ashland or, as locals called our ski hill, Mount A. The trip would take us from the lodge around the rim of the mountain to a warming hut where we would enjoy hot drinks and a late-night feast under a full moon and a starry sky. I had wanted to make the trek for years, and Ramiro’s family visit seemed like the perfect opportunity. The brochure had sold me with its description: “experience the serenity of winter while an expert guides you on a snow-packed trail under a romantic starry sky.”
The snowshoe trip sounded like the perfect way to kick off the Torres family’s visit. Sophia had told me they loved the outdoors, and aside from spending time with Ramiro and us, they wanted to see Oregon’s rugged landscapes.
This was where my tendency to overthink and overplan might have gotten the best of me. I had arranged for another snow outing for the next day. It was Mount A’s annual downhill dummy competition—an event I had wanted to participate in for a few years but hadn’t made the time for. Last summer, after Carlos and I had taken a vacation to travel through Europe with Ramiro, I promised to do more things for myself. Running a bakeshop, winery, and pop-up summer ice cream stand had been fulfilling, but in the process of growing my little Ashland empire, I might have focused too much of my attention on work. My intention for the new year was to find a better balance between work and play.
Ramiro living with us had given me the perfect excuse to change that and embrace all that southern Oregon had to offer. The downhill dummy was one of those things. Entrants created dummies dressed in various outlandish costumes and makeshift vehicles, attached them to skis and snowboards, and sent them hurling down a ski jump. The winner took home bragging rights and a free ski pass for the year.
Andy had been begging me to sign Torte up for the competition for years. So when I approached him about entering the downhill dummy this year, he did a backflip in the middle of the dining room—literally—and promised me that he would work with Bethany, Steph, and Sterling to come up with a killer dummy.
I had no doubt about my team’s creativity, and I was eager to see what they would construct. They had asked if I wanted to be involved in the build or be surprised. There was no question: I had to be surprised.
I removed a container of peppermint cream from the fridge and offered some to Ramiro.
“I can’t wait to show your family everything the Rogue Valley has to offer, but I’m pretty sure I’ve overbooked us. Sorry. You know me.”
He brushed a long strand of dark hair from his eyes. “It’s fine, Jules. They’re not ninety. They want to see where we live, and it’s not like we can’t cancel if it’s too much, right?”
“Right.” How was a teenager wiser than me?
“A moonlight snowshoe and snacks around a bonfire,” Ramiro said, helping himself to a cinnamon roll. “It’s so American. They’ll love it.”
“Good. And then we’re going back up to the mountain the next day for the downhill dummy, assuming everyone isn’t too tired.” I filled my coffee cup with water and placed it in the microwave to heat for a minute.
“Sí. We can’t miss it.” He laughed and pressed his finger to his lips. “I am sworn to secrecy by Andy, but I will tell you the Torte dummy is so, so good.”
“I can’t wait. How’s the soccer team’s dummy coming together?” I removed my mug from the microwave and transferred the water to a bowl on the counter to cool. I would use it later to water my potted peace lily resting on the window above the farm-style sink. Then I poured myself a cup of coffee. It was a trick I had learned in culinary school to make my morning cup of Joe stay hot longer.
“It’s pretty great.” He plopped into a chair, letting his lanky limbs rest at his sides like long noodles.
He had seemed comfortable since the start of his stay with us, but as the months had gone on, he had become even more at ease. At first, he would ask if he could have a snickerdoodle or open a bag of tortilla chips. Now he helped himself to whatever he wanted. This was his home, and I loved that he felt empowered to raid the refrigerator and invite friends over after school.
“So they really launch the dummies down a ski jump?” He licked frosting from his finger.
“They do. It’s utter carnage.” The downhill dummy had been going strong since I was in high school. The event was popular with skiers, snowboarders, and the general public since no athletic skills were necessary to be a spectator, other than bundling in layers to watch an assortment of makeshift dummies sailing down the ski slopes.
“The goal is to get the most air, but the real winners are the dummies with the most outrageous crashes.” I checked the pantry to make sure I had everything I needed for dinner. The Torreses’ flight got in later this afternoon. I intended to start my day at Torte and leave early to meet Carlos and Ramiro at home before we caravanned to Medford to pick them up at the airport.
“Like a crash test dummy for cars?” He took another bite of the cinnamon roll oozing with melty cream cheese frosting.
“Exactly. The bigger the crash, the better. Body parts, well, dummy parts, will be flying in the air.” I twisted my long blond hair into a ponytail and kicked off my slippers.
“Cool.”
Carlos came in through the back door with an armful of almond firewood. “Good morning.” He took the wood to the living room to stack near the fireplace and returned to join us for coffee. “Julieta, do you want a ride to the bakeshop? I can take you and then go finish the list of errands.”
“No, that’s fine.” I glanced out the steamy kitchen window to our backyard, where the manzanitas and madrones looked as if they had been crumb-coated—a term we used in the bakeshop, meaning frosted in a thin layer of buttercream. “It’s a brisk winter morning. Perfect walking weather.”
Ramiro rubbed his arms. “It’s freezing. If I were going to school, I would take a ride.”
We had timed it so that the Torres family was visiting during the last part of Ramiro’s extended winter break. Classes would resume after they had returned to Spain. As for Torte, it was also our slowest time of the year. That meant my team could take the lead while I was with the Torres family. I would still check in but had penciled myself out of daily shifts.
“You two have fun on your errands.” I took my coffee to the sink and turned to Carlos. “I might have you pick me up at Torte, depending on how the day goes, but I’ll text you.”
Carlos stood to kiss me. His dark eyes had a way of always making my knees go slightly weak. This morning was no exception. As he pulled me toward his body, I could feel the heat radiating off his skin and smell a faint hint of chopped wood. His lips brushed mine before he released me with a flirty grin. “Have a good morning, Julieta, and let me know if you think of anything else we might need.”
I surveyed the kitchen. Thanks to Carlos, it was better stocked than the industrial kitchens we had worked in on the Amour of the Seas. Food was our love language. Having house guests meant welcoming them with round-the-clock meals and snacks. Carlos had prepared a variety of homemade breads to make pintxos—skewered baguettes with smoked salmon and cheeses—along with bocadillos de jamón—ham sandwiches prepared with thin-sliced Serrano ham, cheese, olive oil, and tomatoes. Our cabinets were filled with staples to make soups and stews and pasta. We had enough food to feed a small army. And that didn’t include everything I would bring home from the bakeshop. “I think we have enough food to feed the entire neighborhood or, better yet, all of Ashland,” I teased.
I gave them both hugs and went to bundle up for my walk to the bakeshop. Frosty air greeted me outside as I made my descent down Mountain Avenue. A crunchy layer of light snow coated the sidewalks. Smoke puffed from chimneys. Holiday lights and Christmas trees still dotted the front windows of a few houses that wanted to stay in the spirit a bit longer. The campus of Southern Oregon University was utterly still, aside from a flock of turkeys huddled under a giant oak tree, as I passed the extensive grounds.
Once I turned onto Siskiyou Boulevard and headed past the Carnegie Library, I could make out the soft glow of light illuminating the plaza. Storefronts featured warm winter displays of cashmere blankets, candles, books, and assorted teas. Like some of the houses in my neighborhood, many shops and restaurants had opted to leave their exterior twinkle lights on for another few weeks. Christmas trees and garlands had been replaced with crystal champagne glasses, sparklers, and lanterns to welcome the new year.
I crossed past the information kiosk and stopped to take in Torte’s front window display. Decorating the windows and interior was another task I had handed off to my highly capable staff. Rosa, our front-of-house manager, and Bethany, our cake designer and lead baker, had partnered on many occasions to create compelling window displays to entice customers inside.
Once again, their vision for the new year took my breath away. White birch trees entwined with glittery white lights stood in each corner of the window. Oversized paper snowflakes hung from the eaves, and an assortment of white winter wonderland cakes were perched on glossy ceramic stands. Pale shades of silky buttercream in porcelain, ivory, and pearl made the cakes look iridescent.
The display was equally inviting and drool-worthy. They had sprinkled vanilla bean macarons and miniature cupcakes with shiny foil wrappers on the base of the window. Everything looked like it had been painted with a cloud of luster dust. I smiled as I used the handrail to navigate the slippery brick steps that led to the basement entrance.
I unlocked the door, flipped the lights, and turned on the atomic fireplace in the dining area adjacent to the open-concept kitchen. Working in the space that Mom and I had designed was one of the highlights of my day, but there was no debating that the basement was a good five to ten degrees colder than upstairs.
Before I started baking or making a pot of coffee, I heated the ovens and started a fire in the exposed-brick wood oven. That would help ensure my team didn’t have to spend half the morning blowing on their fingertips to keep warm.
Once that task was complete, I gathered ingredients for the first bake on my morning task list—persimmon sweet bread. It was similar to banana bread but with a winter twist of persimmons, cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon. The fruit offered a rich, earthy flavor to a breakfast bread.
I began by creaming butter and sugar together. Then I added eggs, the trio of warming spices, a touch of rum extract, honey, and persimmon pulp. Once I had a fluffy batter, I alternated between adding splashes of buttermilk and my dry ingredients—flour, salt, and baking soda. The batter was thick and smooth. I couldn’t resist swiping a taste before I spread it into greased tins. Spicy notes came through, along with a touch of rum.
The final step for the bread was to thinly slice persimmons and arrange them on top of the batter to form a pretty pattern. Persimmons were harbingers of winter; their date-like flavor, soft sweet fruit, and bright orange color made them versatile and festive for baking.
As I was sliding the loaves into the oven, Andy came in through the back door. He was dressed in multiple layers with his ski parka, a pullover sweater, a puffy retro vest, and fingerless gloves. Ski passes dangled from his zipper while he tugged off his hat and tried to tame his hair. “Morning, boss. It’s a cold one out there.”
“That’s why I’m baking bread.” I grinned. “However, I didn’t start the coffee. I decided I would wait for the A-team to arrive.”
“I’m glad you did, because I have a winter roast that I want you to try.” He removed a plastic tub of beans from inside his coat like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Stay put; I’ll be back in a flash.”
He darted upstairs. I loved seeing his enthusiasm when it came to coffee. He had decided to make a significant life change and drop out of college to pursue his passion. Thankfully his family supported his career shift. His grandma had helped him set up a roaster on her property, and Mom and I had been committed to sending him to courses and workshops on roasting techniques. Next on our list was to take him on a tour of some of the growing regions where we sourced our beans.
I could hear beans pulverizing in the grinder, followed shortly by their intoxicating scent.
Steph, Sterling, and Marty arrived shortly after Andy. It was hard to believe that we’d been working together for as long as we had. Turnover on the ship—and, quite honestly, in most professional kitchens—was a big problem. Fortunately, my team was like a second family. Everyone had their own roles and autonomy. Marty was the most recent hire. He focused on bread and pizza dough. Sterling had taken over savory items and had the official title of sous chef, although I felt it was time to offer him a promotion.
Copyright © 2024 by Katherine Dyer-Seeley.
