Strawberry scandal, p.13
Strawberry Scandal, page 13
There’s a slingshot competition, wherein you try to hit a dancing strawberry cutout by shooting foam faux berries at it. The prize for a direct hit is a crown with plastic strawberries that light up.
Sewn beanbags in the shape of strawberries are employed in dozens of cornhole games, which are set up all down the length of the outer edge of the field. It makes my heart happy to see everyone laughing and finding fun wherever they turn.
There’s nothing to buy, which is one of the great things about most of the events in Sweetwater Falls. It’s a day for residents and vendors alike to come together to celebrate one common theme: strawberries. Logan only left my side once so far, and it was to get me a tall glass of strawberry lemonade. In this heat, that sounds like the best thing for my parched throat.
Really, it’s a day for everyone to get out of the comfort of their air-conditioned homes and sweat with the neighbors who make them laugh. This way, we’ll make memories we can build on and share for years to come.
I am about to make such a memory right now.
“Can you hand me that stack of love letters?” I ask Kurt, who is seated beside me. Neither of us can enjoy the hours spent manning the library’s booth without the assistance of chairs.
Kurt slides them over to me, his eyes tethering back to his son. “Isn’t Dwight great? To be able to make a costume is one thing, but to craft it so you can dance around and entertain in it for hours is an entirely other talent. He’s even got a fan in there, so he doesn’t overheat. He’s so smart. Always has been.”
I love how much Kurt adores his son. I didn’t even think about how hot it must be inside the costume. All I’ve been focused on whenever I see Dwight dancing by us are the red tights he’s wearing. I am curious to know whether or not he had to shave his legs first.
Marianne and I decided half an hour ago that Dwight most certainly had to shave his legs. Otherwise, we would see little hairs poking through the thin crimson material.
My favorite librarian yawns. “We should cancel the flight lessons you scheduled for tomorrow. I’ve been up all night. I don’t think I should be behind the wheel of anything that flies. The birds will riot.”
“Nice try,” I tell her, resituating two of the books on the table. I want to make sure each book is visible to the passersby, so they will be properly tempted to peruse the pages from their genre of choice. “You know Aunt Winnie was firm that if we don’t use the gift certificates for free flying lessons this week, she’s going to force us to go skydiving on top of it all.”
Marianne grimaces. “I was hoping she was kidding, but I saw her with a brochure for skydiving sticking out of her pocket today.” She throws her head back. “Fine. But this time, we’d better not find a dead body. If we do, I quit.”
“Deal. That’s more than fair.”
Marianne waves Karen over to the table. “Are you ready?” she asks the spry old woman.
Kurt glances up at Marianne. “Ready for what?”
Karen grins at Kurt, mischief on her mind, as per usual. “Absolutely.” She strolls to stand beside his chair behind the table. “Kurt, it’s a crying shame to have you pinned behind this booth for this long. Charlotte has to be here, because if she so much as stands, we’re all certain she’ll throw herself at a criminal and come home bruised up again. You, on the other hand, seem sensible enough to be able to take a lap around the festival without getting into too much trouble.” She offers her hand to him with such assuredness; it’s a wonder how anyone ever tells her no.
Kurt studies Karen’s offer with hesitance. I can tell he’s not looking forward to turning her down. “I’m sorry, Karen. I don’t know that I can make it all that far without…” He doesn’t want to voice his concerns aloud, being that they’re tied to his insecurities surrounding his medical limitations. He knows that he will need help, which is a hard fact for anyone to accept in life. Either people will notice, or worse, no one will notice, and he’ll fall and hurt himself.
Karen is careful with Kurt’s caution. “I know all about Parkinson’s Disease. I promise to be your crutch.” She rests her hand atop his, which tremors slightly under her touch. “I also know that Deanna used to hold your hand through the town festivals. It’s hard enough to get through one of these without your favorite person by your side. So here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to hold your hand while we walk down one row. We’ll stop at every booth, play every game, and eat everything we see until we never want to consume another strawberry for the rest of our lives (or at least until the strawberry festival comes around again this time next year). Then I’ll bring you right back to this chair to rest. Twenty minutes later, Agnes is going to stop by and do the same thing, holding your hand and taking you to the second row of booths. Then twenty minutes after that, Winifred will be your date for the afternoon to explore the next row. And Betty’s scooping you up after that. If you let her win at cornhole, we’ll never hear the end of it, so go for the jugular, Kurt.” Then, in case anything more might be needed to seal the deal, her tone turns tender. “Deanna played Bridge with us. You know how much we loved her. She would want you to see it all, to experience it all. She would want one of us to hold your hand, so you didn’t have to do it all alone. Winifred, Agnes, and I were fighting over who would get the privilege of paying respect to Deanna today by holding your hand. We resorted to fisticuffs. There were heated screaming matches. We even engaged in a bidding war that led to the mortgaging of our homes.” She pauses when I snicker at the visual. “Finally, we decided we would all show up for you and Deanna, if you’ll have us.”
Kurt’s eyes are misty, but I’m downright sniffling back tears at the sweetness. “You’d really do that for Deanna?”
Karen leans in, fixing her gaze on his so there is no miscommunication that might occur. “We’re happily doing it for the two of you. And we’re doing it selfishly, because it’s fun to have someone to walk with around the festival. Don’t you tell me to be less selfish. That’s a life lesson I’m not willing to learn today.” Her fingers curl around his. “There’ll be no more sitting on the sidelines, Kurt. You’ve got several hot dates lined up. We want to see every single strawberry in Sweetwater Falls.”
I help Kurt to stand, blinking back tears.
Before he can overthink it, his free hand falls into Karen’s. The two go off on their adventure to see the best strawberries Sweetwater Falls has to offer.
I could not love this place more.
When Logan sidles up to me with a cold glass of strawberry lemonade and a kiss on the cheek, I am convinced that there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be young and grow old.
The End.
Please consider leaving a review.
STRAWBERRY BALSAMIC CUPCAKE RECIPE
Yield: One Dozen Cupcakes
Betty’s movements slow. Her eyes turn cautious, and I can tell she is choosing her words carefully. “Would you like me to show you how I make mine?”
My posture lightens at the turn the morning is taking. “How do I say yes without squealing and begging?”
Betty’s shoulders relax, and she turns her focus back to the chocolate cupcakes with a grin stretching her cheeks. “Let me finish this up. Then we’ll make a new kind of mess in here.”
I turn back to my notebook, this time with renewed energy and optimism. If I can finally make a poundcake that’s light and fluffy, then I will truly be unstoppable.
-Strawberry Scandal, by Molly Maple
For the Cupcake:
½ cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup granulated sugar
¼ cup sour cream
¾ cup buttermilk
1 ½ tsp pure vanilla extract
¼ tsp almond extract
2 egg whites
1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
For the Jam Filling:
2 cups strawberries, diced fine
¼ cup granulated sugar
3 Tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 ½ Tbsp cornstarch
1 ½ Tbsp warm water
1 tsp lemon zest
For the Frosting:
1 ½ cup heavy whipping cream
¼ cup granulated sugar
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
½ cup strawberry balsamic jam filling
Instructions for the Cupcake:
Preheat the oven to 350°F.
Using a stand mixer, beat the egg whites until they form stiff peaks. Transfer to chilled bowl and set aside.
Using the cleaned stand mixer, cream at medium-low speed ½ cup softened unsalted butter, 1 cup granulated sugar, ¼ cup sour cream, ¾ cup buttermilk, 1 ½ tsp pure vanilla extract, and ¼ tsp almond extract until well combined.
In a medium bowl, sift together 1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour, 1 tsp baking powder, ¼ tsp baking soda, ½ tsp salt. Add this to the butter mixture and mix on medium speed until well combined.
Gently fold in the egg whites using a spatula.
Divide the batter into your 12-count lined cupcake pan, filling each one 2/3 the way full. Bake for 18-20 minutes at 350°F, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.
Let them cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack. Cool to room temperature before frosting or filling
Instructions for the Strawberry Balsamic Jam Filling:
Using a whisk, make a slurry in a small bowl using 1 ½ Tbsp cornstarch and 1 ½ Tbsp warm water until well combined.
In a saucepan, combine 2 cups strawberries finely diced, ¼ cup granulated sugar, 3 Tbsp balsamic vinegar, and 1 tsp lemon zest. Stir frequently until berries start to break down and thicken slightly.
Add the cornstarch slurry, and bring to a gentle boil, stirring frequently. Once it reaches a loose jam consistency, remove from the heat. It will thicken more as it cools.
Set aside to cool.
Instructions for the Strawberry Frosting:
Using a stand mixer, whisk 1 ½ cup heavy whipping cream, ¼ cup granulated sugar, and 1 tsp pure vanilla extract until stiff peaks form.
Whip in ½ cup of the strawberry balsamic jam filling.
To Assemble the Cupcake:
After cupcakes are cooled, fill a piping bag with the strawberry balsamic jam. Insert the tip into the cupcake and fill.
Top with a generous scoop of strawberry frosting (I use a melon baller).
25
POMERANIAN PUZZLE PREVIEW
Please enjoy a free preview of book one in the Apple Blossom Bay series by Molly Maple
The air feels different in Apple Blossom Bay. It’s not just the smack of the ocean infiltrating my freckled nose and the pores on my face; there’s a depth to the air that somehow makes my whole body feel light.
I can’t remember the last time I felt a lightness in my spirit, much less my body.
The drive from Chicago to Apple Blossom Bay took approximately seven million hours in my beat-up old red sedan, which is only a slight exaggeration. While the actual drive didn’t take quite that long, the road to get me to come back to the town where my aunt lives has been two decades too many.
With an eviction notice looming and my mom hinting for the fiftieth time that my aunt could use some help around her house, since she’s getting on in years, I packed up my things and drove across the country to a town so small, my GPS practically quirked its eyebrow at me when I typed in the new address.
Admitting defeat that my job at the gas station wouldn’t and couldn’t pay my bills is a shame I have carried through every rest stop along the way. The only thing I will miss back home is the stray dog who came sniffing around the gas station around noon every day, begging for treats, which I happily baked for him.
I wonder if he misses me, and who will give him treats now that I’m gone.
My parents warned me that living on my own was a bad idea. They wanted me to get a desk job that matched the degree they picked out for me. They said working at the gas station would be too tricky without my prosthetic hand, but that wasn’t what slowed me down. It rarely is.
My rent increased and my hourly wage never climbed to match, so the gap between what came in and what went out grew wider and wider.
I hate that I failed. I hate that my parents were right.
I didn’t know if I would be glad to be back in Apple Blossom Bay until I cross the city limits. Finally, the knot in my chest that I assumed would be permanent begins to loosen.
Maybe it’s the pollution from the city air that never really lets you enjoy a full breath.
Maybe it’s the lack of nature back home starkly contrasted with greenery so lush; it spoils you at first glance.
Whatever it is that fills my lungs with serenity now convinces me in a single breath that packing up my life in the city and moving across the country wasn’t such a bad idea after all. In fact, it just might be the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I march up the driveway. I knock on the front door of the address from which my favorite aunt sends me a Christmas card every year.
I haven’t seen my Aunt Em since I was a little girl. I hope she is still that magical person in my memory who brings joy easily to everyone she’s near.
I should have stopped at a gas station on the way to splash some water on my face or something. I’m sure I look as road weary as I feel.
Though, maybe my aunt won’t care that my strawberry blonde hair is knotted into a lopsided ponytail, and my gray shirt is wrinkled beyond repair. Hopefully she won’t notice the coffee stain on the thigh of my jeans that I acquired during an unfortunate merging situation two states ago.
I’m not supposed to steer my car with my knee. I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.
My mom has a good many stories about how upsettingly absurd her sister has always been, so I don’t know what to expect, or how nervous I should be.
All the way nervous, my adrenal system informs me, as it always does when anything outside my normal routine rears its ugly head.
I do well with systems. With predictability. With order and routine. I stayed at the same job without a raise for all seven years of my adult life. Now here I am, twenty-five and starting over in a new place where I cannot predict a single thing.
My dad claims I am special needs, just because I was born without my right hand. He also tells his friends that I am bisexual, only he says it in a whisper, as if it’s something strange.
My mom tells everyone who will listen that I have OCD, and that I live “an alternative lifestyle,” simply because I like men and women.
I have no idea which labels I want to claim as mine.
Unhappy, my heart tells me, though I try not to listen.
Scared, my stomach tells me when thoughts of all the new things I will need to adjust to dawn on me.
I don’t know where Aunt Em’s bathroom is. I don’t know if she wears shoes in the house. I don’t know how she cleans her floors, or even what sort of floors she has inside. I don’t know what size bed I’ll be sleeping on, and therefore I don’t know if the sheets I brought will fit. I don’t know what my aunt likes to eat, or if she has dietary restrictions.
Sweat dampens my armpits and the crooks of my elbows, as it always does when my worry overtakes my sanity. I set down one of my suitcases on the porch, hoping my aunt likes me.
I tap the thumb on my left hand to my middle finger three times and take a deep breath.
I can do this. I can start over. People do it all the time.
When I press the doorbell, my eyes fall on a note taped to the door with my name on it.
Dearest Hannah Grapefruit,
I’m looking at houses. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back soon.
Love,
Aunt Emily
I smile at the silly nickname I’d long since forgotten. Everyone called me Hannah Banana when I was a little girl, which I took issue with as a precocious child. Aunt Emily was the only one who listened to my fussing and started tacking a different fruit onto the end of my name, which I greatly appreciated.
I have a small collection of memories of my Aunt Em, but most of what I know has come from my mother—the older sibling who is constantly frustrated that her younger sister never quite learned to take the world and its expectations seriously.
Which is, coincidentally, the exact issue my mother has with me.
After I graduated with a business degree and no real plan on how to make a living with it, I was shunted into the same category to which my mother relegated my eccentric aunt. When Mom got word that Aunt Em might need help around the house, it was heavily “suggested” that I pack up and move across the country to be with the only other member of our family who was born without a serious edge and unbreakable drive.
I take in another cleansing breath, willing the ocean air to tell me I belong here.
To tell me I belong anywhere.
I tuck a stray strawberry blonde curl behind my ear and push open the heavy front door, timid in announcing my presence to the empty ranch home, as if it must know I am a stranger who doesn’t belong here.
“I’m walking into the house,” I sing awkwardly and most certainly off-key. Even though I am making up the tune as I go, it is obvious even to the owl-shaped ceramic cookie jar on the coffee table beside the lime green couch that I am tone deaf.
Hopefully the ceramic owl doesn’t judge me too harshly.
The moment I set down my suitcase, my cell phone rings in my pocket. “Aunt Em? I’m here!” I sing once again, making myself wince with my lack of finesse when it comes to carrying a tune.
