The Traveling Tea Shop (8 page)

Today he’s sharing his updated spin on Connecticut’s Hartford Election Cake—Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes. (Connecticut is known as the Nutmeg State and its residents as Nutmeggers.) I know the results are going to be good because this is a man who says, “Baking is an act of love done to bring pleasure to the world.” Isn’t that gorgeous? Of course, I know better than to expect wild applause from Pamela. Not that she’s not grateful, she’s just so distracted . . .

Aware that we need to get a move on, Ravenna repeatedly lags behind. I can see this is stressing Pamela, so I suggest she and Gracie go on ahead, giving them the address of the host’s bake shop across the bridge and reassuring them that they can’t miss Warren’s striking six-foot-three-inch form. For many years he was known for his slimline dreadlocks, but now his head is clean-shaven, all the better to see his bright smile.

Warren is actually based in Washington DC, but he’s passing through Connecticut on his way home from a reunion at Brown University in Rhode Island. He graduated from there with a BA in history, went on to do a law degree with a master’s in public health, and it was while he was working as a litigator for the inspector general that he found his true calling as a cake baker. He now owns three CakeLove bakeries and is moving into wholesale with an ingenious cake-in-a-jar product called Cake Bites.

Aren’t people fascinating?

And annoying. Ravenna is now on the phone, slowing her all the more. At one point she even takes a few steps in the opposite direction.

“Come on!” I yell back to her. “We’re going to miss the crossing.”

I can see a tall ship approaching, and goodness only knows how long the process takes for the bridge to split, rear up and then rejoin itself.

At least Pamela and Gracie are safely across. I weigh my options—if I forget Ravenna, I can make it to where I need to be. On time. If I stay and play babysitter, I’ll look unprofessional to the man I worked so hard to set up this meeting with.

“Ravenna!”

She turns away in annoyance, hand covering the phone. I begin marching toward her and then hear the sound of the barrier lowering across the street.

Will I never learn?

What is it that makes some of us choose to try and save the contrary person while others accept that they need to be responsible for their own lives and don’t even look back? Why am I still doing this when I really should know better?

“What’s going on?” Ravenna finally appears by my side.

“They’re letting a ship pass through.”

“So now we just have to wait here?” she grumps.

“Because of you!” I want to scream, but what’s the point?

It’s like they say—if you want to develop more patience, spend more time with frustrating people.

Pamela and Warren are getting on famously by the time we arrive. (Famously being an apt word, since they’ve both had their own TV shows.) Coincidentally his wife’s name is Pamela and they both agree that patience is key when it comes to baking—taking your time every step of the way.

“The best parts of life are in the roads traveled to get to your destination.”

(When I read this line on his website, I knew he had to be part of this project!)

He’s equally thoughtful while ruminating on the joy-inducing nature of cakes: “I think it’s all about memories—cake harks back to the earliest recall we have of gathering with others, celebrating with song, cheers, wishes and being in the spotlight. Everyone likes that a little and, even if you don’t, it’s still a special moment of every year that forces everyone to focus on themselves. I think that has something to do with the staying power of cake—especially when it’s targeted as the unhealthy bogeyman in one’s diet!”

As we watch him top the now-cooled cupcakes with old-fashioned buttercream frosting, I ask which recipe he liked best from his state-wide research for the
United Cakes of America.

“Well, there are so many,” he muses. “I enjoyed the avocado cupcake for California because it’s so different.”

“I’ll say!” Gracie concurs.

“It’s good; most won’t give it a try. And the sweet potato cake for Louisiana is great—it reminds me of the holidays we spent with family from that part of the Deep South.”

He then brings us neatly back to New England as he sets his finished batch of Nutmeg Spice Cupcakes before us.

“They smell so wonderful!” we chorus.

In between mouthfuls of flavorful sponge (and licking frosted fingertips), I show Pamela the 1796 recipe for the traditional Hartford Election Cake, which Warren notes “makes enough to feed an entire church.” It also makes for amusing reading—the instructions may only comprise one paragraph, but they are curiously specific:

“Make a sponge of the milk and flour at four o’clock, at nine mix together . . .”

“Did you actually test it out?” I ask Warren.

“I did,” he cringes. “Very bad. The entire pound of raisins made it way too heavy.”

Gracie can’t help but chuckle. “That’s exactly what Georgie loved about my fruit cake. He said it sat like a brick in his stomach. In a good way.”

And then she proceeds to show us just how weighty it is.

It’s fun watching Gracie at work. She has so many similar mannerisms to Pamela. People used to say that about me and Mum. We both had very “descriptive” hands. And you couldn’t tell our voices apart on the phone. I always liked hearing that. It’s strange to me that Ravenna wants to distance herself from Pamela’s identity in every possible way.

Ravenna’s sitting outside now, watching a schooner prepare for its afternoon cruise.

Once we’ve bid Warren a grateful good-bye, promising to visit his DC shop next time we’re dropping in to the White House, I head over to her.

“Are we going to the hotel now?” she sighs.

“Actually we’re not staying the night in Connecticut,” I disappoint her. “Rhode Island is just fifty miles away, so we thought it made sense to spend two nights in Newport, what with the bus to sort out and all.”

“So we’ll be there in about an hour?”

“Not quite,” I grimace. “Today is unusual in that we have more than one cake appointment, the rest of the schedule isn’t quite so jam-packed. Pardon the pun.”

Ravenna holds my gaze. “Where
exactly
are we going next?”

Oh she’s going to love this one.

“It’s an old mill. Very rustic. We’re going to learn how to make Johnny Cakes.”

She raises a brow.

“Apparently it’s some kind of fried gruel.”

“Right,” she nods as she gets to her feet. “This time you can leave me in the car.” As she walks away she adds a muttered, “And don’t bother cracking the window.”

It feels important to mention, as soon as possible, that the name Johnny Cakes may be the misheard (or slightly slurred) version of “journey cakes,” as in an enduring snack you could pop in your sackcloth bag as you set off trekking.

They are not really cakes in the teatime sense, being neither sweet nor spongy. Mostly you find them on the breakfast menus at roadside diners.

“And the primary ingredient is white flint corn?” Pamela peers over my shoulder at my notes.

“Yes, it’s one of the main food crops of the Native Indians—they were the originators of this recipe. Which also leads to theories about the name evolving from Shawnee Cake. You can hear the similarity if you say them one after the other.”

“Shawnee Cake, Johnny Cake,” she repeats. “Oh yes.”

“The ‘flint’ aspect refers to the hard exterior of the kernels, and this particular strain is exclusive to the soils of Rhode Island,” I continue, “which happens to be the smallest state in America.”

“Bless.”

When we arrive at Kenyon’s Grist Mill in the little village of Usquepaugh, Ravenna keeps to her word by staying in the car. She can’t see any reason to get out since there’s just an excess of foliage and a few “ye olde” buildings beside a river.

Of course this doesn’t stop her being a pain in the behind. Our charming host—Paul Drumm—is just explaining how the mill was founded in 1696, and showing us the giant granite millstone that grinds corn to flour (apparently stone ground is far superior to modern steel methods, both in terms of texture and preserving the nutrients) when Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” starts blaring out from the direction of the car.

“Excuse me for a moment.” I elect to handle the situation, fighting the urge to take one of the blunt work tools along with me.

I rap on the window. “Headphones break?”

“What?” Ravenna yells over the music. “Can’t hear!”

I reach to open the door and she quickly silences the stereo.

“What do you want?” I ask, crouching beside her in my best Supernanny pose.

“What do I want?”

“Well, you are attention-seeking, so here I am—you have my attention.”

“I’m bored!” she huffs.

“So?”

“Well, what am I supposed to do for the next hour?”

“Eon not available for a chat now?”

“He’s at a show.” She lets her head loll back.

“You still have your music, your iPad—”

“Urgh!”

I take a breath. “Do you want to check out the gift shop?”

This is all it would take to perk me up as a child. I must confess I wasn’t terribly enamored of nature myself back then. Jessica could amuse herself for hours making daisy chains, but not me. I was always more of the retail therapy persuasion, even if it was just picking out a funny little seaside ornament for my grandparents. I would study every little shell animal, determined to find the one whose eyes were stuck on straight with no wayward globules of glue. Even today, I feel the need to touch every item on the shelves.

•   •   •

“Stone Ground Johnny Cake,” I read as I reach for a pack of Kenyon’s White Corn Meal, admiring the vintage design—darkest navy background, red etching of the mill, white lettering. “This is what they’ll be using to cook with.”

To the left of the main building, Paul has set up an outdoor preparation table, just to add to the “simpler times” quality of the process. He seems a very nice man. People who love their work often are.

“So what is Mum trading here?” Ravenna shows a glimmer of curiosity as she follows my gaze.

“Scones,” I reply. “We thought it should be something fairly robust; something you could throw in your travel bag that wouldn’t fall to pieces along the way.”

“Plain scones?”

“We’re showing him the Devon cream variety.”

“Ahh,” Ravenna nods. “The added bonus of clogged arteries.”

I pick up a packet of Poison Ivy Relief. It’s a horrible thing to be prickled by that plant—major itching and irritation. I wonder if the cure would work on Ravenna?

“Don’t get any ideas.” She seems to read my mind.

“Did you ever help your mum in the kitchen?” I ask as we move on to the pancake section.

She gives me a look of suspicion. “Of course. When I was a child.”

“But not lately?”

“Nope. I’ve got better things to do with my time now.”

Ah, if only she could just remember what those better things are . . .

I wait by the till as she purchases a Scrabble tile bracelet. Bit of a departure from Tiffany’s—little squares of wood branded with black letters. All very eco-chic. Then again, I don’t know what word she is planning to spell out.

“Shall we go and see how they’re getting on?” I ask as we step back into the leafy sunshine.

“You go. I’ll wait in the car. With my headphones.”

Well, at least she’s learning some consideration.

•   •   •

Pamela’s scones look a dream—all warm and buttery and golden. The clotted cream and strawberry jam I prearranged are sitting in china ramekins ready to be dolloped. My stomach yawps in delight. But I am not being offered one of those. (The bulk of the batch has already been assigned to a charitable institute in Newport that offers assistance to anyone affiliated with the sea—fishermen, sailors, former Navy personnel, etc. Arby’s wife used to volunteer there with her church group and so Gracie thought a donation of freshly baked scones would be a nice touch.)

“Here, try a Johnny Cake.” Gracie hands me a small plate featuring an insipid flattened circle the size of a Scotch pancake.

The white of the corn makes it look undercooked, rather too much like a splat of lard.

I take a forkful. Crispy on the outside with a gritty paste of an interior. I can’t quite discern a flavor . . .

“Try it with a bit of butter.”

I take another bite. Still nothing.

“Now with a drizzle of maple syrup. That’s how most folks round here have them.”

Better, though the dense, sandy texture does take some getting used to.

“Apparently they are best when there’s leftover bacon grease on the hot plate,” Pamela explains.

“I see.”

“We’re having a Johnny Cake Festival here in October with a whole host of varieties,” Paul tells us. “Michael over at The Station House Restaurant is doing smoked salmon and crème fraîche.”

Goodness! Could Johnny Cakes be the new crêpe? Of course to test this theory I would have to try one with a layer of Nutella, but sadly there’s no time to experiment—my discreet phone alarm (set to the tune of “If I Knew You Were Comin’ I’d Have Baked a Cake”) is already nudging us on our way to Newport . . .