Lovesick by James Driggers Read Free Book Online Page B

goad him. He always took the bait.
    â€œPhew! There isn’t a store-bought pastry that can hold a candle to this, little miss. Just can’t do it.”
    â€œA cake from the store is sweeter.”
    â€œThat’s because all it is, is sugar. Sugar and spit. You can’t buy this in a store—unless it was a store where I sold this. Maybe you just need another slice to tell how good it is.” And he would smile at the girl, who would readily accept the pastry from him. Virginia could tell she enjoyed the attention. When Mona would relax toward him a bit, Virginia could see what attracted him. Her beauty. How hard that was for her. Mona, of course, had no concept of it, and Virginia knew that it was only in the losing of a thing that it became invaluable. She struggled now to make her appearance what it should be, but she knew she was no longer young. No longer the ingénue. Time for parts that required more skill.
    Virginia had to agree with Butcher about his pies and cakes. His baking was extraordinary. Cakes seemed to melt away in her mouth. If there was frosting, it wasn’t just sticky goo holding the layers together, but possessed its own delicate, complementary character. George said that a cake was like a necklace. The layers were the jewels, but the frosting was the chain. “You wouldn’t tie a diamond around your neck with a piece of twine,” he said. Every detail mattered to him, was instrumental. He demanded that she adopt the same attitude. Bowl after bowl of flour and lard went into the trash. The nuggets of lard were too large, too mushy, too something. Virginia thought she would never get it right, but finally after many failed attempts, she mastered the technique, so the lard blended into the flour like tiny pea-sized pearls.
    But even that accomplishment was short-lived, for with each foothold gained came a new challenge. Next came the wet ingredients. He showed her how to determine the correct water temperature so she could tell it was okay to crumble the fresh yeast cake into it—too hot or too cold would kill the yeast. “It’s a living thing. You have to remember that. And if you notice any little specks of mold on it, toss it out—it’s going off.” He showed her how to add vinegar to milk to sour it. “Buttermilk is always best, but you can’t always get it. This works almost as well. And it’s a good trick to have up your sleeve.” The yeast and sour milk were combined, and he stirred them into the flour just so the mixture held together. “Too much mixing and the biscuits will be tough.”
    After that came the kneading. He turned the whole bowl onto the countertop, which had been dusted with flour. He took a long metal spoon from the drawer and pressed it to the back of her hand. “Feel how cool this is,” he said. “This is how you want your hand to feel. Some people have a natural coolness to them. My mam had it. I don’t, so I try to cool my hands a bit before touching the dough. Want to keep it cool, keep that lard from melting from the heat of your hand.” Instinctively, she thrust her hand out toward him. She thought of how the women from the DOC would react to her holding her hand for this colored man to inspect.
    â€œIt’ll do,” he said, touching his fingertips to her palm. “A little on the cool side, and you have a soft surface. No calluses.” He showed her how to knead the dough, quickly, but firmly, using only five or six quick thrusts with the base of her hand, turning the dough after each push. The dough ball was then gathered and put in a large bowl, covered in cellophane, and put into the icebox. “Let it rest for a spell,” he said. “You’d be good to roll ’em out for dinner. But you can do a double batch in the afternoon, bake the second half in the morning.”
    She peeked several times at the dough resting gently in the bowls in the