When we got to town, I told my parents that I had some “research” to do at the General Store and that I’d meet them at the library.
The store looked the same as it had the first time I’d been there: dark and empty except for Winnie. She was in the back stacking egg cartons.
“Hi,” I said.
I waited for her to say something back, but when it was clear she wasn’t going to, I went on. “Those eggs were really good.” I paused again, but Winnie just kept stacking cartons like I wasn’t even there. “My whole family thought so.”
Still nothing.
“And you were right. Those yolks were orange. I mean, like really orange. I’ve never seen that before.”
That’s when she finally stopped and turned around. “It’s because my chickens spend their days outside in the sunshine eating plants like God intended.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. Did God bless you with better eggs if you were kinder to your chickens? I must have looked as confused as I was because then she said, “See, the sunlight and the chlorophyll from the plants give the yolk that orange color. Those nasty, pale, tasteless yolks mean the chickens don’t go outside.”
“Wow, that’s really interesting,” I said.
Winnie rolled her eyes. “You going to buy some more or what?”
“I actually wanted to ask you some questions about those doughnuts you used to make,” I said, pointing to the sign.
“Oh, goodie.”
“I just wanted to know if maybe, uh, if maybe I could have the recipe,” I said quickly.
“My doughnut recipe?” She poured herself a mug of coffee from a thermos on the counter.
I nodded.
“Why?”
It was a simple question, but I panicked.
As she watched me stammer, she smacked a packet of sugar against her hand like Danny Delaney from Little League used to do with his bat right before he tried to hit you with it.
After a couple of false starts, something began to spill out. “See, I know they’re your doughnuts, but since they were so popular, they’re also part of the town too, you know, like its history, and I just moved here and I thought that making the doughnuts would be a way of sort of getting to know the town.”
I’d barely finished talking when Winnie burst out laughing, spewing coffee all over me. You’d think if you laughed in somebody’s face and spat a hot beverage at him, you’d apologize, but no. Winnie just went right on laughing till she was gasping for breath like she was having a heart attack. And I just had to stand there and take it while she laughed in my face with the coffee all over it.
“Oh, I needed that,” she said when she finally came up for air. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a napkin, then handed one to me. “Now, why do you really want the recipe?”
“Fine. Fine!” I snapped. I was over trying to get on her good side. What was the point? She clearly didn’t have one. She was the evil doughnut witch of Petersville. “I just want one! Okay? My parents forced us to move here, and as far as I can tell, the best thing about this place is those doughnuts, so I just want one, okay?”
“Okay, okay. You just want one.” She looked like she might burst out laughing again any second.
“That’s not all,” I said.
“There’s more? You going to tell me now you think you can cure cancer with my doughnuts?”
“No. I was going to tell you that my parents are forcing me to come up with a project I can work on till I start school here, and I’ve decided your doughnuts are it.”
“A doughnut’s not really a project.”
“I know! I know! A doughnut isn’t a project. I get it.”
“So I’m still not clear on how my recipe would help?”
Neither was I exactly, but an idea had begun to form right there as I’d been talking. “What if my project was bringing the chocolate cream doughnut back to Petersville?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you don’t want people to forget the doughnuts, right? But eventually they will, unless they can still have them.”
“I guess, but I told you I’m not making—”
“I know. But I could make them. I could make them and sell them. Like a hot dog guy. Only I’d sell doughnuts.”
“Let me get this straight: You want to make and sell my doughnuts?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And how are people gonna know they’re my doughnuts?” she asked like she’d just caught me cheating at cards.
“We can say it right there on the sign.”
“Say what exactly?”
“Whatever you want. Winnie’s Chocolate Cream Doughnuts. The General Store’s Famous Doughnuts. Winnie’s Heavenly Doughnuts.”
“The General Store’s Famous Doughnuts sounds pretty good,” she said, nodding.
“So it’s a deal?” I held out my hand for her to shake.
Winnie crossed her arms. “Not so fast. I can’t just give you the recipe.”
“Why not?” I should have known it couldn’t be that easy.
“’Cause I don’t know if you can bake. You need to make me something.”
“You mean like a tryout?”
“That’s right. Like a tryout, so I know you’re good enough.”
“Uh, okay. What do you want me to make?”
“Some kind of sweet. If I like it, I’ll give you my recipe.”
“Deal,” I said, and this time, she shook my hand.
8
I found everybody sitting around a table in the library’s reading room. Jeanine was deep into a book called Rodents of North America, while Zoe, Mom, and Dad were flipping through cookbooks and old cooking magazines.
“Mmm. Let’s put this on the menu,” Zoe said, holding up a photo of a glass filled with pink cream.
“Oh, I love fool,” Mom said. “But it’s only good when raspberries are in season, so I wouldn’t put it on the regular menu.”
Mom had decided to spend the winter experimenting with recipes for her restaurant, and then she’d look for a space in the spring.
“Couldn’t you just make it with other fruit?” I asked.
“Not really. It only works because the raspberries fall apart when you mix them into the whipped cream.”
“Are
