The Key Ingredient Read Online Free

feels a bit warmer after that hug. I step back and make the introductions.
    â€œI promised Annie I wouldn’t swoon over you,” Mom says to Martin, “but I might have to break that rule.”
    â€œI’m okay with swooning,” Martin assures her, brushing aside the handshake and bringing her in for a hug. “Thank you for having us.”
    â€œIt’s my pleasure,” she says. By now, everyone is inside, wet boots and coats lining the mudroom. “I’ve got plenty of coffee all ready to go.”
    My mother is a painter. It’s her lifelong passion. She works in a studio Dad built for her up over the garage. The room is filled with light, and she spends hours there, creating breathtaking landscapes with roiling skies and sweeping vistas. She also does intimate portraits and still lifes. When she paints, she disappears somewhere. You can be standing next to her, but she’s deep in the world of her painting and scarcely notices what’s right in front of her.
    Perhaps one reason she and I used to get into arguments is that we have a lot in common. Like me, she wanted to travel the world, go to college, create a vibrant career around the things she loves to do.
    Unlike me, my mother never pursued those old dreams of hers. Because something more important came up—­family.
    It’s amazing how quickly and thoroughly your priorities shift when there’s an unplanned pregnancy and a hurry-­up marriage. You set everything aside to make room for the tiny new stranger coming into your life—­uninvited, but desperately wanted and devotedly loved.
    My brother, Kyle, came along, and my folks settled at the farm. Mom set aside her dream. Dad kept dreaming, but he hunkered down and tried to make it work. Eight years later, I was born. Considering what happened to my parents’ marriage, I was probably their last-­ditch effort to stay together. And they did, for a good while. Ten years. That’s how old I was when Dad left.
    Gran had a different idea about making dreams come true. She did it right there at home, late at night when the rest of the family slept. She was wide awake while everyone else was dreaming. As a young wife and mother who loved being in the kitchen, she discovered a talent for creative cookery. And so, with no formal training and nothing but a high school education, she wrote a cookbook. She had already edited the charity cookbook for the Switchback Congregational Church, meaning she pretty much had to write or rewrite all the donated recipes. After that, she figured she had enough experience to write a cookbook of her own from recipes she’d developed over the years.
    I take a copy of the book from the shelf, hand it to Martin and tell him the story behind it. “Gran didn’t rest until she found a publisher. Not just any publisher, but a major house in Boston that specializes in illustrated cookbooks. It became a regional bestseller and stayed in print for more than a decade.”
    â€œShe must have been incredible,” Martin said. “Now I see where your inspiration comes from.”
    I smile, warmed by the comment. “When I was a kid, I set a goal to make every recipe in the book, and I met that goal by the time I was a junior in high school. I’ve done some of the recipes so many times that I’ve memorized them.”
    I flip through the book, able to recall the occasion that went along with each recipe. Gran’s maple-­glazed pumpkin-­spice cookies are a perfect example of a bake-­sale item. They’re also the perfect cookie, if you ask me—­spicy, soft and comforting with a glass of milk or a cup of tea. The recipe makes about three dozen cookies, which will disappear at a startling rate.
    To make them (and I recommend that you do, because they are delicious in the extreme), you need a half cup of unsalted butter, softened by putting the stick in your apron pocket while you get out