A Dream of Daring (18 page)

Her students glanced at
each other, their faces attentive, as if they were considering the matter put
before them.

“Books make you a master
of yourself.”

Her words seemed to lift
her listeners in their seats.

She moved her hands
fondly across the books she had accumulated on the table, as if she were
caressing them.

“If you can’t go out to
the world, the world can come here to you—through these books.”

She reached into a
cabinet in the corner and pulled out the primers that Tom had bought. Jerome
helped her distribute one to each student. “This book is
yours
. It’s
your first book.”

The slaves took their
books and looked curiously through the pages.

“This book will teach you
letters. Then it’ll show you how to form words with the letters, and sentences
with the words. You’ll write the letters and words and sentences on your slate
board, as I’ll write them on the blackboard. And you’ll read from your book.”

The slaves’ eyes traveled
back and forth from their teacher to the pages of their first book.

“If you know how to
speak, and read, and write, then you have something no one can ever take away.
Inside yourself, you’re . . . 
free
.”

The last word seemed to
linger in the air.

“Miss Solo?”

The rich timbre of the
carpenter’s voice reached her. Like Jerome, he instinctively addressed Solo
with the title reserved for free women. Being someone who enlightened them, she
seemed to merit the respectful
Miss
, regardless of her social status.

“Yes?”

“Does it say in any o’
dem books dat us gonna . . . one
day . . . be free
outside
ousselfs?”

Her voice was solemn.
“I’ve read that the world is changing, new ways are taking
root . . . like new seeds in the
garden . . . and
that day
is coming.”

Dark, glistening eyes
widened as minds seemed to open to a topic of significance like no other.

“When the time comes,
you’ll be ready.” She held up a copy of their primer. “
This book
is your
ticket to the new day.”

Tom’s figure formed a
dark outline on the veranda, topped by a sparkle of gold hair catching the
moonlight. He looked relaxed on the rocker, his long legs stretching up to the
porch rail, his arms falling limply in his lap. From a distance he might have
seemed to be napping. But a closer look revealed alert blue eyes intrigued by
the lesson drifting out to him. To his amazement, the mysterious creature he
had named Solo was describing the new age.

Chapter
12

By early April, Jerome’s
confidence and skill at his new job had grown. He could be heard directing the objects
under his command as a captain might lead a charge:

“Boil now, dang ya!” he
told the soup kettle.

“No burnin’, ya hear?” he
warned the pancakes.

“C’mon, c’mon! I ain’t
got all day!” he ordered the egg whites as he beat them furiously.

He deployed an arsenal of
kettles and a regiment of pans to the fireplace where he simmered stew, boiled
ham, roasted duck, heated vegetables, fried crullers, and griddled waffles.

With his love for
desserts and sweets, he soon gravitated to baking. He gave an assistant the job
of fireplace cooking so that he could concentrate on the large open mouth in
the wall with the charred brick mustache that was the oven. Early in the
morning on baking days he built a fire in the oven, then stoked the wood until
it burned fiercely. When the bricks had absorbed an intense amount of heat,
Jerome was ready.

He shoveled his prepared
batters in and out of the oven with military precision. His ever-present wood
peel slid the pans around. He made room for all his soldiers, covered the field
evenly, and removed them when they were done to make room for replacements.
First he sent in the pies and loaf cakes, which needed the most intense heat.
Then came the breads. Finally, with the remaining heat, he put in the smaller
items like tarts, biscuits, and cookies. On baking days, Jerome’s battlefield
smelled of smoking-hot lemon tarts, pumpkin pies, and raisin breads. His
production was becoming too much for his plantation family of one diner, Tom,
and for the specialties allowed the bondsmen. It seemed that either Tom would
need to marry and have twelve children or Jerome would need to find another
outlet for his energies.

With Solo’s help, he was
learning to read Mrs. Edmunton’s housekeeping book, which provided a trove of
recipes, as well as guidelines on cooking methods and food handling. He learned
that every ingredient needed special care and attention for the best result. He
tackled the flour, ridding it of impurities, drying it, and sifting it to a
fine consistency for baking. He checked the eggs for freshness. He washed the
butter to remove its preservative salt. He chopped the pecans diligently and
added them to his cakes and breads. He was rewarded for his care with fine
baked goods, and he learned a lesson important to any chef. “Recipes is like
people,” he told Tom. “Whut ya git out o’ them depend on whut they got inside.”

In his foray into baking,
Jerome developed a fascination for one ingredient about all others: chocolate.
He obtained chocolate baking bars from Bayou Redbird’s general store, which
stocked them from a northern manufacturer. Using Mrs. Edmunton’s recipe, Jerome
created a tasty chocolate cake. With his latent creative bent now released,
Jerome was an innovator from the start. He added a touch of vanilla to the
chocolate cake and improved it; then he added chopped walnuts and improved it
again.

“How’s you likin’ yer
mama’s cake?” he asked his master.

Tom smiled. “I think it’s
your
cake now.”

When Jerome melted the
chocolate bars, something magical happened that served as an announcement of
his new presence at Indigo Springs. An incredible aroma of chocolate permeated
the air. The irresistible scent lured the house servants, the craftsmen, and
even Tom to the kitchen door to investigate. The hogs and cows were also curious,
as they wandered toward the little cabin that was emitting the enticing scent.
The smell of chocolate cake fresh from the oven aroused Solo’s students, who
were allowed a piece once a week after their lesson. Jerome basked in their
oohs and aahs over his cake as if they were admiring his newborn baby.

The eager chef tried
adding chocolate to other recipes, sometimes with questionable results. The
guinea pig for his experiments was his unfortunate master. One morning Jerome
added his favorite ingredient to scrambled eggs and biscuits, turning them a
dark brown. He served them to Tom and waited hopefully for his response. But
the chef was disappointed. “You don’t have to put chocolate in everything,”
said Tom, after tasting a breakfast that was the same color as his walnut
dining table.

The maddening scent of
his favorite ingredient drove Jerome to further explorations. On a day when he
was to bake his cake for Solo’s class, an idea occurred to him. The chocolate
had its most intense taste and aroma when it was warmed in melted butter and
sugar, before adding the other ingredients. What would happen, he wondered, if
he added more of the sweetened chocolate and as few additional ingredients as
possible, so the taste would be richer? He began the recipe by doubling the
amount of chocolate and increasing the sugar as he melted them in butter, then
he brought the warm batter to his worktable. To bind the ingredients, he added
eggs, and for richer taste, vanilla. Then to keep the batter thick and the
chocolate intense, he left out the milk and added only half the amount of flour
he normally used in the cake. Before baking, he mixed chopped walnuts into the
batter, which had worked well for him in the cake recipe.

The result was a thick,
compact batter, almost a paste, that barely covered the bottom of a rectangular
cake sheet. After it baked, the lack of any rising worried Jerome, but the
chocolate aroma that the new recipe exuded while it baked was incredibly richer
than that of the cake. He shrugged his shoulders, dubious about his new
concoction, as he left it to cool while he attended Solo’s class.

Afterward, the class
piled into the kitchen, awaiting their taste of Jerome’s cake. But there was no
cake, high and fluffy, inviting them to take a slice. There was only a pan of
something mysterious. Although the sides of the pan were four inches high, the
oddity inside barely rose above an inch. The slaves hesitated.

“Dis fer eatin’?” said
one.

Jerome nodded hesitantly.
The unappetizing item in the pan had a dry brown crust, with cracks in the
surface.

“Look like dirt,” said
another slave.

Jerome’s eyes widened
apprehensively. He took a knife, but his hand paused over the pan before he had
the courage to cut a piece. Solo took the knife from him and completed the
action. The little square she cut held firm on the knife, without the need of a
plate. She grasped it with her fingers. The group watched their teacher
silently, a concerned expression on their faces, as she studied the chocolate
square, smelled it, and finally, cautiously tasted it. The slaves’ eyes
followed the piece into her mouth. Then she smiled.

She cut a piece for
Jerome. He tasted it. Then he smiled.

He cut pieces for the
others, who stepped up, tasted the new treat, and gave their assessments.

“Hey, dis mighty good!”
said one.

“Dis
real
good!”
said another.

“’Taint no cookie. It too
thick.”

“’Taint no cake. It too
small.”

“It’s Jerome’s
chocolate
squares
.” Solo named the item that looked like the dry Louisiana ground
cracking during a drought but tasted more intensely chocolate than a cake and
more chewy than a cookie. She nodded approvingly at the creator.

One slave slapped Jerome
on the back. “Say, man, dis whut chocolate appose ta be!”

The others nodded in
agreement.

Before the pieces were
gone, Solo grabbed one and dashed into the big house. She found Tom reading in
the parlor. She bent down by his chair and held the piece out to him.

“Taste this!”

It was hardly the way a
slave would act toward a master, but neither one seemed to notice. His eyes
moved from her to the two-inch square morsel, amused; then he took it and
tasted.

The next instant, he
sprang up and walked out the back door to the kitchen, with Solo following. In
the darkness he saw the shadows of the class members as they were returning to
their cabins. In the kitchen he found Jerome alone, standing tall in his hat,
an empty pan with a few chocolate crumbs before him.

“What did you do,
Jerome?”

“I change couple things.
You likes it, sir?”

Tom took another bite. He
cocked his head as he chewed slowly, savoring the taste. The man with the
chef’s hat stared at him eagerly. Solo also waited.

“This is
outstanding
,
Jerome.”

The chef face brightened.
So did his teacher’s.

“I’ve traveled a lot, but
I’ve
never
tasted anything like this.” Tom took a third bite, drew out
his enjoyment of it, and then held the remaining morsel up to the lamplight.

“It’s almost a cake, but
not quite. And it’s almost a cookie, but not quite. It’s something different
that has its own unique character.” He looked at the proud man in the tall hat.
“Jerome, you created something entirely new.”

As he consumed the last
bite, Tom surveyed the shelves and found one of the chocolate baking bars in
its package. He picked up the item that was the size of a small brick.

“Is this what you used?”

Jerome nodded.

“Hmm . . .”
Tom read the label aloud:
New and improved flavor. Smooth, velvety texture.

His companions watched
him with interest.

“I’ve read there are new
machines coming out for grinding and smoothing the chocolate inside the cocoa
bean, so more of the flavor is captured.” He held the package up. “This
chocolate must be made with the new methods.”

Tom looked in earnest at
the man society had deemed beneath its notice. “You saw a potential in this
chocolate that no one else has seen. You created something new. That makes you
an
inventor
.”

Jerome looked as if he
had received an award.

The two inventors smiled
at each other. They didn’t know that years later Jerome’s recipe, as well as
countless variations of it, would be created in kitchens around the world and
eagerly consumed by millions. They didn’t know that Jerome had created one of
the earliest—perhaps the first—example of the food that would one day be called
a brownie.

“A new age is coming,”
Tom announced to the intelligent faces watching him. “I didn’t realize till now
that it includes chocolate.” He grinned. “And it apparently includes Jerome.”

Tom held the chocolate
baking bar out to the man who had used it to make something new and remarkable.
Jerome accepted the bar with pride, as a sculptor might accept a block of stone
waiting to be shaped.

Tom’s eyes wandered to a
vision of his own. “Important new things in any field need to be introduced to
the world.” Then his face brightened with an idea. “Say, why don’t you come to
the bank with me tomorrow and bring a pan of these?”

“Huh?”

Whether it was due to his
being asked, rather than ordered, to do something, or the outlandishness of the
suggestion, Tom couldn’t tell, but his slave looked astonished.

“You can set the pan on a
table outside and sell pieces to my customers. And it’ll attract new people to
the bank too.”

There was a long-standing
practice of slaves bartering and selling things in town. Tom didn’t know how
much of this commerce was legal and how much was custom. He knew only that a
worthy discovery needed marketing.

Jerome seemed unable to
find his voice.

“Just be sure someone’s
in the kitchen to make me a little food and handle things—and not burn the
building down.”

“And be sure you come to
class,” said Solo.

Jerome stared at Tom
agape.

“Well?” asked Tom.

“Jerome, do it.” His
teacher nudged.

He gave his answer as a
broad smile.

* * * * *

The next day, decked in
his chef’s hat and the fine clothes from his days as Colonel Edmunton’s head of
the servants, Jerome established his stand outside Tom’s bank. A long
rectangular pan containing his new creation sat on a table. Solo had provided
the sign:
Jerome’s Chocolate Squares, five cents.

The squares were easier
to transport than cake, stayed fresh longer, held together firmly, and could be
eaten with one’s hands. They provided an ideal snack for the people bustling
through the streets of Bayou Redbird.

Soon Jerome’s first
customers came: a hungry shopper, a sea captain, three slaves with a few coins
in their pockets hauling a wagon of cotton to the docks, a couple traveling
with two children, a customer entering the bank. Before long, ten of the sixty
two-inch squares were sold, and Jerome had made fifty cents. The seductive
quality of the chocolate took effect, and several of the customers returned for
seconds. The sea captain bought ten squares to take back to his ship and sell
for twenty cents apiece onboard. A plantation mistress wanted ten more squares
to bring home to her family.

With the squares being
compact and easy to carry away, customers made purchases for future
consumption, which opened up an additional sales opportunity that sent Jerome
to the general store for brown paper and string to wrap orders.

From the window of his
office in the bank, Tom saw the chef’s hat bobbing around as the animated
figure underneath it talked to people, smiled, laughed, drew them to his stand,
and sold his product. Tom imagined a time in the future when
he
would
stand beside a new invention, one that also generated excitement, made life
more pleasant, and was addictive once it was tried. What other creations could
be spawned, he wondered, if the few in charge didn’t have a monopoly on ideas
and if everyone were free to think, dream, create, and act?

He felt a bond with
Jerome—and with the slender teacher back at his home. Somehow the force within
each of them—the twin engine of intelligence and will—was the power needed to
drive the new age.