Delicious!

“
Y
OU SHOULD HAVE USED FRESH GINGER!”

The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. I glanced at Aunt Melba to see if she was upset, but she was looking at me with undisguised admiration. “Why didn’t I think of that!”

“And orange peel.” I wanted her to look at me that way again.

“Any other ideas?” Aunt Melba was rooting around in the vegetable bin.

She emerged holding a large knob of ginger triumphantly over her head, then went to the counter and began to grate it, sending the mysterious tingly scent into the air. “How come you didn’t say something
last
year?”

“Would you have believed me?”

She swiped at the thick red curl that had fallen across her right eye and grinned ruefully. “Ask advice from a nine-year-old?” She reached out and tousled my hair. “Now that you’re ten, of course, everything’s changed.”

“You make this stupid cake every year.” My sister was annoyed. “It’s never very good. Why don’t you just give up?”

“Because it’s the only kind of cake your father likes.” Aunt Melba reached for one of the beautiful ceramic bowls on the shelf above her. “And your mother always used to make it for his birthday. I’m trying to keep tradition alive.”

“You should have asked Mom for the recipe.” Genie was a year and a half older than me, and she had opinions.

“I did. But she would never give it to me. My sister was funny that way. And then it was too late.”

“We’re going to get it right!” They both turned to stare at me; I wasn’t exactly known for self-confidence, but I could taste the cake in my mind. Strong. Earthy. Fragrant. I remembered the nose-prickling aroma of cinnamon when it comes in fragile curls, and the startling power of crushed cloves. I imagined them into the batter.

Aunt Melba was grating the orange rind now, and the clean, friendly smell filled her airy kitchen. The place was a mess; eggshells were everywhere, the counter was covered with splotches of sticky batter, and bags of flour spilled onto the floor. Ashtrays filled with half-smoked cigarettes were scattered among the ceramic plates and bowls Aunt Melba had made; she was famous for them. In the middle of it all sat a couple of forlorn cakes, each missing a tiny sliver.

Aunt Melba put the new cake in the oven and we began to clean up. The scent of gingerbread whirled through the room and out the window into the Montecito hills. Down below, the Pacific sparkled. “It smells pretty good,” said Genie hopefully.

Alas, this cake was doomed to join those abandoned on the counter. “What now?” Aunt Melba sounded discouraged, but she searched my face as if I had the answer. I liked the feeling.

“Cardamom!” I said, mustering all the authority I could.

“Cardamom? How do you even know about cardamom?”

“She practices,” replied Genie, a slight edge to her voice. Smart and beautiful, she was used to taking charge. “You should see her.”

“Practices?” asked Aunt Melba.

“Yeah,” said Genie. “She’s always sniffing the bottles in the spice cabinet.”

I didn’t know she’d even noticed. At first it was just curiosity; why did fennel and cumin, identical twins, have such opposing personalities? I had crushed the seeds beneath my fingertips, where the scents lingered for hours. Another day I’d opened a bottle of nutmeg, startled when the little spheres came rattling out in a mothball-scented cloud. How could something so delicate have such a ferocious smell? And I
watched, fascinated, as the supple, plump, purple vanilla beans withered into brittle brown pods and surrendered their perfume to the air. The spices were all so interesting; it was impossible to walk through the kitchen without opening the cupboard to find out what was going on in there.

Aunt Melba gave me the oddest look. “And you remember them?” She was crushing cardamom pods, and the deep, musky scent zipped around the kitchen.

“More,” I said, “use more.” How could you ever forget the smell of cardamom? Or cinnamon? Or clove?

I don’t remember how many times we made that cake. Each time Aunt Melba thought it was good enough, I insisted that she try again. I had made a discovery: Having the flavors in my head meant I could re-imagine them, put them together in entirely new ways. I wanted to keep doing it forever.

The kitchen was in chaos, but now each cake was better than the last. Late in the afternoon, Aunt Melba mixed the sixth or seventh batch of batter; this one had crushed peppercorns, sour cream, and orange zest. I greased the pans, Genie put them in the oven, and Aunt Melba set the timer. Just then the room began to shake. It was one of the earthquakes that I like—the roller-coaster kind that feel as if the earth is merely shrugging off the blues. None of Aunt Melba’s precious plates broke, but when we opened the oven, we found that our cake had crashed.

The next day, we tried the recipe again. “No earthquakes now,” Genie whispered as she put the pans into the oven. This time the cake was high and brown, the spices so delicately balanced that each bite made you want another. It was rich, moist, tender. We brushed it with bourbon, added a fragrant orange glaze, and it was perfect.

“This is even better than your mother’s.” Aunt Melba reached to caress my cheek; her palm was so soft. “It’s a gift, you know. Like an ear for music. You got it from her. She used to do that thing you do, sniffing spices. Did you know that?”

I didn’t.

Everyone was always telling my sister how much she resembled our late mother. Not only was Genie brilliant and beautiful, she was also artistic, popular, and most likely to succeed at almost everything. I was the shy one, sitting in my room, writing little stories. No one had ever said I was like Mom in any way.

But I had inherited her gift. Now that I knew it, I hugged the knowledge close.

W
HEN JAKE NEWBERRY ASKED ME TO COOK FOR HIM, I FROZE
.

“Something wrong?” He swept a strand of silver hair out of his eyes and gave me his famous cool blue stare.

“I’m not applying for a position in the test kitchen.” I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice; the job had sounded so perfect. “I thought you were looking for a new executive assistant.”

“I am.” Then he added, “Didn’t anybody tell you I ask every candidate to cook for me?”

How had I missed that?

Jake reached down and patted the big yellow dog at his feet; the dog wriggled with pleasure, and I found that oddly reassuring. “Look, Billie.” Jake offered an encouraging smile. “You seem like a good fit for
Delicious!
You worked on
The Daily Cal
. It sounds like you know your way around a kitchen. And you’re even willing to leave school to take the job. I like that; it shows how much you want it.”

I’d spent hours working on an explanation for dropping out; it had never crossed my mind that he’d consider it a plus. “You’ve said all the right things.” He looked down at the pile of manuscripts on his desk, and when he looked up again, his smile was crooked. “You Googled me, right?”

“Would you want an assistant who didn’t?”

“Good answer. But that just proves my point. I don’t find interviews all that revealing.”

Every article I’d read about Jake mentioned that he was a noncorporate
guy, which was one of the reasons I’d applied for the job. Working at
Delicious!
sounded like joining a club, entering a little world of its own, and that’s exactly what I wanted. Needed. I’d spent hours preparing for this interview, studying Jake, chasing down every detail. Now it appeared that hadn’t been enough.

“What’s wrong with interviews?” I was playing for time. I really didn’t want to cook.

“Isn’t it obvious?” He was truly great-looking; the photographs captured his all-American looks, but they didn’t catch the humorous way his lips turned up or the watchful intelligence in his eyes. “You tell me you love the book, but, then, you’re hardly going to say you hate it.”

He’d lost me. Book? I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Ha! Another piece of the puzzle slides into place. You
don’t
know much about magazines, do you? In this business, magazines are always called ‘books.’ I don’t know why. What I do know is that every writer who comes for an interview is madly in love with this book. Then I ask what they’re reading, and they serve up the usual suspects:
The New Yorker
, and the most challenging bestseller on the current list.”

He pointed an ebony letter opener at me. “I have to admit, throwing Brillat-Savarin into the mix was a clever move on your part; nobody’s ever come up with that before.”

Not all that clever: It hadn’t taken much to find out he’d written his college honors thesis on the great French gastronome.

Jake was studying me, and I couldn’t help wondering if he’d be easier on me if I were one of the pretty girls, or at least a bit more stylish. Aunt Melba had insisted that I buy a black skirt and a white shirt, but I hadn’t bothered trying them on and the skirt was a little too short; now I tugged at it, trying to edge it closer to my knees. But it turned out Jake wasn’t concerned with the way I looked. “I’m trying to figure out if you knew I’d ask what you had for dinner last night.”