They say that moving on is part of life. I knew that to be true, but it didn’t mean it was easy. I had carved out a sweet and wonderful world in my hometown of Ashland, Oregon, where my days were filled with baking, laughter, family, and friends. But my little hamlet was changing, and I was changing right along with it.
I breathed in the dewy morning air as I turned onto Siskiyou Boulevard and was greeted by neat rows of antique lampposts highlighting my path. Banners for upcoming performances of Much Ado About Nothing and Jane Eyre at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival fluttered in the light breeze. I passed bungalows and historic Victorian houses with organic gardens fenced in an attempt to keep the deer from grazing on wild summer roses and leafy bunches of kale and arugula. It was a losing battle. Deer outnumbered people by an ever-growing ratio. It wasn’t uncommon to watch a mother doe guide her spotted, spindly-legged babies through crosswalks or bump into herds nestled under flowering Japanese maples in Lithia Park.
Our corner of Southern Oregon might not be densely populated, but what we lacked in numbers, we made up for in creativity. Our community was thriving with artists of every type—musicians, actors, writers, dancers, painters, and some might even say bakers. In my mind, there was no question my team at our family bakeshop, Torte, were artists. What my staff could create out of layers of chocolate sponge and buttercream never ceased to amaze me.
The only problem was two of my most talented team members were departing for greener, or perhaps in this case, wetter pastures. My sous chef, Sterling, and lead cake designer, Stephanie, had been offered an incredible opportunity to manage an ailing restaurant at Whaleshead Resort in a small beach town on the stunning Oregon Coast. When they approached me about the possibility of taking the job, I encouraged them to go. Not because I wanted to lose them but because, as a professionally trained pastry chef, I knew this was the nature of our business. Much like grains of sand shifting with the tide and wind, staff often drifted from one establishment to another, picking up new skill sets and experiences and leaving behind their own flavorful footprints. Many other chefs had trained and mentored me in my journey to finding my way back to Ashland. I had made it my mission to do the same for my young staff, and now it was time for them to spread their wings and venture out into the great big restaurant world.
I was truly excited for Sterling and Steph, but I had to admit that lately, I had a propensity to break out into tears whenever I thought about how empty Torte felt without them. Of course, in all honestly, I had a tendency to break out in tears pretty much all the time at the moment—blame it on the pregnancy hormones. In a classic twist from the universe, I had learned I was pregnant with twins at the same time Sterling and Steph announced they were leaving. I suppose that’s the way things are meant to ebb and flow, much like the spontaneous waterfalls that tumbled down into tiny rivers, cutting through the old-growth forests. People come. People go. Some leaving lasting imprints on our hearts and our lives.
I inhaled deeply, centering myself in the thought as I forced a hard swallow and arrived at the bakeshop. Torte sat on the corner of the plaza like a happy beacon for pastry lovers with its red and blue striped awning and large, inviting windows. The sound of the Lithia Bubblers gurgling in the center of the plaza made me smile. Later in the day tourists would crowd the infamous fountain to taste the sulfuric healing waters. Usually, they quickly regretted taking a big swig of the natural spring water, which was infused with the less-than-palatable flavor of rotten eggs.
The thought made my lips pucker. I tried to keep my breakfast down while fumbling through my pockets for the keys. I wasn’t surprised by the morning sickness and roller coaster of emotions, but I hadn’t expected pregnancy to leave my brain so empty. My organizational skills seemed to be shrinking as my belly expanded.
While I dug through every pocket in my bag, I admired the bakeshop’s front window display. Rosa and Steph had outdone themselves once again. Colorful paper flower bunting was strung across the bright awnings. Pastel cake stands displaying an array of tiered cakes and cupcakes decorated with pale yellow, pink, and green buttercream flowers invited customers in, and whimsical battery-powered flower tea lights flickered like little fireflies.
The plaza was calm at this early hour except for a trail runner, lit up like a Christmas tree with a headlamp and reflective gear. He waved as he jogged toward Lithia Park. The day held the promise of plenty of sunshine, but my day began with the stars. Bakers’ hours aren’t particularly conducive to late-night partying, not that clubbing was my scene. Although, during my years running the pastry kitchen on a boutique cruise ship, the Amour of the Seas, my husband, Carlos, and I spent plenty of nights salsa dancing under the moonlight while cutting through calm, black waters.
When I finally retrieved the keys, I unlocked the front door and flipped on the lights. Inside, the bakeshop was equally still. I loved the quiet of being the first person to warm the ovens and start yeast rising. Torte was naturally cheery with red and teal walls, corrugated metal siding, a long espresso and pastry counter, cozy booth seating in front of the windows, and an assortment of two- and four-person tables arranged throughout the dining space. Our large chalkboard menu took up a quarter of the far fall. We offered a rotating Shakespeare quote, a tradition started by my parents, and a place for our youngest guests and burgeoning artists to connect with their inner Picasso. Today’s quote read: “Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”
For the moment, summer’s lease felt long, but maybe that was because my ankles liked to swell at night, I had multiple new staff members to train, and I needed to pack for our weekend getaway to Whaleshead Resort. Sterling and Steph had invited us to help them celebrate the grand re-opening of SeaBreeze Bistro, and there was no chance I would miss it. I couldn’t wait to see how they transformed the restaurant and the menu.
SeaBreeze had been through a variety of chefs and managers, none of whom could find a way to revive the failing venture. Whaleshead housed a collection of cabins perched atop a craggy hillside with sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean and the rocky prominences that made Southern Oregon’s beaches uniquely gorgeous. Most cabins were family-owned and well-loved. The resort had a casual vibe. It was a place where friends gathered for weekend hikes through the mossy conifer forests, bonfires on the beaches, and misty walks on the shoreline searching for treasures washing ashore. Given the soggy nature of the coastal region and the fact that the area attracted hikers and backpackers, there wasn’t anything fancy about the property.
SeaBreeze Bistro was hoping—or betting—Steph and Sterling could bring some fresh, young energy and new menu ideas to the restaurant. It was a huge undertaking for even the most seasoned chef. I had faith they were up to the task, though. I’d been consulting with them and was extremely impressed with their vision. They’d been logging eighteen-hour days prepping for this weekend’s re-launch. In addition to giving the menu a “glow-up”—Steph’s phrase, not mine—they’d gutted the dining room, giving it a fresh coat of paint and deep cleaning, and rearranged the seating. I was tired just thinking about it.
For the moment, I needed to focus on our menu, specifically our daily specials. I did a quick walkthrough of the dining room and headed downstairs. A few years ago, we had expanded into the basement space, doubling the size of our kitchen and allowing for a bonus cozy seating area perfect for rainy afternoons curled up with a book and a cappuccino. In the process of renovations we had also unearthed a wood-fired oven, which had quickly become the centerpiece of our baking.
I brewed a pot of decaf and turned on the bread ovens. Then, I lit a bundle of cured applewood in the fireplace. While my coffee brewed, I warmed water, added sugar, and started the yeast rising. Soon, the kitchen smelled of woodsmoke, and the nutty decaf blend my head barista, Andy, had roasted especially for me. I’m not typically a decaf drinker, but pregnancy meant I had to curtail some of my caffeine consumption. He had taken me on as his “pity project,” trying out a variety of decaffeinated roasts, like my current brew, aptly named Othello’s Tragedy.
Andy had begun roasting on his grandmother’s kitchen stove as a passion project a few years ago. He had fallen in love with the process and decided to take a break from his collegiate studies to learn everything he could about the craft. His talent was unparalleled and his beans were so popular that coffee lovers traveled to Ashland just for his roasts. We featured his custom blends at Torte and sold bags of whole beans. Demand was so high Andy was considering upgrading his equipment.
I poured a cup of the rich blend with notes of almonds, cherries, and dark chocolate and stirred in a splash of heavy cream. The coffee was layered and nuanced with a bright, fruity finish. It reminded me of biting into a chocolate-covered cherry, which gave me inspiration for a dessert. Bing cherries were in season, so I would make a layered chocolate sponge with a Bing cherry compote and chocolate whipped cream and top it with dark chocolate shavings and fresh, plump cherries.
To start I beat egg whites and vinegar in our electric mixer until they firmed into soft peaks. Then, I gradually added in sugar. Next, I sifted flour, cocoa powder, instant coffee, cornstarch, baking powder, and salt into another bowl. I whipped the egg yolks with warm water, vanilla, and oil and incorporated it with the dry ingredients. The final step was to carefully fold the egg whites into the batter to create a light and airy sponge.
By the time I had slid the tins into the oven to bake, the back door jingled, and Andy strolled in with a wide grin and a box of new coffee blends. “Morning, boss. I’ve got the gold here and some new decaf samples for you to try.” His cheeks, sprinkled with freckles, were tanned from the summer sun.
I adjusted my ponytail and held my mug in a toast. “I’ll never turn down a chance to taste any of your creations, but this one might be my favorite yet.”
He scrunched his boyish face into a scowl and adjusted the box, propping it in his left arm so he could shake his finger at me. “Listen, up, Jules Capshaw, you say that every time I give you a new roast. Literally every time.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I countered, placing my lips on the mug and intentionally savoring my next sip like it was the best thing I had ever tasted, because it was.
“It’s terrible. You always tell us about how your culinary instructors and mentor chefs pushed you out of your comfort zone and gave you feedback to make your baking stronger and better. You’re constantly inflating my coffee ego, and I’m worried it’s going to go to my head.” He flicked a strand of auburn hair from his eye and tipped his head to the side. Andy was tall and muscular from his time spent playing football at Southern Oregon University.
“First of all, that will never happen because you’re one of the most humble and grounded people I know, and second of all, I’m sorry, but you’ve never made a bad roast. I swear to the coffee Gods and Goddesses that should you produce a blend that bombs, I will tell you.” I made an “X” over my heart to prove my point.
“Fine. Whatever.” He pretended to glower, but his cheeks tinged with a hint of pink at my compliment. “How’s the decaf serving you? Are you enjoying Othello’s Tragedy, or are you ready for something even more mouthwatering?”
“Ooohhh. What are the new roasts?” I tried to peer into the box, which was neatly packed with brown paper coffee bags, each with tasting notes marked with a black Sharpie and finished with little coffee doodles.
“Not so fast.” Andy yanked the box closer to his body. “You’ll have to wait and see. I’ve got some drink specials in mind, but I wanted to see what you’re baking first.” He paused and stared at the island with concern. “Unless my eyes are deceiving me, that appears to be the remnants of cherries; well, I hope it’s cherries because otherwise, it looks like a murder scene.”
I rested my coffee on the island and showed him my cherry-stained fingers (one of the cons of working with the juicy, tart fruit). “Guilty as charged. I’m baking a chocolate cherry torte, thanks to your delicious decaf.”
“That’s sick.” Andy patted the box. “Great minds think alike. I had a killer idea for a summer latte this morning that should pair perfectly with your torte. Give me a few minutes to get the espresso machine fired up, and I’ll be back with something for you to try.”
“Great.” I grinned. “I’ll be ready for it because decaf doesn’t count, right? I can drink it all day long.”
He frowned, tugging his eyebrows together. “Uh, I don’t know about that. But I am very happy with this Swiss Water Process. It removes the nasty chemicals, so in theory, I guess you could drink it all day, but I’m pretty sure there’s a limit even for decaf.”
I loved that he was looking out for me. “I’m kidding.”
He scowled and studied my face like he was trying to decide whether I was or wasn’t kidding. “Anyway, I want to remind you that you just swore an oath you’d give me honest feedback, so I’m going to hold you to it.”
I nodded as solemnly as possible while fighting back a smile. “Understood.”
He went upstairs. I began mixing our sweet bread dough for cinnamon rolls and morning buns and then began assembling everything I needed for our cookie base. We made large batches of basic cookie dough each day and then added different ingredients. Today, I would stick with the cherry theme and do a cherry, vanilla, and white chocolate cookie, along with some standard favorites—double chocolate chunk, oatmeal raisin, walnut and orange spice, and classic peanut butter.
The rest of the team began trickling in. Marty, our bread baker, arrived first, followed by Bethany, Rosa, and Sequoia.
“Good morning, Jules. What a gorgeous day we’re in for,” Marty boomed. He was in his sixties, with white hair and a matching beard. His energy mirrored that of someone half his age. His easy-going and jovial spirit brightened the kitchen and everyone’s mood. Marty had become Torte’s surrogate grandfather, sharing his wisdom on scouring designs into sourdough and how to manage life’s unexpected turns.
“It’s going to be a scorcher,” I replied with a nod as I formed cookie balls with an ice-cream scoop and set them on parchment-lined baking sheets.
“You’re going to have weather shock when you leave for the coast. I texted Sterling last night, and he said it’s overcast and drizzling at Whaleshead, so be sure to pack your rain jacket.” Marty washed his hands and tied on our signature fire-engine-red Torte aprons.
I loved hearing that the two former colleagues were staying in touch. Not that I was surprised. Marty and Sterling had formed a deep bond over their shared foodie obsessions and grief. Marty lost his wife a few years before he moved to Ashland, and Sterling’s mom died young. Loss connected them, and the kitchen healed some of their most tender tears, as it had for me. Having lost my dad when I was in high school, I had come to learn that grief lived on inside of me, morphing and changing like a rising bread dough. Trauma had a way of transforming in the kitchen, and one of the ways I came to connect with my father was by letting him live on in what I was baking. That was the gift of food—the simple smell of his signature lemon bars would transport me back in time when we were in the kitchen together, his hands dripping with lemon juice and him offering me a mini whisk to help him bake. That was my vision for our twins. Food was Carlos’ and my love language, and I wanted it to be theirs, too.
“Yeah, I heard it’s supposed to be drizzly,” I said to Marty, returning my thoughts to our upcoming trip. “I love that you and Sterling are texting.”
“He’s like a grandson to me. I couldn’t be prouder of those two.” Marty’s smile faded. “I have to admit I’m worried about the restaurant opening.”
“Why?” I scooped another ball of cookie dough.
“They’re having some issues with their new manager, Erik.” Marty grabbed the sourdough starter. He nurtured the starter like it was a baby animal, constantly adjusting its feeding schedule and checking its temperature. “Do you know him?”
I shook my head. “I chatted with him briefly when he hired them. He called for recommendations, and during our conversation, he mentioned the restaurant has been through three different chefs in the last year. Not a good sign, but he seemed to think the problem was with the chef’s grandiose visions. The past few chefs have tried to make SeaBreeze Bistro into a fine dining establishment. That doesn’t work for the beach crowd looking for comfort food and family-friendly options. He was very clear about wanting young blood, so to speak, and chefs who could re-imagine the restaurant.”
“That’s what I heard as well.” Marty scooped flour into the industrial mixer for our rustic ciabatta. “According to Sterling, there’s a lot of drama among all of the staff and even some of the guests at the resort. Erik is very demanding, and it sounds downright awful—not to Sterling and Steph, at least not yet—but to the rest of the staff. Sterling was quite upset and is worried that there’s going to be backlash during opening weekend.”
“Backlash? What kind of backlash?” I didn’t like the sound of that. I knew that my young protégés had plenty to worry about when building a brand-new menu and giving the restaurant a facelift.
“He didn’t elaborate, but he said Erik has a violent streak.” Marty’s eyes lost their usual merriment as he attached the dough hook to the mixer. “I’m concerned about them. I hope they’re not in over their heads, and I wonder if Erik’s behavior explains why the restaurant has gone through so many chefs as of late.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound good,” I agreed.
“It’s good you, Carlos, your mom, and Doug will be there.” Marty assessed the bubble activity in the starter which we kept on the counter in order to maintain a temperature of seventy to eighty degrees. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate the support. I told him that Bethany and I already had plans to go out the following week. We’ll bombard them with Torte support.”
Andy came downstairs with a tray of cherry lattes made with his newest roast using pineapple and brown sugar as a base. “Honest feedback only, please. This is a decaf cherry latte with a touch of rose water, almond, and dark chocolate. I think the fruity roast pulls the flavors together nicely, but hit me with your thoughts.” He passed around samples.
Bethany, our cake designer and brownie baker extraordinaire, took a first big sip. “No notes. No notes.” She beamed at Andy with her wide eyes and dimpled cheeks.
She and Andy had been dating, or maybe hanging out was a better description. I knew they both enjoyed each other’s company, and I knew she had a massive crush on him, but I couldn’t tell whether they were content with where things were or ready to get more serious. I didn’t care either way, I just wanted my staff to be happy.
That went for my current and past staff. As the morning wore on, I couldn’t stop thinking about Steph and Sterling. Hopefully, things would settle down and smooth out once everyone got through the stress of opening weekend. And if worse came to worst (which, for their sakes, I hoped it didn’t), they always had a place at Torte.