Read Online How Sweet It Is by Alice Wisler - Free Book Online Page A

use this hardbound book. Obligation—how much of what we do is just because of a sense of obligation? I am obligated to teach cooking, thanks to my grandpa. I am obligated to listen to my mother share about her oddly named relatives and her messages of wisdom. As a child, I was obligated to attend state fairs and hand out flyers on ordering a ham from our family’s pig farm.
    As the owl continues his or her nighttime noise, I pick up the journal and open to the next blank page. The pages are so crisp, so white, so unoccupied. If I write my thoughts and feelings, the pages will become gray, ugly, damaged. I hear Chef B’s instructions: “She write her heart onto the pages of her journal. She find some peace. Write each day. Date on the page.”
    Stretched out on the sofa, I cover myself with the quilt and write: 3 a.m. Grandpa Ernest’s cabin . I don’t bother with the date because I’m not exactly sure if it’s the 28th or 29th.
    Okay, what next? How does one go about writing her heart? I place a hand over my heart as though that gesture will help me know the exact words to jot onto the journal page. After a moment, I am able to write: Lucas heard about my scars and left. Placing the cap back on the pen, I stare at the words I’ve just written. They won’t let me leave them alone. Pulling the cap off the pen, I add the lines: No, he left way before the accident. He was going out with Ella before Christmas of last year. My scars had nothing to do with him cheating on me.
    That is all I write. I am afraid that if I write more, I might not be able to go back to sleep. Lucas is a two-timer. Lucas is history. He will never come through the door and apologize. He didn’t want to marry me. He just didn’t know how to break up.
    I am halfway to the loft when I come back down the stairs to pick up the journal and add more thoughts. Seated on the edge of the couch, I write one more line: My only crime is that I loved the wrong person.
    I ease into bed and the calling owl disturbs me for a bit longer. Finally either I have tuned him out or he’s moved to a tree farther away. Surprisingly, sleep comes over me, accompanied by a peaceful dream. In the dream, I’m in a parade, complete with billowing banners and helium balloons. The float I’m riding on is not for the homecoming queen, but rather for the girl who found out her fiancé was cheating on her before she married him. The mayor is even there, handing out free cake samples. He congratulates me on learning the truth before it was much too late.

eleven

    T he idea for my cake decorating business came from Jeannie. When I told Jeannie and Sally one night over a dinner of garlic scallops, tomato risotto, cranberry spinach salad, and herb rolls that I had inherited Grandpa’s cabin and was considering a move to Bryson City, they wondered aloud how I could quit my job at Palacio del Rey.
    “How will you pay the bills?” Practical Sally wanted to know.
    “My aunt said that the utility bills will continue to be paid from some bank account,” I told her.
    Sally raised her eyebrows. “Sounds a little mysterious.” Nodding, she said, “I like it.”
    “Maybe the neighbor pays them with money he and my grandpa stole together on some venture in the Caribbean.”
    Sally’s eyes lit up like they always do when she thinks a topic is fascinating. “Yeah, and the cops are after your neighbor and they come to your grandpa’s cabin to ask you to open a safe that is locked up in the basement.”
    We laughed and ate slices of peach pie for dessert. I had tried a new pie recipe, one that used brown sugar and rolled oats in the crust. “Every cook should willing to try the new,” Chef B told us in his basic cooking class. With a crooked smile, he added, “And willing to accept the old might still be best.” Although I like oatmeal and brown sugar, I prefer standard white flour crust for my peach pies.
    “All right,” said Sally as she finished her slice. “So the