When she lived at home, Saturday mornings were sacred to Sophie. That was when she rolled up her sleeves, donned an apron, and began to bake. Cookies mostly at first, until she moved on to things like bread and fudge and pies and cakes. Even if I slept in late, I always knew it was Saturday because the smells of melted chocolate and sticky vanilla, buttered cookie sheets and roasted walnuts, would fill the house like perfume, punctuated every ten minutes or so by the tiny ding of the timer on the stove.
I was not allowed anywhere near Sophie on Saturdays; she demanded to be alone. Even Mom and Dad cleared out, eating breakfast early and then making themselves scarce so Sophie could have free reign in the kitchen. But I loved to be around Sophie when she baked. I sat on the bottom step in the living room, which gave me a nearly perfect view of my big sister while still hiding me from her sight.
Sophie’s ability to create things in the kitchen was unlike anything I had ever seen. It was a skill that came naturally, an innate knowledge that only she possessed, with an end result that was nothing short of magnificent. In the span of half a day, the blue kitchen counter would be covered with whole vanilla cakes, the edges moist and slightly crumbling, bowls of fudge frosting accented with a splash of espresso, zucchini bread studded with pineapple and carrots and walnuts, even peanut brittle made with a combination of brown sugar and toffee. She created everything from scratch; each recipe an original, tried again and again until the proportions were perfect.
And she worked hard. There was no doubt about that. Her shoulders would droop as the day went on, her cheeks would flush pink. But the exertion didn’t seem to bother her. On the contrary, it seemed to inspire her even more. She would finish with some sort of cream puff or biscotti and then, staring at it for a minute, say something like: “I wonder would what happen if…” The next moment, she would start all over again, throwing ingredients into a bowl, and whipping something else into a frenzy. Everything she made went to Eddie and his family, though. We never got a chance to try any of it.
I struck gold only once, when Sophie looked up in the middle of making her dark-chocolate chip cookies with walnuts, oatmeal, and toffee, and grinned at me. I ducked behind the wall, but I was too late. “I know you’re there,” she said. “You want to help?”
“Me?” I peeked out around the step.
She laughed. “Yeah, dork. You.”
I scrambled from my seat and ran into the kitchen. Sophie made me turn around as she tied an apron around my waist and scooped my hair up into a ponytail, and I was glad I wasn’t facing her, because my mouth was plastered with an idiotic smile. I washed my hands and rolled up my sleeves, ready to be let in on Sophie’s magical world of baking.
But there was not as much magic as I imagined. Not nearly as much. I’d conjured up visuals of Sophie adding secret ingredients here and there—maybe some sort of exotic extract that brought out the taste of the dough. Instead, I tried to hide my disappointment as she placed boring old butter, sugar, eggs, flour, and baking soda on the countertop, and then pulled out the mixer.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Isn’t there anything else?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all that goes into your cookies?”
Sophie shrugged. “Well, we have to add the chocolate and walnuts and toffee at the end, but yeah, all this stuff makes up the base of the dough.” She reached for a tiny white dish on top of the stove. “Oops, and salt. I almost forgot salt.”
“Salt?” I wrinkled my nose, and then widened my eyes. “Is that your secret ingredient?”
Sophie laughed. “Salt isn’t a secret ingredient, doofus. Besides, you just add a pinch. Salt brings out all the flavors.” She paused. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How something so opposite of sweet can make things taste even better?”
“How does it do that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sophie answered. “It just kind of brings everything together in its own strange little way.”
The cookies came out of the oven twenty minutes later. Sophie poured each of us a tall glass of milk, placed two cookies apiece on Mom’s rose and ivy teacup saucers, and drew up a chair at the kitchen counter. I stood on the chair while Sophie rested her elbows on the counter, and we dug in. The cookies were warm and soft, a perfect contrast to the heavy, weighted centers, and the edges were crisped only slightly.
“You know, getting to eat what you make is the second-best thing about baking,” Sophie said, sinking her teeth into another cookie.
“What’s the first thing?” I asked.
“Being in the kitchen with a head full of ideas.” There was a tiny smear of chocolate on her chin. “Right before you start—when anything is possible. That’s the best thing.”
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