Susan Wiggs - The Winter Lodge

“this is a beautiful book”

—Bookbag on Just Breathe

“… Unpredictable and refreshing, this is irresistibly good.”

—Closer Hot Pick Book on Just Breathe

“… Truly uplifting …”

—Now Book of the Week

“A human and multi-layered story exploring duty to both country and family”

—Nora Roberts on The Ocean Between Us

“Susan Wiggs paints the details of human relationships with the finesse of a master.”

—Jodi Picoult

“The perfect beach read”

—Debbie Macomber on Summer by the Sea

The Lakeshore Chronicles

SUMMER AT WILLOW LAKE

THE WINTER LODGE

DOCKSIDE

SNOWFALL AT WILLOW LAKE

FIRESIDE

LAKESHORE CHRISTMAS

The Tudor Rose Trilogy

AT THE KING’S COMMAND

THE MAIDEN’S HAND

AT THE QUEEN’S SUMMONS

Contemporary

HOME BEFORE DARK

THE OCEAN BETWEEN US

SUMMER BY THE SEA

TABLE FOR FIVE

LAKESIDE COTTAGE

JUST BREATHE

All available in eBook

The Winter Lodge

Susan Wiggs

www.mirabooks.co.uk

In loving memory of my grandparents, Anna and Nicholas Klist.

The author wishes to thank the Port Orchard Brain Trust: Kate Breslin, Lois Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, P. J.

Jough-Haan, Susan Plunkett, Sheila Rabe and Krysteen Seelen. Also thanks to the Bainbridge Island Test Kitchen: Anjali Banerjee, Sheila Rabe, Suzanne Selfors and Elsa Watson. As always, thanks to Meg Ruley and Annelise Robey of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, and to Margaret O’Neill Marbury of MIRA Books.

Special thanks to Joan Vassiliadis, Anna Osinski of Warsaw, Poland, Matt Haney, Bainbridge Island Chief of Police, and to Ellen and Mike Loudon of Bainbridge Bakers on Bainbridge Island, Washington.

It’s funny how so many bakers are intimidated by yeast. They see it listed as an ingredient in a recipe, and quickly flip the page. There’s no need to fear this version.

This particular dough is quite forgiving. It’s elastic, resilient and will make you feel like a pro. As my grandmother, Helen Majesky, used to say, “In baking, as in life, you know more than you think you know.”

1 tablespoon sugar

2 packets active dry yeast (which is kind of a pain, since yeast is sold in packages of three)

1/2 cup warm water

2 cups milk

6 tablespoons pure unsalted butter

2 teaspoons salt

2 egg yolks, lightly beaten

1/2 cup sugar

6-1/4 cups flour

1-1/2 sticks melted butter

Put yeast in a measuring cup and sprinkle 1 tablespoon sugar over it. Add warm water. How warm? Most cookbooks say 105°-115°F. Experienced cooks can tell by sprinkling a few drops on the inside of the wrist. Beginners should use a thermometer. Too hot, and it’ll kill the active ingredients.

Warm the milk in a small saucepan; add butter and stir until melted. Cool to lukewarm and pour into a big mixing bowl. Add salt and sugar, then pour in beaten egg yolks in a thin stream, whisking briskly to keep eggs from curdling. Then whisk in yeast mixture.

Roll up your sleeves and add flour a cup at a time. When the dough gets too heavy to stir, mix with your hands. You want the dough to be glossy and sticky. Keep adding flour and knead until the dough acquires a sheen. Put dough ball in an oiled mixing bowl, turning it to coat. Cover with a damp tea towel and set in a warm place where the air is very still. In about an hour, the dough should double in size. My grandmother used to push two floured fingertips into the top of the soft mound, and if the dimples made by her fingers remained, she would declare the dough risen. And then, of course, you give it a punch to deflate it. A soft sighing sound, fragrant with yeast, indicates the dough’s surrender.

Pinch off egg-size portions and work these into balls. Place on oiled baking sheets, several inches apart. Let them rise again for 15 minutes and then use your thumb to make a deep dimple in each ball for the fruit filling. The exact filling to use is a source of endless debate among Polish bakers. My grandmother never entered into such a debate. “Do what tastes good” was her motto. A spoonful of raspberry jam, peach pie filling, fig preserves, prune filling or sweet cheese will do.

Create a popsika by mixing 1/2 cup melted butter with a cup of sugar, 1/2 cup flour and a teaspoon cinnamon. Sprinkle the popsika over each kolache. Now place the pans in a warm place—like above the fridge—and allow to double in bulk again, about 45 minutes to an hour. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 375°F. Bake 20-40 minutes, until golden brown. Pay particular attention to the bottoms, which tend to burn if too close to the heat source.

Take the kolaches out of the oven, brush with melted butter and remove from pans to cool. This recipe makes about three dozen.

My grandmother used to tell me not to worry about how long this whole process takes. Baking is an act of love, and who cares how long love takes?

Jenny Majesky pushed away from her writing desk and stretched, massaging an ache in the small of her back. Something—perhaps the profound silence of the empty house—had awakened her at three in the morning, and she hadn’t been able to get back to sleep. She’d worked on her newspaper column for a while, hunched over her laptop in a ratty robe and fuzzy slippers. At the moment, though, she was no better at writing than she was at sleeping.

There was so much she wanted to say, so many stories to put down, but how could she cram the memories and kitchen wisdom of a lifetime into a weekly column?

Then again, she’d always wanted to write more than a column. Much more. The universe, she realized, was taking away all her excuses. She really ought to get started writing that book.

Like any good writer, Jenny procrastinated. Idly, she picked up her grandmother’s wedding band, which had been lying in a small china dish on the desk. She hadn’t quite decided what to do with it, a plain circle of gold that Helen Majesky had worn for fifty years of marriage and another decade of widowhood. When she baked, Gram always slipped the ring into the pocket of her apron. It was a wonder she never lost it. She’d made Jenny promise not to bury her with it, though.

Twirling the ring around the tip of her forefinger, Jenny could picture her grandmother’s hands, strong and firm as they worked a mound of dough, or gentle and light as they caressed her granddaughter’s cheek or checked her forehead for fever.

Jenny slid the ring onto her finger and closed her hand into a fist. She had a wedding ring of her own, given and received with a sense of giddy hope but never worn. It now resided in a bottom drawer she never opened.

It was hard, at this velvet-black hour, not to tally up her losses—her mother, who had walked away when Jenny was small. Then Jenny’s grandfather, and finally, and perhaps most importantly, Gram.

Only a few weeks had passed since she’d laid her grandmother to rest. After the initial flurry of sympathy calls and visits, a lull had settled in, and Jenny felt it in her bones—she was truly alone. Yes, she had caring friends and coworkers who were as dear to her as family. But now the steady presence of her grandmother, who had raised her like a daughter, was gone.

Out of habit, she saved her work on the laptop. Then she wrapped her robe more snugly around her and went to the window, pressing close to the cold glass to look out at the deep winter night. Snow erased all the sharp edges and colors of the landscape. In the middle of the night, Maple Street was entirely deserted, washed in the gray-white glow of a single street lamp in the middle of the block. Jenny had lived here all her life; she’d stood countless times at this very spot, expecting … what? For something to change. To begin.