ONE
THE LAST PLACE I thought I'd be when this day began is where I am, which is in a car. Mama's car to be exact, and she's driving head strong through downtown Memphis with an Elvis impersonator on our tail. I know the Elvis: his name is Huck. He's spitting mad, honking that horn of his that you couldn't soon forget. I was there when Huck wired his Old yellow Cadilac to make the horn honk out Elvis's big hit "Jailhouse Rock". Drivers pull to the side of the road when he blasts that thing.
We aren't pulling over for anything.
It's eleven thirty at night, not many cars around. It rained all day: the air feels thick. Mama leans over the wheel and tries to clear off the windshield.
"Can you see?" I ask.
"Sort of."
Sort of is better than no, but not by much.
I look in the backseat at the box filled with all my cooking supplies. Big trash bags of our stuff are piled around it. We'd left fast.
"Where are we going Mama?"
She touches her eye. It looks swollen. "We are going somewhere."
I'm hoping for a place you can find on the map.
"Try not to think about the last few hours until we have some time away from it, Foster."
How am I supposed to do that?
Memories of Huck breaking our living room window five at me like bits of glass.
I try to fix a picture of Memphis in my mind so I can say good-bye, but mostly I think about things I'd just as soon forget, like Johnny Joe badger, who told me I was the stupidest girl in sixth grade: like Mrs. Ritter, my main teacher, who agreed with him: like Mr. Clement Purvis, our landlord, Who took singing lessons from Mama and had a voice like an injured dog, but he paid on time so you dealt with it.
But there was a Graceland, two, where the real Elvis lived. It's an actual mansion, which makes sense, because people called Elvis Presley the king of rock 'n roll. It's has fountains and gardens and flowers everywhere. Huck took me there once and walked around like he owned the place. The problem with Huck is he really thinks he's Elvis, but that's not why he's chasing us.
I grab a chocolate chip muffin from my bake and take carrier and take a bite. It's chewy from the touch of cornflower I used. I learned to make muffins from Marietta MorningStar, the muffin queen of Memphis. Mama says you can't just wait for things to happen, you got to get out there and make your own brakes. So I showed up at Marietta's shop.
"I'm going to have my own restaurant someday," I told her, "and I was wondering if I could help you in your kitchen. I'll do anything at all and you don't have to pay me. I just want to learn."
She looked at me kind of strange, which I was expecting. I said, "I'll thank you in my cookbook when it comes out, and I promise I won't steal even one of your recipes."
"And who might you be, young lady?"
"I'm Foster McFee, ma'am. I got an easy bake oven when I was four and the rest is history."she was paying attention now. "In case you're wondering, my mother knows I'm here. She's pretty bad in the kitchen and the worst baker ever. I'm looking for cooking role models."
Marietta Morningstar studied me like I was a recipe.
"You know more about muffins than any person in the world, probably, but I figure you have to start somewhere."
She smiled. "I walked up and down the streets of Memphis passing out free samples. People wanted more."
I reached into my bag and pulled out a pumpkin spice muffin with walnuts that was as moist as anything.
"It can be plain for breakfast or I can top it with cream cheese frosting. I like a muffin that can go from day to evening."
I gave it to her. She sniffed it, nodded, and held it up.
"How do I know you're not trying to poison me?"
I wasn't expecting that question. "Miss. MorningStar, I swear, If I was going to poison you, I wouldn't ruin a perfectly fine muffin to do it."
She laughed, took a bite, and closed her eyes.
"Mmmmmmmmm." That's the sound a baker wants to hear. "Let's see. You've got canned pumpkin in here, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, butter, golden raisins. What else?"
How did she know the pumpkin was canned? "Vanilla," I told her. "I've been adding a touch more vanilla lately."
She stood there thinking. "I suppose we could give this a try."
I put on the apron I brought along. Mama made it for me. It's green with a shooting star on it. "i'm going to be the best helper you ever dreamed of!"
I helped her Tuesdays and Saturdays for almost a year before she retired and closed up the shop. I measured flour, lugged around huge cartons of eggs and only dropped a few. I learned not to overmix the batter. I learned that when you run out of buttermilk, you can use milk and vinegar. I learned to make maple butter, which all by itself can make the world a better place. But mostly I learned Marietta Morningstar's main muffin truth: "Never take a a fine muffin for granted," she told me. "It can open doors to the deepest recesses of the human heart."
The only recess I knew about was the kind that took place on the playground, but I sure wanted to touch hearts.
Mama turns on the freeway. I think she could drive us to the ends of the earth without a bathroom stop. It's been a while since I heard Huck's honk.
"You think he turned back?" I ask.
"Maybe."
She looks like she could use a hug,but it's a bad idea to hug someone who is driving. I hand her a muffin instead.
"How's your eye, Mama?" it sure looks swollen.
"A muffin will help." she takes a big bite.
"Mmmmmmmm! I needed this."
COOK'S TIP: Bake every day. If you have to leave town fast, you'll always have something good to eat in the car
CH.2 COMING SOON!
