Chapter 4: The Burn-Down

My shift ended at eight on Sunday morning, but the oven did not end.

It stayed hot behind its iron door and slowly lost heat.

Soren Vinter stood in front of it with his arms folded, watching the dial.

"The burn-down," he said. "Four hundred and ten down to two-fifty, over six hours. Nobody uses it."

"Why not?"

"Farfar says it's bad luck."

"Babi says the same," I said slowly. "She says it's for resting."

We looked at each other.

I had a notebook in my apron pocket with a recipe in it that I had not shown to a living soul.

He had an index card in his, and I could tell by the way his hand stayed on it.

"Curtain," I said.

"Agreed."

My grandmother's old checkered tablecloth went up on a clothesline across the Back Room.

It had a burn hole in one corner, and we hung it with a great deal of dignity.

I took the steel table on the west side.

He took the bench on the east.

I put my butter in a pan and let it brown.

On the other side of the cloth, I heard a bottle uncork.

"Vinter, are you drinking?"

"It's brandy. For the filling."

"You're putting brandy in a kringle?"

"It's a Brandy Old Fashioned kringle." His voice was prim. "Orange peel, cherry, bitters, pecan. It's a Wisconsin tradition."

"That's a cocktail."

"It's a flavor."

"I can smell it from here. It's good."

There was a silence on the other side.

"I can smell yours," he said. "Browned butter, and honey, and... rhubarb."

"Stop smelling my kringle!"

"It's a closed room. You're frying it in a closed room."

"I'm not frying it, I'm browning it. They're different."

"Your rhubarb is weeping," he said. "I can hear it."

"Rhubarb doesn't weep."

"Fine. Come and look."

I did not go and look.