The narrator of Second Rising is a chef, so food is central to her concerns. And so is bread; most days, she kneads fresh dough before sunrise.
Chapter 1, excerpt continued
I’m putting on my boots when I hear voices. Some teenagers—girls followed by boys—emerge on the path coming up from the lake to the south. I recall the long, steep hike from the parking area a few miles below. They greet me merrily and start pulling beverage containers from their backpacks.
It’s time for me to leave. The walk home will go quickly, downhill most of the way. As I reach viewpoints along the trail, I pause to admire our valley’s long sweeps of farmland, the green now broken by yellow and dun swaths of wheat and cornfields already harvested. It’s magnificent land, and I rely on its natural vegetables and fruit for my locavore, farm-to-table niche in the restaurant business. That’s what draws in the big-city tourists and sports enthusiasts to Lavender’s on their way to or from the mountain.
Our town of Quicksilver counts only a few hundred souls and is much smaller than during its heyday as an 1880s mining town. But many more people live in the surrounding river valley, where they raise cattle or sheep, grow berries and wine grapes, do logging or fine woodwork, and practice a range of other crafts. We have artists and writers, even some software designers who work remotely.
I didn’t ask Grant about his employer, the technology mogul who owns a large chalet and former ski area on one of Mount Baker’s ridges. The Baron, as we call him, has kept his intentions secret while buying vast tracts of forestland from departing lumber companies. Rumors abound that he will build housing developments or resurrect work at the deserted, old gold and silver mines. No one really knows what the Baron is up to, and this geologist on his staff was certainly roaming far afield today.
The pail of mushrooms feels a lot heavier during the last mile toward my house in town, and I’ve been switching it from one hand to the other. As I walk, I imagine how I’ll drink a glass of wine, cook an omelet with the chanterelles, and put up my feet for a short evening before bedtime. Then I’ll be up at four a.m. for work.
My workday starts in the dark early morning as I pour grains of yeast, dull as sand, into a bowl of warm water. I sprinkle in sugar, dip my fingers as though into a baptismal font, and stir. During the café’s busy seasons, I start bread by mixing instant yeast right into the flour. But this is our slow season, and I want to watch the yeast at work while I linger over questions from the conversation at the hot pool. Soon the concoction will froth and bubble as though creating new life. But that would be an illusion. Or is it? Grant’s question echoes in my mind.
I turn on a single light over the stove, and it casts an intense, narrow beam, soft as moonlight at the edges, as I move about my second task, which is to brew a pot of coffee. Once I’ve enjoyed a few strong sips, it will be time to add flour and salt to the yeast mixture. If I’m making a lot of bread, I use the big machine with the dough hook. But today it’s just one batch, and I fall into my ritual of kneading by hand while I glance over my shoulder to catch the first gleams of sunlight beyond the mountain’s sharp-edged peak.
This is my favorite time of year, with huckleberries and mountain blueberries ripening, with fog rolling in off the ocean to the west and hanging about the river chasms like unsolved mysteries. But the sun now rises later each day, and in the winter I’ll finish kneading and have the dough rising in an oiled bowl before the literal “first crack of dawn.” The sky holds that hushed lack of color—not really gray, maybe slightly green—before it turns even the faintest blue. And this morning, I can make out the mountain’s own rising column of cloud from the steam it is venting.
Mount Baker is a dormant volcano, which means it could erupt anytime. Apparently we’d have a few days’ warning, like the locals had before Mount St. Helens blew. East Coast tourists who come through town and stop at the café sometimes ask how we can stand to live here, knowing the mountain will pour smoke, ash, and lava all over us—that is, if the massive, overdue earthquake doesn’t get us first.
But the local crowd regards these risks differently. The skiers, mountaineers, rock climbers, and hikers coming from Seattle, Bellevue, and Vancouver, Canada, simply love the snow, forests, and craggy ridges. They don’t stay long enough to become acquainted with what really goes on beneath the surface.
I never intended to stay here long myself, running this roadside café. I bought the place—already noted as a chic restaurant featuring local foods—just before the nation’s economy imploded into financial crisis and recession. Until then, my career as a chef was launching on a successful trajectory in the San Francisco Bay Area. I had carefully planned the next step of owning my own place where I could develop my signature cuisine. But such are dreams before they crash into reality—or reality itself crashes.
Now people often describe Lavender’s as charming. One time, a reviewer said it was cozy, and I hate that word; it’s just a half star above homey. And during the area’s slow economic recovery, I ended up cooking more comfort food for townspeople than haute cuisinefor recreationists. That’s what they call themselves now, as things pick up and the wealthy techies pass by and stop in, again. Soon, one of them will discover me and my talent, and I’ll grab my opportunity to head out once more on a bright, upwardly winding path. Would I become an executive chef, running an exclusive corporate dining room on the top of a tower in Seattle, Bellevue, or Redmond? I like to picture this as I work the dough.
To knead bread, I dig the heels of my hands hard into the dough and push away to stretch it. Then a quarter turn to regroup it, and then a turn again, dig in the heels, and stretch it in the exact opposite direction. Long fibers need to develop, so it’s important not to make crosswise stretches that could confuse the dough into not rising. The rhythm becomes quick and steady, and it’s satisfying to look over my shoulder and see the sun emerging beyond Mount Baker’s column of steam. Part of me believes my morning ritual draws up the sun. Push, turn; push, turn; pretty soon I’m working up a sweat, and sunlight is gleaming in a clear sky only lightly hazed by fall.
Beams reach like searchlights into the front of the house and glint off silverware and water glasses. The empty wooden chairs gleam in warm stripes, and the curtains look translucent in places. It is morning. I am alone, and it is my morning; I’ve coaxed the sun up through my unfailing ritual of yeast, water, and wheat flour. Now the day’s momentum will take care of itself. I know this is a peculiar belief.