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“I sniff the batter, savoring the sweet, delicate aroma of the orange blossom extract and the unctuous aroma of good olive oil. "You sure this is all there is to it?" I ask Nonna. "It just seems too simple." "Simple can be just as good as complex," Nonna says serenely as she whips up a simple sugar and orange zest icing to pour over the cake when it's done. "Often is better. It doesn't need to twist you into knots. Often the best choice is the simple one. Simple is beautiful.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“As she relaxed, she started to notice something happening to the ingredients beneath her fingers. As she touched them, poking and prodding, kneading and caressing, the sensations she used to feel when she cooked started to return. She could feel the icy gurgle of the salt water against weather-barren black rock as she tossed a handful of local mussels into a pot of butter and white wine. She chopped a foraged mushroom and inhaled the damp, loamy soil of the forest spicy with ferns and dripping with cool humidity. She grinned, buoyed by a wave of relief. At least for tonight, her Technicolor senses were in full swing. With a satisfied sigh of contentment, she spooned Star's honey over local goat cheese on rounds of sunflower seed crackers, hearing all around her the nectar-drunk buzzing of the bees. It felt like pure joy to handle the ingredients.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“A grown woman tasting a spoonful of Georgia's Mousse au Citron at a late afternoon lunch, then suddenly standing and announcing that she needed to reconcile with her estranged sister before it was too late. She'd hastened away, leaving her coat, one hundred euros to pay the bill, and the mostly uneaten mousse at the table. After devouring Georgia's beet and goat cheese tart one bitter winter evening, an American man with an engagement ring nestled on top of a slice of Georgia's cherry clafoutis looked across the table at his girlfriend and said later that he could suddenly see clearly that she was not the love of his life. He'd hastened back to the kitchen to remove the ring from the dessert where it was waiting to be served at the right moment. They left the restaurant with the ring in his pocket and his girlfriend in tears. There had been others. Many others, now that she thought of it. It had been a bit of a joke among the kitchen staff, that Georgia's dishes could cause more breakups and engagements and family feuds and reconciliations than the restaurant had ever seen. She'd never really put it all together before, but now that she thought of it... "I think my cooking might give people clarity somehow," Georgia said in surprise.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“It's just past eight a.m. in Seattle, but in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, Aurora's six kids are already hours into their daily chores around the historic manor house and hobby farm Aurora and her husband Will run together. Today she's in the henhouse, and she's propped me up in an empty nesting box while she gathers fresh eggs with two of my nieces. All around them I can hear the soft clucking of the brood as she and the girls gather eggs and gently tuck them into a basket she wove by hand. She's dressed in a flowing muslin peasant dress that looks vaguely like a Jane Austen-era nightgown. On her it looks strangely amazing, though. Everything does. She even somehow manages to rock the elaborate ruffle around the neck. Her flaxen hair is in two braids wrapped around her head like a crown, Heidi-style. The girls are wearing matching ruffled pinafores and pigtails. They look darling.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“Four-leaf clovers," she said. "I've been finding them everywhere, in the oddest places." Star stepped out of the garden bed and gently plucked the clover from Georgia's hand, pinching it between her fingers. "Well, look at that," she said softly. She glanced at Georgia. "My grandma Emma was Irish, raised near Galway---that's where our red hair comes from--- and she loved four-leaf clovers. Always felt they connected her with the country of her birth.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“Every recipe in this book has the potential to help someone in need. The recipes work in many different ways, depending on the individual's circumstances," she explains, "but the recipe for Orange Blossom Cake is special. The person who takes the first bite of the cake will see a vision of the sweetest moment of happiness that awaits them in life.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“My dad and I sitting just a few yards away on the lakefront, sharing a snack of ripe figs stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in a local salted, cured meat, a sort of prosciutto. I was probably twelve or thirteen. Dad was using his pocket knife to slit the figs and stuff them with gobs of the creamy goat cheese, his big fingers surprisingly dexterous. I open my eyes and glance to the right, seeing us sitting there side by side, dangling our legs in the cool water. I can almost taste again the gritty sweetness of the figs, the rich creamy funk of the goat cheese, the salty umami of the dried meat. It was a simple, perfect snack on a simple, perfect day.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“In the section with edible flowers I stopped short, a bright yellow-and-purple pansy in my hands, hearing my mother's voice from long ago. Pansies are the showgirls of the flower world, but they taste a little grassy, she'd confided to me once as we pulled the weeds in her herb and flower garden. I put a dozen pansies in my cart and moved on to carnations. Carnations are the candy of the flower world, but only the petals. The white base is bitter, she'd instructed, handing me one to try. In my young mind carnations had been in the same category as jelly beans and gumdrops. Treats to enjoy. "Impatiens." I browsed the aisles of Swansons, reading signs aloud. "Marigolds." Marigolds taste a little like citrus, and you can substitute them for saffron. My mother's face swam before my eyes, imparting her kitchen wisdom to little Lolly. It's a poor woman's saffron. Also insects hate them; they're a natural bug deterrent. I placed a dozen yellow-and-orange marigolds into my cart along with a couple different varieties of lavender and some particularly gorgeous begonias I couldn't resist. I had a sudden flash of memory: my mother's hand in her floral gardening glove plucking a tuberous begonia blossom and popping it in her mouth before offering me one. I was four or five years old. It tasted crunchy and sour, a little like a lemon Sour Patch Kid. I liked the flavor and sneaked a begonia flower every time I was in the garden for the rest of the summer.”

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Book:The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
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“Go home and stay away from my grandson." "No." I surprise myself with my refusal. She stares at me for a long moment. "What did you say?" She looks genuinely shocked. I'm not sure anyone ever says no to Violetta Fiore. I cross my arms, darting a quick look at Nicolo. He is watching me with a raised eyebrow and a look of respect. Even the dog is staring at me, tail wagging uncertainly. "I won't go. Not without the recipe. I know you have it. It belongs to my family. Give it back." She rears back as though I've struck her. "Do you even know what you are asking for?" she hisses. For a moment I waver. She's right. I don't really know what I'm asking for, not entirely. I know it's half of a torn recipe, but I don't understand the history of the recipe between Violetta and Nonna Bruna. "I know enough to know that it has value to my Nonna Bruna and that you took it," I say, lifting my chin. "It's valuable enough that she says losing it ruined her life." I'm surprising myself with my own tenacity. I can't back down now.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“I'm standing so close I can smell him, something familiar in the warmth of his skin--- the faintest whiff of his cologne with traces of warm amber and woody, resinous cedar and an underlying herbaceous, peppery note of olive oil that seems to be a part of his essence. I lean closer, my nose brushing his skin, and he pulls back enough to look at me incredulously. "Are you sniffing me?" I giggle, half-embarrassed at being caught out. "Sorry, you smell delicious," I tell him a little flirtatiously. "Oh, do I?" He watches me, intrigued. "What do I smell like?" "Like warm honey and the sticky sap of a cedar tree.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“Everything was local, sustainable, and ethically sourced. There were only a dozen or so dishes on the menu, but each was mouthwatering. Sussex cider pork belly served with homemade applesauce, roasted parsnips, and caramelized onions. A salmon eggs Benedict with house-made English muffins and fresh local free-range eggs. Several vegetarian and vegan options with a South Asian flair. It all sounded delicious.”

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Book:The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
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“I can see blue sky over the lake and a pale beam of sunlight on the water. The rain has stopped. I take a bite of the cake, closing my eyes and savoring the delicate flavor and the sudden calm with a sense of relief. I'll worry about how I'm going to save the farm later. Right now I want to enjoy my cake and the satisfaction of having made my decision, having chosen my right hard thing. I take another bite of cake, and another. Every one tastes like olive oil and orange blossoms, earthy and honest and a little bittersweet.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“A lemon flower stands for clarity, happiness, and hope," I told him, still feeling confused. "That's what my mom always said." Rory studied the necklace and then me. "Clarity, happiness, and hope, huh?" His gaze was warm on my face. "Can I buy it for you?" He turned to the artist and pulled out his wallet. "You don't have to---" I protested, but he was already handing over the cash. "Please? I want to. Every time you wear it, you can be reminded to never give up hope, to seek happiness, and to remember that life is full of second chances.”

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“I choose a long, flat stone from the pile and wedge it carefully between two larger stones in the wall. It's a good fit, I note with satisfaction. "You've always been good at that, making something out of very little," Nicolo responds, and there's a fondness and admiration in his gaze that surprises me. He sees something in me I forgot was even there.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“But recently I'd been crafting some truly surprising and yummy combinations---elderflower limeade with clover blossoms, coconut water with rose syrup and candied rose petals, a strawberry-basil concoction sprinkled with marigold petals. I loved dreaming up unique combinations and then creating them. A few ingredients and a wooden stick. It was simple, local, and environmentally friendly. Not to mention delicious.”

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Book:The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
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“Our trees are the Casaliva olive variety, a special type of olive unique to our northern region. The Casaliva olives produce a beautifully clear, pale green olive oil with the aroma of almonds and a light, fruity taste with hints of herbs and grass. The oil is rare and highly prized for its delicate flavor and gorgeous hue. In Italy, olive oil is used for everything--- cooking, illnesses, beauty treatments. Most nonnas, Nonna Bruna included, firmly believe that there is almost nothing that cannot be solved or at least improved with the application of a little good-quality olive oil. We all grow up with philosophy. Our veins all run with the precious, pale gold.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“Mom's secret recipe used Meyer lemons for a sweeter, richer flavor. That was one of her tricks. That and European butter. With its higher fat content than American butter, it made a flakier crust. "Lolly, what are the three secret ingredients that make this the best lemon meringue pie in the world?" She'd drilled me that last night before she died, demanding I recite every ingredient, every step, until she was satisfied I had it down pat. "The three ingredients are Meyer lemons, European butter, and a leaf of lemon balm boiled into the syrup every time," I'd dutifully recited in her hospital room, feeling the weight of grief, of responsibility rest heavier on my shoulders with every word. Lemon balm was an unorthodox choice for pie, but Mom had loved cooking with edible flowers and herbs. She'd taught me everything I knew about them. I reached for the little lemon balm potted plant growing on the windowsill over the sink and carefully pinched off a leaf. "In the language of flowers, lemon balm means sympathy or good cheer," she'd explained once. "So every bite of this pie can help brighten someone's day." I crushed the leaf of lemon balm between my fingers and inhaled the scent, hoping it would work on me. No such luck. I dropped the leaf into the pot and stirred. Every time I made these pies I felt her presence. She had loved lemons---their sharp, fresh scent and cheerful hue. She would slice a lemon in half and sniff deeply, happily. "See, Lolly," she'd say. "Lemons brighten every day. They are a touch of kitchen magic, and we all need a little magic in our lives.”

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Book:The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
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“The wine was cold and refreshing on her tongue, sliding down her throat like a mouthful of winter air. She closed her eyes and sniffed the bouquet. Ripe apricots smashing open on gray rocks, the smell of cut grass. She still could not taste anything but bitter in the wine, but she could feel it, feel where it had come from. She turned the bottle around and read the description, smiling at the words "ripe stone fruit" and "mineral complexity.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“Call it magic, call it a deep connection to the earth. It can be labeled many things, but the fact is that every woman in the Stevens line has had some special ability. Your great-grandmother, my grandma Emma, could bake pies that inspired people to tell the truth. One bite of her apple streusel crumb pie and a man would confess to an affair. A forkful of her peach cobbler and feuding siblings would apologize for their mistakes and make up. I'm told her cherry pie was especially popular for making shy beaus finally declare their true love and propose to their sweethearts.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“I rolled my eyes at him and pulled the sweatshirt over my head, adjusting the deep sweetheart neckline of my dress. I'd secretly and specifically purchased the gorgeous cherry-red vintage cocktail dress for this party. I had found a pair of black cat-eye glasses at a retro clothing store near Pike Place Market to go with the dress, and the combination made me feel confident and sophisticated. "Don't look for a minute," I instructed, shimmying out of my jeans and smoothing the hemline down. The dress nipped in at the waist and flared out in a high hemline that showed off my legs. "Okay, I'm good." Rory gave me a sideways glance and did a double take. "Wow." He pulled up to a stop sign and turned, taking me in head to toe. "You look...wow." He shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. I felt a flush of triumph. I'd never seen him look at me like that, admiration mixed with astonishment. He seemed genuinely stunned. I slicked on some red lipstick and examined my reflection in the tiny square of Rory's passenger mirror, aware of his eyes on me. I looked glamorous, surprisingly sexy. Like a movie starlet from the 1950s, a bombshell ingenue. I sat back, feeling almost giddy with triumph. I'd worn the dress for only one person. And he had finally noticed me.”

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Book:The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
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“Hugh just dropped off the cheese selection for the week. I thought you'd like to sample?" I perked up immediately. Sampling cheese sounded fun. I was starving. The Hobnobs hadn't been particularly filling. The light, airy dining room was a beehive of activity. Four servers buzzed around, readying tables, wrapping silverware. Outside someone was watering the ornamental cabbages. I sat at a table with Chandice and tasted a half dozen local cheeses. A sharp English cheddar with a bite that lingered just at the hint of your jaw, a creamy goat cheese lavished with a sweet onion chutney. Stuffing the last of a very toothsome local blue cheese into my mouth, I looked around at the happy bustle with satisfaction. This is what I had always dreamed of, this bright hive of positive energy.”

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Book:The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
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“I never wanted to forget where I'd been and what I'd learned along the way. I used Meyer lemons and good French butter. I zested and stirred and thought of my mom as I worked. And to every hot, bubbling pan of lemon pie filling, I added a single lemon drop. As I watched it melt into the sugar and lemon juice mixture, I reminded myself of the truth I now knew. That you don't need magic to change your life. You just need to follow your bliss as best you can. If you follow the light, no matter how dark the circumstances, things will come out right in the end. That's the true recipe for joy in this life. That's the true magic of lemon drop pie.”

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“What are you trying to tell me?" she repeated, picking up the little clover stem from the edge of her plate and twirling it between her fingers. She thought of what Star had told her about her gift, that she brought clarity to people with her cooking. Would it work for her? Could she bring clarity to her own heart? On impulse, she pulled off the four leaves of the clover and sprinkled them over the omelet. Why not give it a try? Clover was edible, with a slightly lemony flavor. Not a terribly appealing plant to eat, but tolerable in small quantities. "Today I ask for faith, hope, love, and luck," she whispered, not at all sure this was going to work. "Please show me what I need to see." As she spoke the words, she realized she was not petitioning Julia but speaking to the island, to the Stevens women--- Star and Emma and Helen--- and to her own heart. She didn't know who or what was sending her these signs in the form of four-leaf clovers. Perhaps it was the island as Star suspected, or the universe, or Emma and Helen. The origin was a mystery, and in a way, the source didn't really matter. She just wanted to know what it all meant. What were the four-leaf clovers trying to reveal to her?”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“Alberto was a good for nothing pisellino." Nonna puts her hand to her chest, looking shocked and delighted. "Violetta," she says, "no, is it true?" Nicolo makes a little choking sound. He looks mortified. I'm confused. "Did Violetta just call your grandfather a little pea?" I whisper, struggling to translate the words in my head. Nicolo is flushing a dull red beneath his golden olive tan. "It um... doesn't mean little pea," he murmurs, leaning close to my chair. "In Italian it is an insult for a man's private parts, calling them very small, like little peas." My eyes widen in astonishment. At this point in the evening I'm not sure anything else could surprise me. "It's true." Violetta sniffs and holds up her fingers several inches apart. "And his manhood, like a baby zucchina." Nonna looks immensely satisfied by this information. "Well," she says. "Well, God bless Carlo. He was a good man and there were no baby zucchine in our house, I can tell you. Only grandi zucchine." Nicolo clears his throat. "Your grandchildren are standing right here!" he reminds them.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“Deep blue water and emerald green islands capped by evergreen forests. Rocky bays and serene white ferries chugging past pods of orcas. A tiny town of quaint clapboard buildings painted in a rainbow of hues. A harbor clogged with bobbing sailboats. It looked idyllic, soaked in natural beauty. Serene. It was a world away from Paris, or Texas, for that matter. Georgia took the phone and studied the photos, mesmerized. She'd never seen anything like it. She felt a longing tug in her chest, something she couldn't quite articulate. Something was calling to her there. She had to go. Phoebe took her phone back and read avidly for a few minutes. "It says here that San Juan Island is known for pods of orcas, kayaking, a lavender farm, cidery, vineyard, shellfish farm, restaurants with Pacific Northwest cuisine, and farmers markets.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“The interior of Toast was just as charming as the outside. White walls reflected the light streaming in through the huge picture windows, and the wooden floor was painted a pale jade green. A jumble of endearingly mismatched tables and chairs dotted the main room, each decorated with a vintage cut-glass vase of winter branches. The entire back wall of the restaurant had floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with local edible goods. Jars of East Sussex honey. Bottles of cider. Bunches of lavender and sage. It was cozy and serene and tidy. For so many years I'd dreamed of this place, and to see it here in real life was overwhelming. I felt a swell of emotion as I took it all in, pride mixed with sorrow, bittersweet.”

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“There is magic in this kitchen, Juliana, whether you know it or not, and the magic never lies. It is always right, and it is trying to tell you something now. We just have to hear what it is saying. It will lead us to the answer." "Listen to what?" I'm confused. Italian nonnas are a naturally superstitious bunch, armed with a staunch Catholic faith supplemented by old wives' tales and folk remedies. Is that what Nonna is talking about when she speaks about kitchen magic? Some folktale from the past? "The kitchen magic," Nonna says mysteriously. "It will show us how to make these recipes you need.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“In my hand sat three dime-store lemon drops---the bright yellow candy shaped like lemons and sanded on the outside with sugar. The kind of candy grandmas kept in jars for years because no one ever eats them. "Oh...thank you." I glanced up at her, trying to hide my surprise. What a strange gift. "They're not what you think." Aunt Gert sat down in the opposite chair. She met my eyes, her own gaze intent. "These are special. They can show you the life you could have had. They can show you your true path.”

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“It tasted different from the candies of my youth, not the standard fake lemon flavor but a brighter, more... puckery flavor. Like real lemonade. It reminded me of my mom, of how her hands always smelled. Perhaps these drops really did contain a little bit of kitchen magic. This thought made me smile. I popped the candy in my mouth and got back into bed, then lay there staring up at the ceiling of my tiny dormer room, sucking on the hard ball, waiting for it to dissolve so I could go to sleep. It was the best lemon drop I'd ever had, the flavor just straddling sour and sweet. It tasted of bright July afternoons, of lemonade stands and paper cups and crunching ice cubes, of wading in the frigid water of Puget Sound, of laughter and a fizzle of joy in my chest for no reason at all.”

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“On the plate was a tall, glistening slice of lemon meringue pie, vivid yellow and fluffy white. He pulled up a chair opposite me and straddled it backward, eagerly digging his fork into the tremulous tower of meringue. "You know I dream about this slice of pie all week long, right?" he said, taking a big bite. "And me. You also dream about me," I teased him. He raised an eyebrow. "Of course I dream about you... giving me this pie." I rolled my eyes at him, and he grinned, mouth full of pie. Every Saturday I made two lemon meringue pies and served them to the first lucky handful of customers through the doors of our flagship Tampa location. The last piece of pie I always saved for Rory. I'd modified my mom's now-not-so-secret recipe, adding an element all my own---a lemon drop melted into the lemon-sugar mixture. I wasn't convinced it changed the taste that much, but Rory said it was the best pie he'd ever had. He swore the lemon drop added a touch of kitchen magic, but I knew better. It wasn't magic at all. It was revelation.”

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“She brushed the goat away and slipped off the shirt, revealing a black ribbed tank top underneath. It put the flower garden climbing up her arm and spreading across her shoulder on full display. She'd gotten the tattoos one at a time, one or two a year, ever since her meltdown. Each one stood for something specific in the language of flowers. A white chrysanthemum bloomed on the inside of her wrist for truth. A fern frond arched across her inner arm for sincerity. Delicate yellow sprigs of rue traced their way up her bicep for grace and clarity. A pink rose for happiness peeked from her shoulder blade. Together they symbolized a woman who was discovering her true path in life, uncovering her authentic self on the journey.”

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“She reached up and rubbed the four-leaf clover charm, saying a quick prayer for faith, hope, love, and luck. Faith that everything would turn out, hope that what was lost could be restored, gratitude that she had found the love of the woman who had born her, and at the end she tacked on a heartfelt request for a little bit of luck to smooth out these next uncertain, scary steps.”

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Book:Recipe for a Charmed Life
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“You must try, as my dear colleague the esteemed mythology professor Joseph Campbell used to say, to 'follow your bliss.'" "Follow my bliss?" It sounded like a slogan in a yogurt commercial. Aunt Gert nodded again. "You must follow your bliss no matter the circumstances life thrusts upon you." "But what does that mean? I have responsibilities. I can't just up and leave everything to pursue my own happiness," I protested. Aunt Gert snorted. "Who said anything about happiness? Don't be a ninny. You are mistakenly equating bliss with happiness. They're not the same thing." "They're not?" I asked in bewilderment, wondering briefly if anyone in my life had ever called me a ninny before. "What's the difference?" "Happiness is fleeting, fickle, often based on our circumstances." Aunt Gert waved a hand dismissively. "If you chase happiness, you will more often than not end up disappointed by the very nature of life. Life is hard, brutal at times, and often unfair. But following your bliss, that's entirely different. It means facing your present reality with honesty and courage and, in the midst of it all, continuing to pursue each spark of joy, even if it is a tiny pinpoint in the darkness of your life. Do not give up. Continue to look for the light in your life---it is always present somewhere, some small thing to be grateful for, something to celebrate, a way to give joy to others, a new way to grow. Move toward the light in life; seek it out no matter what. This is the essence of what it means to follow your bliss. You must be honest. Pay attention. Seek joy.”

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“Sometimes things don't work out the way we hoped, despite our best intentions. And when they go pear-shaped, you have to let them. You can't keep holding on, trying to redo the past and stop the bad things from happening. They happened, and you can't change that. You can't keep holding on to the vision of the future you imagined you'd have, the way you thought things would turn out. You have to let the present be what it is---broken, flawed, painful, but real.”

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