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The Money Code: Become a Millionaire With the Ancient Jewish Code

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H.W. Charles

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“You aren't wasting any time getting to the altar. Is there a reason for the hurry?" Every jaw within hearing dropped. Mr. Knight twisted around like a vengeful whirlwind. In unison, the guests stepped back. But for the first time, Lady Shapster hadn't the power to shame or terrify Eleanor. Maybe Eleanor had matured. Maybe the last four years, the last few days, the last few minutes, had shown her real adversity. For whatever reason, a rush of fury chased anxiety out of her mind. She didn't need Mr. Knight to defend her. She could stand up for herself. With a smile that was more tooth than benevolence, she said, "Lady Shapster, I arrived in England less than a week ago. If you wish to spread rumors, that isn't one that will take." Lady Shapster blinked, as if a kitten had attacked her ankles and drawn blood.”

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“I knew that sunny citrus helped put things in focus, sharpened the memory, just like a squeeze of lemon juice could sharpen and clarify the taste of sweet fruit. I was also well aware that too much citrus could indicate a corrosive anger. My first wedding at Rainbow Cake had taught me that. But this was a gentle, subdued citrus, like the taste of a Meyer lemon. Spice usually indicated grief, a loss that lingered for a long time, just like the pungent flavor of the spice itself, whether it was nutmeg or allspice or star anise. The more pronounced the flavor, the more recent the loss and the stronger the emotion. So there was some kind of loss or remembrance involved here. Yet there was also a comfort in the remembering, knowing that people had gone before you. That they waited for you on the other side.”

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“When I sat with clients and opened my mind to them, a taste usually came through. It might be sweet, sour, salty, or bitter. After a moment, it would blossom into a full flavor. The sweet ripeness of apricot, the sourness of a Key lime, the earthy saltiness of Mexican chocolate, the aromatic bitterness of nutmeg. In a flash, a feeling would follow the flavor. Joy. Skepticism. Lust for life. Quiet acceptance. And from that feeling would come a memory, a scene called back to present day. A moment whose real meaning and importance I might never fully know. And I didn't really need to know everything. I used my gift to see my clients' stories so I could design desserts- in this case, a wedding cake- to fit each customer like a couture gown, not an off-the-rack dress in desperate need of alterations. If I got the cake and filling and frosting flavors right, they would resonate with my clients, reaching them in those down-deep places where they would begin to feel that everything really would be all right.”

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Book:The Memory of Lemon
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“At the far end of the bakery, our canvas curtain heralded April's lime and coconut theme. Little bags of coconut meringue polka dots with lime buttercream filling were there for the taking. I was proud of our little cakes shaped like a cracked-open coconut- white coconut cake interior with a dark chocolate "shell," complete with a lime cookie straw inserted in the center for imaginary sipping. Lime bars with a coconut crust and lime curd filling sat on a snowy white cake stand.”

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“I brought a coconut cream pie, Mom's favorite. Coconut's hard, dirty, shaggy exterior didn't promise much. But when you cracked it open and then cleaned it up, it surprised you with the smooth white riches inside. In a coconut shell, this was my mother's mission in life- to tackle the litter, the dust, the stains, the residue of life and tidy them all up. Her sweet reward was that exotic state of everything-in-its-clean-place, always a mirage in the distance while she was living with Helen. Coconut cream pie fed her soul.”

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Book:The Memory of Lemon
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“These are good." Rico popped an extra piece in his mouth. "As good as the ones they sold at your fiera livre?" As soon as she said it, they both froze. This was all on camera. At least she wasn't holding a knife. "No." Rico smiled at the camera. "Better." The skip of joy in her heart brought with it a shadow of fear, but she ignored it and grabbed square black platters and started to plate the bright white pancakes in delicate quarter folds to form a clover. She handed spoons to Rico and he poured doce de leite into them and placed them next to the pancakes. They were done a good two minutes before the rest of contestants, but they would still have to act like they were rushing at the end because it made for better television. "It looks a little plain," Rico said, taking in everyone else's workstations, where everything from empanadas to elephant ears and patajones (Danny, naturally) were being tossed up. "Should I cut up some strawberries? It could use some fruit, and maybe whipped cream?" He was right. It needed something. Plain would definitely get them hammered by the judges. But not strawberries and whipped cream. Not anything so predictable. Ashna raced to the pantry, picked up a mango, and tossed it at Rico. Then without waiting to see if he would catch it, she turned to grab some saffron and ran back to their station. "Can you dice the mango?" Before the question was even out of her mouth, he was slicing. DJ called out the one-minute warning. Ashna pinched out a fat clump of saffron into a metal spoon, mixed in a few drops of milk, and held it over the fire. The saffron dissolved into the milk, turning it orange, and despite the smells from all the workstations, the aroma of saffron permeated the air. DJ started to count down the last ten seconds. Ashna drizzled the saffron milk onto the four spoons of doce de leite just as Rico arranged the mango at the center of each plate.”

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