The Traveling Tea Shop Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Belinda Jones
having something maple syrup–themed for Vermont.”
“I know a thing or two about that.”
“Of course!” I laugh happily, recalling that her fella Jacques switches to maple syrup tapping when the snow season ends.
“Oh my god!” Krista blurts. “I’ve just thought of somewhere I’ve been dying to go!”
“Where?”
“In Vermont—the Trapp Family Lodge.”
“Sounds like something from
The Sound of Music.
”
“It is! After they escaped the Nazis, this is where they set up home.”
“Right . . .” I frown. “Where’s the cake connection?”
“Maria’s Linzertorte. They make it there from her original recipe.”
“It’s supposed to be American recipes.”
“Well, it’s the American
dream
, isn’t it? Come on!”
“I’ll think about it. What about New Hampshire? I don’t really know what that state is famous for—except for Mitt Romney.” I pull a face.
Krista gives a little chuckle. “Did you hear about the bakery that makes the presidential cookies? They do a red border for Republican, blue for Democrat and then stencil on the face of the respective candidate in the middle.”
“Really?”
“They’ve been doing it for the past seven elections and every time they correctly predict who will win based on the number of cookies sold—the percentages even match up!”
“And they’re in New Hampshire?” This could be fun.
“Ohio.”
“Oh.”
“Hold on, Jacques just got in.
Chéri!
” She calls to him.
Their voices are muffled across the room. I look around me, wondering how loudly I’ve been talking and what on earth an eavesdropper would make of our conversation. One of the turtles does look particularly bemused. I’m becoming transfixed by his beaky-gummy mouth when Krista rejoins me.
“Well, this sounds promising—a year or two ago, Jacques went to a friend’s wedding at the Mount Washington Resort. Can you check it out on your phone?”
“Wow,” I say as the pictures come into view. “Talk about presidential! This place is stunning.”
“Kind of like a mountain version of the Hotel del Coronado,” Krista notes, comparing the grand white building and distinctive red roofing. “I’m betting they do a lovely afternoon tea there.” I hear a rattling of keys. “Oh my god! They do three: The Victorian, The Royal and The Mad Hatter.”
“Mad Hatter for sure,” I cheer, picturing Pamela seated between the White Rabbit and the Red Queen.
“Wait. That’s just for kids under ten: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Oh.”
“You want The Royal, that’s the one with the champagne. And it’s served in the Princess Room. How divine!”
“You’re brilliant!” I whoop. “I feel so much better already.”
“I’m here for you, kiddo.”
“Thank you,” I sigh.
“Seriously, don’t worry about a thing. It’s going to be a piece of cake!”
I give a little snort. “Did I mention that we’re traveling in a London bus, driven by her half-blind, aging mother?”
Silence.
“Krista?”
“You might want to double up on the travel insurance.”
Chapter 5
And so begins an all-consuming blur of Googling, cross-referencing, route-planning, hotel-pricing, negotiating, scheduling and salivating. All those online images of cakes with their glistening richness and perfectly piped fondant swirls! There was one Ice Cream Sundae Cupcake that was drizzled with chocolate sauce, scattered with sprinkles and topped with a glacé cherry! I could barely keep from licking my laptop screen.
By day three I find my cupboards to be bare (I work from home), so I part with my pajamas and hole up in a back-room nook at Bread (my favorite local Little Italy café) and enjoy the convenience of having a steady stream of lattes and nibbles delivered to my table, literally from breakfast till close at midnight. (Highly recommend an apple-pie Martini to revive one’s flagging fingertips around 7 P.M. ) Every now and again I find something so cool I can barely keep
“I know a thing or two about that.”
“Of course!” I laugh happily, recalling that her fella Jacques switches to maple syrup tapping when the snow season ends.
“Oh my god!” Krista blurts. “I’ve just thought of somewhere I’ve been dying to go!”
“Where?”
“In Vermont—the Trapp Family Lodge.”
“Sounds like something from
The Sound of Music.
”
“It is! After they escaped the Nazis, this is where they set up home.”
“Right . . .” I frown. “Where’s the cake connection?”
“Maria’s Linzertorte. They make it there from her original recipe.”
“It’s supposed to be American recipes.”
“Well, it’s the American
dream
, isn’t it? Come on!”
“I’ll think about it. What about New Hampshire? I don’t really know what that state is famous for—except for Mitt Romney.” I pull a face.
Krista gives a little chuckle. “Did you hear about the bakery that makes the presidential cookies? They do a red border for Republican, blue for Democrat and then stencil on the face of the respective candidate in the middle.”
“Really?”
“They’ve been doing it for the past seven elections and every time they correctly predict who will win based on the number of cookies sold—the percentages even match up!”
“And they’re in New Hampshire?” This could be fun.
“Ohio.”
“Oh.”
“Hold on, Jacques just got in.
Chéri!
” She calls to him.
Their voices are muffled across the room. I look around me, wondering how loudly I’ve been talking and what on earth an eavesdropper would make of our conversation. One of the turtles does look particularly bemused. I’m becoming transfixed by his beaky-gummy mouth when Krista rejoins me.
“Well, this sounds promising—a year or two ago, Jacques went to a friend’s wedding at the Mount Washington Resort. Can you check it out on your phone?”
“Wow,” I say as the pictures come into view. “Talk about presidential! This place is stunning.”
“Kind of like a mountain version of the Hotel del Coronado,” Krista notes, comparing the grand white building and distinctive red roofing. “I’m betting they do a lovely afternoon tea there.” I hear a rattling of keys. “Oh my god! They do three: The Victorian, The Royal and The Mad Hatter.”
“Mad Hatter for sure,” I cheer, picturing Pamela seated between the White Rabbit and the Red Queen.
“Wait. That’s just for kids under ten: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Oh.”
“You want The Royal, that’s the one with the champagne. And it’s served in the Princess Room. How divine!”
“You’re brilliant!” I whoop. “I feel so much better already.”
“I’m here for you, kiddo.”
“Thank you,” I sigh.
“Seriously, don’t worry about a thing. It’s going to be a piece of cake!”
I give a little snort. “Did I mention that we’re traveling in a London bus, driven by her half-blind, aging mother?”
Silence.
“Krista?”
“You might want to double up on the travel insurance.”
Chapter 5
And so begins an all-consuming blur of Googling, cross-referencing, route-planning, hotel-pricing, negotiating, scheduling and salivating. All those online images of cakes with their glistening richness and perfectly piped fondant swirls! There was one Ice Cream Sundae Cupcake that was drizzled with chocolate sauce, scattered with sprinkles and topped with a glacé cherry! I could barely keep from licking my laptop screen.
By day three I find my cupboards to be bare (I work from home), so I part with my pajamas and hole up in a back-room nook at Bread (my favorite local Little Italy café) and enjoy the convenience of having a steady stream of lattes and nibbles delivered to my table, literally from breakfast till close at midnight. (Highly recommend an apple-pie Martini to revive one’s flagging fingertips around 7 P.M. ) Every now and again I find something so cool I can barely keep