The Traveling Tea Shop by Belinda Jones

but chuckle. “That’s exactly what Georgie loved about my fruit cake. He said it sat like a brick in his stomach. In a good way.”
    And then she proceeds to show us just how weighty it is.
    It’s fun watching Gracie at work. She has so many similar mannerisms to Pamela. People used to say that about me and Mum. We both had very “descriptive” hands. And you couldn’t tell our voices apart on the phone. I always liked hearing that. It’s strange to me that Ravenna wants to distance herself from Pamela’s identity in every possible way.
    Ravenna’s sitting outside now, watching a schooner prepare for its afternoon cruise.
    Once we’ve bid Warren a grateful good-bye, promising to visit his DC shop next time we’re dropping in to the White House, I head over to her.
    “Are we going to the hotel now?” she sighs.
    “Actually we’re not staying the night in Connecticut,” I disappoint her. “Rhode Island is just fifty miles away, so we thought it made sense to spend two nights in Newport, what with the bus to sort out and all.”
    “So we’ll be there in about an hour?”
    “Not quite,” I grimace. “Today is unusual in that we have more than one cake appointment, the rest of the schedule isn’t quite so jam-packed. Pardon the pun.”
    Ravenna holds my gaze. “Where
exactly
are we going next?”
    Oh she’s going to love this one.
    “It’s an old mill. Very rustic. We’re going to learn how to make Johnny Cakes.”
    She raises a brow.
    “Apparently it’s some kind of fried gruel.”
    “Right,” she nods as she gets to her feet. “This time you can leave me in the car.” As she walks away she adds a muttered, “And don’t bother cracking the window.”

Chapter 11

    It feels important to mention, as soon as possible, that the name Johnny Cakes may be the misheard (or slightly slurred) version of “journey cakes,” as in an enduring snack you could pop in your sackcloth bag as you set off trekking.
    They are not really cakes in the teatime sense, being neither sweet nor spongy. Mostly you find them on the breakfast menus at roadside diners.
    “And the primary ingredient is white flint corn?” Pamela peers over my shoulder at my notes.
    “Yes, it’s one of the main food crops of the Native Indians—they were the originators of this recipe. Which also leads to theories about the name evolving from Shawnee Cake. You can hear the similarity if you say them one after the other.”
    “Shawnee Cake, Johnny Cake,” she repeats. “Oh yes.”
    “The ‘flint’ aspect refers to the hard exterior of the kernels, and this particular strain is exclusive to the soils of Rhode Island,” I continue, “which happens to be the smallest state in America.”
    “Bless.”
    When we arrive at Kenyon’s Grist Mill in the little village of Usquepaugh, Ravenna keeps to her word by staying in the car. She can’t see any reason to get out since there’s just an excess of foliage and a few “ye olde” buildings beside a river.
    Of course this doesn’t stop her being a pain in the behind. Our charming host—Paul Drumm—is just explaining how the mill was founded in 1696, and showing us the giant granite millstone that grinds corn to flour (apparently stone ground is far superior to modern steel methods, both in terms of texture and preserving the nutrients) when Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball” starts blaring out from the direction of the car.
    “Excuse me for a moment.” I elect to handle the situation, fighting the urge to take one of the blunt work tools along with me.
    I rap on the window. “Headphones break?”
    “What?” Ravenna yells over the music. “Can’t hear!”
    I reach to open the door and she quickly silences the stereo.
    “What do you want?” I ask, crouching beside her in my best Supernanny pose.
    “What do I want?”
    “Well, you are attention-seeking, so here I am—you have my attention.”
    “I’m bored!” she huffs.
    “So?”
    “Well, what am I supposed to do for