Fritz hurried down the apartment stairs, pulling on her gloves as she went. The streetcar bell sounded in the distance.

“You’re going to miss it!” Bernice called from the kitchen window.

Fritz waved her off and hurried toward the corner. She breathed a sigh of relief when the streetcar waited for her.

By the time she reached Woodward Avenue, the great department store rose in front of her like its own city. J.L. Hudson’s was not the sort of place a person simply entered. It was the sort of place a person arrived at. The doors opened into warmth and polish and movement. Women arrived in hats and gloves, clerks stood behind counters, perfume drifted through the air, elevators hummed, and shoes tapped across shining floors.

For a moment, Fritz slowed.

She could have wandered. It would have been easy enough. There were counters to admire, windows to study, linens to touch, dishes to imagine on a table she did not own. Hudson’s had a way of making ordinary life seem as if it could be improved with just the right purchase, the right recipe, the right bit of advice from the right floor.

But she did not have time to shop.

In two hours, she had to report to the hotel kitchen, where she worked as a pantry helper. There would be vegetables to wash, potatoes to peel, rolls to butter, salads to plate, and whatever else the cook decided needed doing before the lunch crowd arrived. It was honest work, tiring work, and not always interesting work.

But this morning was different.

This morning, on the tenth floor, Hudson’s Home Advisory Bureau was offering a cooking demonstration. Not just a single dish, either, but an entire meal from beginning to end. Pork chops with onion stuffing. Raised cornmeal muffins. Vegetables, sides, and, at the end of it all, orange chiffon pie.

Fritz knew she would not be able to stay for the whole thing. She would have to slip out before the final dish was finished, hurry back through the crowds, and make it to work.

But if she could see enough, hear enough, write down enough, maybe she could carry a little of Hudson’s home with her.

She found the elevators and stepped inside with the other women heading upward, each of them buttoned into winter coats, each carrying her own private list of errands, hopes, and questions. Fritz kept one gloved hand in her pocket, fingers resting against the blank index cards.

Just in case.

The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor.

A woman in a neatly pressed dress stood at the front of the room beside a long demonstration table. Behind her, an assistant arranged bowls, measuring spoons, flour, yeast, and a stack of printed recipe sheets.

“Today, ladies,” the demonstrator began, smiling out over the room, “we’re going to prepare a full luncheon menu suitable for company. We’ll begin with pork chops with onion stuffing, then move on to raised cornmeal muffins, coleslaw, green beans, and finish with orange chiffon pie. At the end of the demonstration, each of you will receive a copy of the recipes to take home.”

At that, Fritz sat a little straighter.

The recipes.

She glanced toward the stack of papers on the side table. There they were, already printed, already waiting.

But there was the problem.

At the end of the demonstration.

Fritz looked down at her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap. She could not stay until the end. In less than two hours, she would need to be across town and back in the hotel kitchen, tying on an apron and taking orders from a cook who did not care one bit about pork chops with onion stuffing or orange chiffon pie.

For a moment, she considered trying to copy what she could.

Impossible.

Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she raised her hand.

The demonstrator paused.

“Yes?”

A few women glanced her way.

Fritz suddenly wished she had chosen a seat closer to the aisle.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to leave early for work. Would it be possible to have a copy of the recipes before I go?”

The demonstrator’s smile softened.

“Of course.”

She nodded to her assistant, who carried one of the printed sheets down the aisle. Fritz accepted it with both hands.

“Thank you.”

The paper was warm from the room and crisp at the edges. She folded it carefully and tucked it deep into her coat pocket beside the blank index cards she no longer needed.

Then she sat back and paid attention to everything. The way the demonstrator bloomed the yeast. The way she handled the cornmeal. The way she spoke of timing, texture, and serving a meal while it was still hot. Fritz watched as if she had to memorize each step for an exam.

Before long, Fritz glanced at the clock and knew she had stayed as long as she dared. She gathered her gloves, slipped quietly from her chair, and made her way toward the elevators before the orange chiffon pie ever had its moment.

But the recipes were in her pocket.

As she stepped back into the cold Detroit air, hurrying toward the hotel kitchen, Fritz already had plans forming in her mind. The cornmeal muffins would be first. She only needed a few ingredients, and if she started the dough as soon as she got home from work, there would still be time for it to rise before supper.

Bernice would taste them, of course. Bernice always tasted everything. And if the muffins turned out well enough, Fritz might even bring them to the church potluck on Wednesday.

If she stretched her grocery money carefully over the next week, perhaps she could work her way through the entire menu. Not all at once, of course. One recipe at a time.

Pork chops one evening. Green beans another. Then, if she could manage the eggs, that orange chiffon pie.

She had not stayed until the end, but she had what she came for.

The recipes.

A plan.

And a best friend waiting at home to taste whatever came out of the oven.