Page 27 of Heartland
“I like ‘troll free,’” I admit.
“Oh, fine!” Grandpa storms. “You like Audrey’s suggestions. What about my needs? Will there be more flavors? The salt is nice, but I’m a chocolate man.”
“Chocolate gets fussy,” Audrey argues. She’s a trained chef, so she should know. “That would add a lot of time to the production.”
“Not to mention expense,” I say under my breath. “We have to figure out packaging. There are start-up costs besides the sugar.”
“I’ll invest,” Griffin says easily. “How much could packaging cost? Are we talking tins or boxes?”
“Tins,” Dylan says at the exact moment that I say “boxes.”
We look at each other with matching apologetic expressions. “Chastity and I haven’t done the homework on this,” he says. “I didn’t believe her when she said we could make a salable product.”
“It’s entirely salable,” Audrey says. “All the shops where Leah sells cheese should be willing to stock caramels, too.”
This is a an important calculation that I’ve already made. Our families sell food for a living. You can walk into any gourmet shop in New England and find either the Shipleys’ ciders or the Abrahams’ cheeses. Hopefully, Dylan and I can hitch our wagon to their successes.
“This sounds like work, though,” Griffin points out. “I hope this doesn’t end like Dylan’s other ideas. Remember when he told us he was going to make maple soda to sell at the farmers’ market?”
“I wasnine,” Dylan sputters. “And that required refrigeration.”
Griffin shrugs. “Just saying. This isn’t your first big idea.”
Dylan gives his older brother a grumpy look and then pulls out his phone. “Where do I look for tins or boxes?” he asks. “The other question is—do we wrap up the pieces in a square of waxed paper? Or are they nestled in individual cups?”
“Cups,” Audrey says firmly. “That’s more upmarket. And you have to charge a lot, okay? Whatever you think the right price is, add twenty-five percent.”
“No—add fifty,” Griffin says.
“You need a cute logo,” Dylan’s sister May insists. “You can’t have a great product without a great logo. Dylan—draw a goat.”
“Iwill,” he says. “Give a guy a minute. What is the internet search term for those little paper cups that candies sit in?”
“Candy cups,” Audrey says, taking his phone. “Here, let me look.”
“Oh! A drawing. Will you really do that?” I ask Dylan. He’s so artistic. No wonder Dylan can’t figure out what to do with his life. If I were good at everything, I’d have trouble, too.
“Sure. Consider it done,” he says.
“I could use another pancake,” Grandpa grumbles. “If nobody is giving me another caramel.”
“Candy cups!” Audrey squeals. “You can buy them for a hundred and thirteen dollars,” she says. “Ask me how many?”
“How many?” someone says.
“Twenty-five thousand.” She laughs. “That ought to do it. And now you don’t have to sit around for hours twisting caramels into their wrappers.”
“What does ribbon cost?” I ask. “That might look festive.”
“Maybe,” Dylan says. “But not if it means the boxes don’t stack well on top of each other.”
“Oh, heck, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
He gives me a quick smile. “This family has been selling food for four generations. Figuring this shit out is literally in our blood. What are we calling these, anyway? Grandpa is right. We do need a name.”
“I’ll get the whiteboard,” May says, exiting the dining room with a spring in her step.
“Next you’ll need to make up a promo batch,” Audrey points out. “You’ll want finished packages of caramels to show the retailers. They need to taste the product and see the packaging.”
