Layers

 

    In preparation for our first Christmas without Mom, I found myself spending a great deal of time in her kitchen. It was comforting to be there--to feel her presence as I made lists, plans and memories. Even while attempting to make new memories, the old ones encircled me and made me laugh and cry intermittently, sometimes simultaneously.

     Bruce and I attended church with Dad on Christmas Eve. We were surrounded by the familiar faces of family and friends that were part of our history together as a couple and the Johnson family history since long before that. There was, however, an empty space in the family pew. I sat by myself for a while watching as Dad, Bruce and his brother sang with the choir. I knew how proud Mom would have been to see her husband and boys standing shoulder to shoulder and singing songs of joy and praise. She would have lead in the impromptu and almost improper--by Lutheran standards--round of applause that followed the performance. Instead, a small boy sitting behind me, started clapping and I knew that Mom was smiling.

     We went to a restaurant after the service. The food was good. The atmosphere was quiet and pleasant. It felt strange to be there though--to be out and about celebrating among strangers. I longed to be back at Mom and Dad's preparing her recipes, in her kitchen. I needed the spiritual hug which that place and those memories provide me every time I am there.

     I breathed a sigh of contentment later that evening as I began to prepare the Sausage Strata that would be our breakfast the next morning. The recipe came from the church cookbook but, as was often the case, Mom had changed it up a bit. She added some bread, subtracted some of the sausage and changed the cheese from Swiss to cheddar. She did not alter the directions that called for the layering of the various ingredients, the very thing that gave the dish its name "strata."

      I placed the bread, the sausage and then the cheese into the familiar Pyrex baking dish that had held so many other breakfast casseroles. Finally, I topped it with the egg and milk mixture. The layers of flavor and the changes made by Mom to the strata would yield, I knew, something special.

     Our holiday season has been made up of layers as well. We have kept some of the same traditions and we have added some new ones. We have experienced the emptiness of loss combined with the blessing of shared memories. Tears of grief, relief and joy have topped off these life layers. The result will also be, I know, something special.

   

Change of Assignment

  It's November. I can't believe that 2014 is quickly drawing to a close. It is a year that has brought great sorrow and great joy to our family. It seems like subtlety has not been the hallmark of change lately. It has come in huge gut-wrenching blows--the loss of Mom. And it has come in beautiful heart-lifting miracles--the birth of our little Sofia to son and daughter-in-law Dave and Andrea.

     This is also the first full year that I have been without a job outside of my home in many years. Because of that, I've been doing a lot of online research, reading articles, taking quizzes etc. that are supposed to help me answer the question, "What's next?" Words like reimagine, reinvent and revamp are often used but it all comes down to that one simple word--change.

     This is not a new phenomenon. Mom knew that. Her life, like all of our lives, was a series of changes. I doubt that she did much sitting around reading about how to cope with those events that altered her path. She didn't have the time or the sometimes self-indulgent tendencies of which I often find myself guilty.

     In the 1950's, she went from being a young woman with a career to being a farmer's wife to being a mother of two. She was a leader in her church and community, never hiding in the back of the room or trying to look invisible like many of us do when someone is needed to take the reins of a position or a project. She was often an instrument, not an opponent, of change.

     I found a recipe of Mom's that I think illustrates her "c'est la vie" attitude toward the transitions and transformations that are needed in order to progress.
   
     Often Mom's recipes are written on spare scraps of notebook paper or the backs of old envelopes. Sometimes they are clippings, quickly removed from a magazine or newspaper and taped inside of one of her many cookbooks. This particular recipe for "Easy Pecan Rolls" is written in her unmistakable handwriting on the back of an "Assignment Card"--a relic from the past of Grace Lutheran Church in Knoxville, Illinois.

     Assignment cards, as near as I can tell or remember, were given to those who served on the church council. The council members were to make home visits to those on these cards. It was a way of keeping in touch with individuals and families and seeing if their needs were being met by the church. It also reads a little bit like a report card. Change was inevitable.

     I don't know if Mom lead the charge for this change or fought for the status quo in this moment of church history. I can imagine, though, that she was horrified at the thought of all of those now defunct 4x6 pieces of the past going to waste. She believed in change but not in simply throwing away the past.

     This is basically what all of those articles and online quizzes have ended up telling me as well. I could have saved time and energy if I had just listened to Mom--paid more attention to all of those women who have come before me. I wonder if they puzzle over the way that we act as if we are the first to deal with life-changing events and challenges. It isn't something new. We may call it reimagining, reinventing or revamping. They simply called it life.

 

Open

 

     I like to think that Bruce's mom is happy about this blog that showcases her recipes and, in part, her life. I know for certain that Bruce loves tasting the memories from his past. That alone is a reason to continue. I must admit, though, that a large part of why I am doing this is for my own joy. When I hold Mom's recipes and see her handwriting I can almost hear her voice--almost see her as she moves about her kitchen preparing a breakfast casserole or glazed carrots or many of the other dishes that have become family favorites.

     She knew what vegetables I liked and that I didn't eat desserts unless chocolate was involved. She knew that Bruce loved liver and onions and that I did not prepare that for him--so she would. She always said, "We'd better call Amber," (Bruce's brother's youngest daughter) whenever she made the egg, sausage and cheese strata to which our niece is especially partial. Both of our sons, Mike and Dave have happy memories of simple breakfasts of what Mom named, Toast Midgees--two slices of buttered toast stacked and cut into several small rectangles--served alongside of scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon bits.Her kitchen was just another aspect of her life where what others wanted came first.

    I came across another recipe the other day that would not normally find its way into my kitchen. Snowy Apricot Bars did not appeal to me. What did catch my eye about this recipe, that looked as if it had been photocopied from the original, was Mom's handwritten note in the corner, "Very Good." That was enough to prompt me to share it with Bruce and Dad. Both of them smiled and I could see right away that simply reading the list of ingredients to them brought forth a flood of happy memories of Mom. Even though fruit bars of any sort do not appeal to me, I would make these.  

     When the bars were done, I cut the end off of one of them to give it a taste. Although a little bit of the "snow" fell on my shirt, the rest made it to my mouth and melted on my tongue. The apricot filling somehow reminded me of pecan pie, which I love. Mom did it again. I picture her smiling in a "gotcha" sort of way as she watches me finish off the rest of the slightly messy but incredibly delicious bit of goodness.

     In recreating these recipes, I feel that I am learning not only about Mom's way of cooking but her way of living as well. I hope that I am becoming a little more open-minded when it comes to unfamiliar flavors. I hope that I am becoming a little more open-hearted when it comes to serving others.

     Very good, Mom--very good indeed!

 

   

Spice of Life

 

      "Do you like nutmeg, Dad?"

      I  felt I knew the answer before I even asked.

     "No, I really don't care for nutmeg," he answered thoughtfully.    

     One of the things that fascinates me about Dad is his amazing palate. It seems quite extraordinary that this  man, who grew up in the Midwest, working from dawn until dusk and beyond--farming--and eating the hearty fare associated with this life, is able to tell immediately if there is a spice added to his food that is unfamiliar or not to his liking. If he asks about the ingredients, I know that something has gone wrong and the dish will not make a reappearance as presented. He does this in such a loving way that I don't take offense--I just take note.

     While going through Mom's recipes I came across one that she had clipped from the local paper. Night Before Breakfast Coffee Cake sounded good just as contributed by one Erma Reynolds of Oneida, Illinois, but Mom had tweaked it just a bit. She had added chopped apple and vanilla to the delicious sounding quick bread. What caught my eye, however, was not what she added--it was what she crossed out--nutmeg.

     There are articles and books that promise the secret to a long and happy marriage. People search for the answers by going online and on television talk shows. Spicing things up is often given as part of the formula. Mom had another idea--leave the spice out. Mom listened to what Dad said and accommodated him with small gestures that turned a seemingly ordinary union into a tender,caring and enduring love. She did this in many ways--sometimes with the mere stroke of a pen.

Measuring Up

   "Do you know if mom has a blue roasting pan with a lid?" I asked Dad as we talked on the phone one morning this week. I was sure I hadn't seen one in my visits recently but equally sure that she must have one somewhere because that is what was called for in her recipe for Slow Baking Stew.

    "I don't know," Dad said slowly.

     I wanted to use that blue roasting pan. In my mind, it was a necessary element in trying to recreate Bruce's mom's recipe. I also felt that I had to make it seem unimportant because Dad would feel as if he'd disappointed me if he couldn't find it. There was no need for that.

    "Well, maybe you'll happen across it," I began. "But if not, I'll make something else work," I continued, attempting to sound as if it wouldn't matter one way or the other.

     The mystery of the missing pan had not been solved by Wednesday morning when Bruce and I arrived at the house that his mom and dad had shared for many years. I didn't need to start the stew until noon in order for it to be ready to serve for that evening's supper. I had time to do one more quick search for the elusive blue pan. In my mind I could picture it...one of those blue speckled enamelware roasters. They're not hard to spot--usually. No luck.

    In my quest, I had come across a very large Corningware® baking dish. It was a white and square and at least six inches deep. It had the trademark heavy,clear, glass lid. It would have to do. If  the stew did not turn out right, the Corningware® was taking the fall.

     I began to place the ingredients in the substitute vessel. The first three ingredients were easy to assemble but I turned up my nose a bit--an onion, a package of baby carrots, celery--not my favorite things. Potatoes had a question mark by them. There was no question in my mind--I love potatoes! Next came the beef--another thumbs up from this cook.

     "Easy so far," I said to Mom, as if she were standing beside me.

     I spoke too soon. The next three ingredients were about to upset my very precise and orderly way of cooking--2 teaspoons of salt, 2 tablespoons of sugar, 3 to 4 tablespoons of tapioca. I opened the drawer in Mom's kitchen where I had seen a measuring spoon. Please note, I had seen a measuring spoon--not a set. Thrown by only being able to find the 1/2 teaspoon member of the wayward set, I knew I was going to have to do some fractional calculating in order to complete the recipe correctly.

     It was getting close to the time that the stew needed to be in the erroneous pan and in the oven when I read the final ingredient--1 large can of V8®. The only can, as far as I can tell, that V8® comes in now is a small individual serving size can. How big was a large can when this recipe was written? In the stores today, the plastic bottles that hold the vegetable juice concoction--another ingredient that gave me pause--contain 46 ounces. That seemed like a lot of liquid.

     Sighing with determined resignation, I poured the better part of the bottle of V8® over the vegetable and beef mixture. I could watch the stew and add more liquid later if necessary, I reasoned.

     When the time came to make the biscuits and the hot fudge pudding cake that I also wanted to serve, I was feeling pretty confident. With a mere glance I could see that the stew was bubbling and looking good. That clear-lidded second-string pan had some advantages.

     My over-confident ways were quickly held in check when I tried to measure the dry ingredients that I now needed. I couldn't find a set of measuring cups anywhere. There was one that looked like it held one cup--the markings were impossible to read. There was a mangled piece of plastic that used to measure 1/4 cup. It had apparently not survived a ride through the heat cycle of the dishwasher. Yikes! I was in uncharted territory. I am a cook who measures every ingredient precisely, even going so far as to use a kitchen scale at times. But now I was going to have to rely on my instinct and a prayer or two.

     As I finished preparing the stew and other elements to the meal that I was about to serve, I wondered why Bruce's mom, who had painstakingly written down the recipe,even including what pan to use,did not seem to have the proper measuring tools in her kitchen. It occurred to me that perhaps she didn't write the recipe down for herself. She, like my own mom, cooked from experience and instinct, using what was on hand at the moment. Measuring was for new cooks or not-so-new cooks who feared a  kitchen failure.These women, who came before me, didn't run out to the grocery store if they lacked enough of this or that. They figured something out. They didn't balk at using ingredients that weren't on their top ten list of good eats. They took inexpensive, healthy ingredients and made them delicious. I am convinced that they wrote their wisdom down in the margins of cookbooks and on 3x5 index cards so that they could share them with others and for that, I am forever grateful.

The Substitue

The Finished  Product

My own collection of measuring devices--I have a lot to learn!

"Cannot" Bread

I never realized how much joy can be found in going through drawers, boxes and cupboards filled with cookbooks, recipe cards and newspaper and magazine clippings. My husband, Bruce, lost his mom to cancer on August 20th. I had not experienced this depth of loss before. We have both had grandparents, aunts, uncles and other loved ones pass away but losing "Mom" left me floundering in my grief. It wasn't until I began going through Mom's recipe collection that I began to find that I could smile and laugh and talk about her without feeling as if I were causing more pain to an already hurting family.

Mom's collection tells a story of a well-lived life. There are cookbooks from the first years that she and Dad were married, ones from various organizations that she belonged to or supported and cooking shows that she attended. She wrote notes in the margins and pasted clippings inside of cookbook covers. Her handwritten recipe cards, the additions, subtractions and substitutions that she made to make a recipe her own--these have touched my heart. It is like she is standing at the counter with me while I cook and laughing when I mistakenly read "Cannot" Bread when what she had written was "Carrot" Bread. I want to share some of these recipes along with stories about a woman who loved God, her family and  life. She embraced me and accepted me with unconditional love from the first moment that her son, my husband, said to me, "This is my mom." This is my mom, too.