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.