Week 49 – Recipe

 

Both of my grandmothers were great cooks although their cuisine was on opposite ends of the spectrum.  My mother worked outside the home once I entered Kindergarten, but she still cooked a full breakfast and supper Every. Single. Day., and then three meals a day on the weekends.  My sister loves to cook, and she reads cookbooks like they were novels.  My oldest daughter is an amazing cook, albeit a little too gourmet for my taste, but it’s always scrumptious.  Even my youngest granddaughter could spend her entire day in the kitchen whipping up the most amazing desserts you can imagine (some that would rival Whiteside Cake - IYKYK).  Then there’s me. If you know me, you understand that cooking is nowhere near the top of any list that has to do with my favorite things. Oh…don’t get me wrong, I CAN cook, and I can cook well, I have just never developed a love, or even a like, for doing so. 

My dad’s mom, Henrietta, lived in oil camps most of her adult life.  I’m certain this is the reason that when she had company, the meals she prepared were rather skimpy. Even her serving bowls were small. If you didn’t get anything the first-time around, you may as well forget it. Leftovers didn’t exist at her house. There was always an assortment of vegetables, but relatively little meat. This suited me fine as I could happily be a vegetarian. One thing she always had was bread.  Fresh, out of the oven, homemade, hand kneaded bread. She was my babysitter when I was small, and every few days, I would stand on a chair and watch her make it.  She would always bake two loaves at a time and for lunch, she and I would sit and watch the butter melt over one of them. Then out came her serrated bread knife, and we would enjoy an entire loaf between the two of us. The heels were always my favorite. I can still make her bread but haven’t done so in a long time.  Bread wasn’t her only specialty.  She loved to make pies. My memories are filled with her cutting lard into the flour to make the crust with two knives. It seemed to take forever! I never much cared for pie at the time (lemon or chocolate meringue were her favorites) which was fine because the best part was when she spread the leftover pie crust out on her bread board, and covered it with butter, sugar and cinnamon. It was then folded (not rolled) over and baked.  This is what I grew up believing a cinnamon roll to be.  I was an adult before I learned that cinnamon rolls were not made from pie crust.

My mom’s mom, Mabel, grew up on a farm in western Oklahoma. She and my grandfather both came from large families so you never knew how many you might have for Sunday dinner.  My grandparents had owned a diner in Weatherford, Oklahoma before I was born, so cooking a meal for a sizeable group had always been a part of living. When you ate at Mabel’s, you couldn’t possibly leave the table hungry, and most often, you were miserable from overindulging.  There was every comfort food imaginable, and above all else – GRAVY.  The table was so full there was barely enough room for plates.  I didn’t spend a great deal of time with Mabel when I was small, but I can certainly remember those meals when we’d travel to Weatherford on the weekends. These feasts were the essence of family style. Mabel’s specialty was fried chicken. I don’t care for chicken, and it’s only been the last few years that I’ve acquiesced to eating any at all. To cook it? It literally makes me gag to even look at raw chicken. Two of Mabel’s sons, my Uncle Joe, and Uncle Vernon, didn’t like chicken either.  They grew up on the farm and were probably served chicken more than any other dish. I don’t know where my disdain of chicken comes from, but at least I know I’m not alone.

My sister-in-law is a descendant of Italian immigrants. An invitation to Thanksgiving at her house is reminiscent of those at my grandma Ditmore’s house, only the fare is so different.  There are salads, and pasta, and sausages, and cheeses, and when you think you can’t take another bite - THEN the turkey, and stuffing, and vegetables, and breads and of course, Italian cheesecake are served. I’m usually full after the first course, but it’s all so good, one cannot simply stop eating. Of the few things I do like to cook is her lasagna recipe.  It’s all from scratch, the sauce must simmer for hours.  I must set aside an entire day to make it which I why I only make it about once a year.  Funny story – on probably the first occasion where I made dinner for my future husband, I thought I’d really pour on the domesticity, and I made lasagna.  Well…you should have seen the look on his face. Come to find out, he did not like any type of pasta, much less lasagna. Guess what? He loved it.  Good thing, too, because I don’t think I could have married a man who wouldn’t eat Italian.

My mother was a very good cook, but my brother and I were both picky eaters.  My father, on the other hand, would eat anything put before him.  The minute my mom would get home from work, she set up camp in the kitchen where she would prepare an entire meal made up of meat and potatoes, along with a vegetable or two, bread of some type, and a dessert.  Most often, I turned up my nose, so she would then set out to find, and cook, something that more appealed to me.  If my brother didn’t like either what my dad or I were eating, she would then go searching for something else for him (Note: my brother’s tastes were eventually expanded when he served in the military. He owned a health food restaurant in the 70’s and I can assure you that most of the meals we had as kids were not on that menu). My mom spent most of her life either at the office where she worked, or in the kitchen.  She also suffered from OCD, so once the dishes were done and put away, she mopped the floor and made everything spic and span.  This made quite an impression on me.  I blame my mother for the fact I don’t care to cook.  There are more important things than spending half my life in the kitchen.  When I became a wife and mother, if my brood didn’t like what I served, they could just go hungry – and they learned at an early age how to clean the kitchen. Of course, my OCD now prevents me from letting anyone in my kitchen when it’s time to clean up because I know they won’t clean it to my satisfaction. 

There are so many fond memories sitting at each of these tables.  I have many recipes handwritten by my mother and both grandmothers.  Just the fact they’re handwritten makes them treasures to me. While I haven’t tried all of them, I do have a few favorites.  For Christmas last year, I received a cutting board from one of my daughters. Engraved in the wood is a recipe, written in my mother’s handwriting. Needless to say, it brought the tears, but since it’s a chicken recipe, I doubt I’ll be giving it a try.

My youngest granddaughter is a baker. Cakes, pies, cookies, just about any dessert you can think of, she can do it. As soon as she was big enough to stand on a chair in the kitchen, she started to bake with the help of her daddy. Everything from scratch! Her favorite TV shows are any that have to do with baking competitions. If she were so inclined to complete, I'm confident she'd win. She's a teenager now, and an athlete, as well, so it's not unusual for her to come in from softball practice and immediately set to work in the kitchen. She usually comes to spend a week or so with us during the summer, so PapPaw makes sure she has all the ingredients to make his favorites - angel food cake and coconut cream pie. I wish she had the opportunity to spend a day in the kitchens of her ancestors, to see firsthand how much love they poured into the meals they prepared. Even without that, however, she continues to carry on the legacy of all the great cooks that have come before her.