SLICE OF CUT CAKE

 

Daddy's Aint Ruth, who was as "Country as they come,” raised a whole passel of chillun, each with two names in the family fashion, and each growing up in that not-too-large frame house with the two outdoor faucets through the wall over the kitchen sink.  They were big old high brass things, both gushing out cold water into that wide trough sink, deeper than ours, in those days before doubles and all those charming little modern doo-dads on one side, so handy for disposal and rinsing and bar needs.  The two faucets were put in together years before, in trust of a "hot water heater" somewhere in the nebulous future.  And many a dish went through that kitchen, a literal dozen plates per meal at the long wood table down the length of that fragrant, colourful room, and also a literal two-meats and four casseroles,a big skillet of bread, and several  pots of sump’n nother just picked and shelled from the garden.

And the desserts!  I’ve never seen so many or such variety at a plain old family meal---it was common to have cake and pie AND a puddin’ sitting on the sideboard as they sat down to supper after a hard day’s work.   She had but two cake recipes, for the actual layers---a yellow one and a chocolate, rich with a great cloud of Hershey’s cocoa sifted into the Godchaux before creaming in that immense old Sunbeam the shade of aged ivory.  But the additions and the flavorings---she had about five good-sized bottles of Raleigh flavorings in the cabinet, even back then when I was a teen and boasted THREE of my own---vanilla, of course, and lemon extract and the ethereal almond for the most exquisitely flavored pound cakes.    She also had coconut and "imitation rum," of all things, and in addition to putting a few drops of the coconut into the cake layer before baking, she’d set the freshly-grated coconut aside, put a few more drops into the “milk” which was carefully saved from the coconut.

One of the boys usually had coconut duty, and he’d poke the ice pick into the three little monkey-face holes at the end, maneuver the holes over a little bowl, and drain out all the what-chefs-today-call-water before taking the coconut out to the shade and a big concrete block, to crack it gently with a hammer and dig all the lovely soft meaty insides loose, like hulling out a particularly fragrant oyster from its shell.  Those curvy bits of meat had a gentle brownish rind on the outside curve, which had to be removed with a small sharp knife, to keep the whitewhite flesh pristine for the grater.

I can just hear the whushwhush of the grating, as Jean Evelyn or Mary Ruth stood at the table with the big old box grater, filling the big pyramid with great drifts of the snowy shreds, ready for the cooling cake.   And Aint Ruth had a way of taking that leftover bowl of “milk,” adding in a bit of sugar and a teaspoon of that delightful extract, then tossing the liquid around in a bowl with all those mounds of coconut.   This was left to sit whilst one of them heaped the great billows of seven-minute onto and over those three layers, straight from the cooling rack. 

  She was the first I ever saw to take some strips of waxed paper, slide them under several sides of the cake, and collect all the coconut which fell from the expert fingers patting it gently onto every inch of the gleaming frosting.   At the end of the process, they’d slide out the paper, then dump all the bits of escaped coconut onto the top of that gorgeous cake, and it was done.

BUT.   If one of the boys (or girls, for that matter), had come through the kitchen with a little sweet-craving, they’d just matter-of-factly take a whack at whatever cake layers were lying there cooling.   And this was not the “OH, Hon!  Don’t cut the cake ‘fore the company sees it,” where one neat slice from the finished marvel would be noticed, but only in passing.  This was a quick knife through one of the naked layers resting on the racks, picked up like a pizza wedge and lifted for a bite as the culprit headed elsewhere in the house or leaned casually against the counter for a chat with the cooks. And then the cake-assembler had to deal with an oddly-shaped piece to frost and stack, which they did with such a practiced, unfazed air, or simply saying “Guess we got a two-layer cake today!” with a casual swat in the direction of the cake thief, that it must have been a frequent occurrence.

That simple, natural gesture of confidence and welcome-to-it astonished me the first few times,  for I loved to be there for the Saturday baking (or Sunday morning, if they were adding on a little extra for us “company”), and I could not fathom being allowed to just demolish a project like that.   Cakes were sacred things, round and perfect and immaculate of construction and method---the formula had to be right for them to rise, or to taste right, or to be exactly enough for the three layer-pans, and to so casually dismember some of the parts before the actual assembly---it rather sent my baking mind into disarray for a bit, as if she’d snipped a big hank of fabric off a dress, leaving the hem a foot shorter on one side.

I realize now that those cakes and their casual treatment, that easy comfort in the kitchen and in that whole filled-to-the-brim house, with the respectful, kind kids and absolutely devoted parents---those cakes were the absolute symbol of a kind of child-raising I’d not encountered before.   There was a philosophy of trust and an easy camaraderie amongst all of them, a gentle kind of living together with all taking a willing part in the keeping of the home and family. 

 I was raised in a  tight-ship-kitchen, a flinch-over-spilled-milk household, with never in my life a cake cut out of reach of Mother's watchful eyes, even though I had baked every single one made in that house since I was Twelve.   The cake might come out at dessert time, be judiciously sliced onto the right number of small plates, and then went back under the cover, with a a snap and slide back beneath the cabinet until Mother brought it out again.  My only graduation to being alone with a cake was about my junior year, when my parents started delaying their dessert until about nine,  between GEORGE GOBEL and DINAH SHORE,  and I could go to the kitchen and set a tray with two cups and saucers and two little cake plates, boil the copper kettle, and pour the boiling water over the Folger's instant, to go with the two slender slices I delivered to the coffee table before going back to my chair.   And here were all those cousins making free in their own homes, just helping themselves to a needed part of a whole-yet-to-be-made, with scarce as thought as popcorn.

The first time it happened, I looked at her, wide-eyed, then back at the wedge-missing layer on the rack, and as I turned my gaze to her face again, she laughed, reached out a casual finger and patted up some crumbs.   Just before she put them into her mouth, she said, “I ain’t never made a cake that couten’ be CUT!”

My, how we all adored her!!

Dumplin' Days

 

I SWEAR, Y'all!!  This April weather is what they might call CAPRICIOUS---it's been cutting capers all over the map, thermometer and Thermostat settings.   The honeysuckle was sweet through the windowscreens last night, and this morning's 45 sent the windows DOWN and the furnace UP.   Days like this make me want to cuddle in and treat it like it's February again, one more time for the sun gets to make the calls all Summer.  

It's what would and should be known as a Dumplin' Day. Those are the ones when the weather is just TOO cold and bad to go out in, the warmth of home and flannelly shirts and cups of cocoa beckon, and the scents of a pot of something richly simmering on the stove soothes and relaxes the body and soul. And nothing is better at that than a big pot of chicken and dumplings. It's even a silly, feel-good word---dumplings---sounding like the fat cheeks of rosy new dolls or the back of a baby's plump knees.

My Mammaw's (and in turn my Mother's) dumplings were the roll-out-on-the-counter type, made with some of the stock from the simmering pot. Fat carrot slices, chunks of celery and some leaves, and an onion or two, speared all round with toothpicks, THEN cut into sixths or eighths, gently bubbled in the deep heavy Wearever pot with the biggest old hen from the butcher's counter, and in some instances, an elderly one from her own stock, come to the fullness of days in that dusty chickenyard out back.

The yellow-fat old bird seethed away for a couple of hours, turning the vegetables into smooth, melting mouthfuls, and raising glistening dots of oily fat to the surface of the rich stock. A few peppercorns, a handful of salt from the little crock beneath the counter, maybe a small curl of sage from the bush perfuming the air out by the porch.

Several cups of the broth were ladled into a small flat pan and inserted into the freezer for half an hour so the dough wouldn't take a quick-rise as it was stirred together---that was MY reason, for I always kept SR flour. And it's easier working with cold dough than when it's warm and stubborn. Dough-crawl was always a problem---must be something in the sense-memory of millennia of dough that keeps it trying to retract from every thump of that rolling pin.

The first broth-chilling pan I remember was one of those little flappy-handle ice-cube trays, clickety cube-release thing removed, slid back into its neat little frosty slot in the freezer compartment. Flour and broth were stirred into a stiff mass, no herbs or salt or butter, then the whole chilly lump dumped onto the flour-dusted white countertop, top dusted with more flour, and rolled, elastic and lively, into a big round disc.

Great slashes of the big ole cutter-pan made squares and triangles and odd little shapes from the rounded edges. A gentle slip into the bubbling pot, ten minutes lid off, ten with it on, and the dish was ready. The chicken had already been lifted with the huge old slotted spoons, set aside to cool a little, then was sort of yanked into presentable pieces, hacked into serving bits, sliding from the bone, with the backbone and neck removed to a small plate for Grandpa's thorough attention and enjoyment. These were also the two pieces with the small bits of bone which might escape into the broth, and Mammaw had a strict aversion to having any stray bits left to surprise the unwary.

The whole stew was ladled into a huge farmhouse bowl, a big ceramic one with a yellow rim and flowers on the sides. We could have fed a regiment from that bowl. I kinda doubt that there's ever been a civilization or culture in this wide world that DIDN'T have some version of chicken and dumplings. I hope not.

In the first kitchen, that of the little "shotgun" house of my very early childhood, my Mammaw could reach each and every item whilst standing in front of the stove...one quick turnaround was all that was possible. The stove (an early Amana, I seem to remember, from repeating the beautiful word like a mantra as I stood on the big flour bucket and stirred stuff), the fridge (a tiny Philco that I could almost see the top of, with its latchety pull-down lever to open the door "Ca-Chick"), and an immense Hoosier cabinet were, with a scruffy-but-scrubbed wooden table, the only appliances and furniture in the room.

The cabinet held a flour sifter in one side, into which about a ten-pound bag would fit. You just stuck a bowl under (dumpling flour went into a heavy red-outside-creamy-white-inside bowl which resembled and weighed about as much as something carved from an immense brick).

Mammaw had one of the first dough-scrapers I had ever seen, made by my own Dad by cutting a metal pie tin in half with tin snips. Mother had the other half at our house, and the two ladies made good use of the homemade convenience. The business edge was wicked sharp, I recall, and not to be trifled with. Later Daddy thought to give a little corner snip off both of the flat sides, and there you had a neater surface for scraping, plus you could cut your dough and piecrust very handily without grabbing a knife. It also was useful when you finished...just scrape the scraps and flour to the edge, hold the flat half-pan beneath the counter, and hand-dust the debris into it...no messy cleanup.

Mammaw also had the traveling scissor-man "dull" the edge of her scraper. The man came to town several times a year to sharpen anything that needed it---he had an array of wheels on which he ground the knives, scissors, even your garden hoe and plow. He would also patch a pot, putting little metal washer-thingies through a hole to reseal it into usefulness. He ground the sharp flat blade of her scraper to a shining roundness, so that the metal would not scar the white enamel pullout tray of her Hoosier cabinet, on which she rolled her crusts and dumplings.

That recipe was geared to a bowl that would probably hold two gallons. That big old farmhouse bowl weighed enough empty to require a good lifting arm, and full---well, there were always plenty of volunteers to lug it to the table.

And with side dishes of greens and silverpeas and chowchow and conserves and a big heavy-cut glass each of celery stalks and slender green onions standing next to the steaming, crusty cornbread or featherlight risin' rolls---Any general or king could have sat down to that table.

THAT KINDA DAY.

BLESSIGNS, REDUX

You know how you can look at a page, and there's the faintest little nuggle that something is NOT QUITE RIGHT?   I guess I've proofread for so long, the misses just glare out at me---I can telll from here that there are three l's in that TELL.  Or hidden in a milllion of very fine print.   Several years ago, there was one such little typo on a Holiday letter that just caught my eye, and my heart.    A blogger signed off with "BLESSIGNS," and it so struck me that it's not wrong, and so apropos to the subject that they must be a REAL THING---at least while I spell the word like that.    So, for this Spring morning, with all that NEW and FRESH and WONDERFUL out there, and to come---I wish everybody BLESSIGNS.    

 I like that. We just oughta recognize more of those signs than we do, I think. It could be a color, or a breeze, or a beautiful sunrise, a line we read or hear, or even a rainy day that hinders something we meant to do, but what we do instead is ever so much more meaningful---and we usually don’t even know it. It might even be a person whom we don't even consider important or interesting or worth our time, but there could be a wonderful gift awaiting the taking.

I’m going to start really looking out for BLESSIGNS---they must be everywhere, if I’d just raise my eyes from the dishpan or the monitor or the little day-to-days that are waiting, same as always, day after day.

They’re out there. And in here. I just have to be more aware and more interested and alert, and there they’ll be. I don’t think it was accidental that I saw that odd little word on on that next-to-last day of that whole year of '08, and I've really kept watch since.

Dear Bob Ross was a genius in his field, and in Life, as well.   "There are no mistakes, just Happy Accidents."

Happy Accidents and many BLESSIGNS to YOU!!   Keep a lookout.

 

HONEYSUCKLE'S OUT!!

 

Per

                         Perfect palette of color in the lawn-wide Fairy Dell.

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;

And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

Walt Whitman   "When Lilacs Last . . .'

We're still in the mud-stage from last sunset's quick, fast Gully-Washer---so dark, I hurried out to put the cans out, then a bright hour and a half before the real dark fell velvet blue.   But this morning, I noticed four clumps of tulip greens---the faithful old things were here when we moved in, and that's 29  years ago. Last year they didn't even bloom, but we left them there in hope, sorta like a faithful old dog who's outlived his huntin' days, but still deserves a place by the fire.

And Miss Effie, the nesting flamingo who sits at the foot of the BIG TREE, will soon lay a few tiny pastel eggs in her nest, in honor of the Season. She's been with us since three houses ago. You DO know that flamingoes sitting on a nest are NOT TACKY, don't you? Just wanted to be sure.

And all over the beds, small remnants of Used-to-Be narcissus and jonquils and hyacinth are peeping out---remnants of impulse grabs at the check-out of many a long-ago wait-in-line a the grocery, the fillin' station, and other places that stick the pretty temptations RIGHT THERE while you're waiting and have your wallet out anyway---those bulbs dried in a sack in the fridge drawer to give them the whole renewing-cycle of a REAL year, if they're lucky, and tossed toward the mulch pile in June and missed, if they weren't. 

 The moss is a verdant blanket of velvety hues, all across the back garden, and with all this lovely weather lately, REAL Spring  promises to be right around the corner. Before we know it, the grapevines will be sending out their little seeking fingers and the Fairy Dell is already filling with the gleamy leaves of millions of little purple violets. Something about hundreds of yellow dandelion blooms scattered upon that moss among the dainty purples---the color wheel knows what it's doing---perfection.   The Winter-crimped carpet of ivy is already beginning to green up and shine, and even a couple of bushes have either retained lots of fresh leaves, or they're just jumping out to get a head start.

I'm headed out now to shear off a few limbs of the Honeysuckle visible from Leah's high window---it's waving in the constant breeze out there snugged up with the wind chimes, and perhaps I'll pick a blossom or two, put my tongue to the honey, and for a moment, be EIGHT again, lying in clover, tasting the hot Summer sweetness of those years---dusty feet,  scabbed knees and all.  

SPRING LETTER FROM MISS MARTHY

A SPRING LETTER FROM MISS MARTHY TIDWELL:

Dear Rachel,

I hope this letter finds yall all well and warm, and dug out from under all that Ice and Snow!  We are all well as Common and gettin all set up for Spring.  

Sledge got us a new little Troy-Bilt this year---said the old one was just give out, and too heavy, besides, so we've got the rows all ready, and some of the reddishes are just about eatin-size and the peas might soon make a good mess to cook.   I know your Mammaw always said wait til after Good Friday to put a seed in the ground, but once he got his hands on that new little red plow, he was out there by February when he could find a sunny day.  He's got a good stand of snap beans and the cucumbers  and those  cantaloupe vines are takin off into the middles, already.    And I always think of that time with my Mama's cantaloupes the minute one vine shows on the ground---that was just the meanest thing that Mrs. Walker ever did, and Mama never forgot it.   

I don't know if I ever told you the story, but it come about with the Missionary Society at their July Meeting.   You know, they went around the county, with one church hostin one year, and another the next---well it was our turn, and there was such a great foofraw for everything to be JUST SO---you know how good cooks put their best pot forward haha.   And this year they had the idea to make a really fancy Salad Bar like they'd see on a cookin' show.   

Well, we'd had a real Bumper Crop from that handful of saved-up seeds you gave us on our trip up there that year, those Decker seeds that they said wouldn't grow anywhere but Indiana---well they musta thought our Miss. dirt was close, because we had a right smart good turnout all through July.   We had enough to give a few neighbors one, and they just couldn't quit makin' over those Mushmelons.   

So when Mama heard that the preacher's wife had saved up grapevines and made baskets special for the boquets for the tables, and their son John had come home that day before from Delta State just to do the flower arrangements---who ever thought ferns and pitcher plants and bayou lilies would look so elegant?  Well, Mama thought she'd give everybody a taste of those good melons.

She'd saved up four of the best ones.  You know they're big as a basketball, and so sweet.   Well she got out a couple of real nice platters, and begged the borry of Earnestine's silver wedding platter, too.   She peeled and sliced those melons into the perfect moon shapes, and I'm tellin' you those platters looked like a magazine.   We even put a few sweetpea blossoms on there for a little purple.   We had to put books in the back seat to balance 'em all flat, but they made it to the Fellowship Hall OK.    

 I went on ahead, because I had made a double recipe of Chicken Salad.   Four of us did, to have enough.  Then I waited and helped carry in the platters and they were so pretty under that Saranwrap. 

The melon went into the church refrigerator to last the mornin til lunch, and when finally lunchtime came, the church ladies brought in the food.   Everything looked so pretty when the ladies came into the hall, and Mama walked over to see all three of her platters of that golden goodness, and she got the shock of her LIFE.    Them slices was just plumb gritty-gray cause they was scattered with enough black pepper for a hog killin'.   And salt too, had to be---for all those pretty slices, washed down in all the juice leakin' out, and just RURNED that good melon.   Well, somebody had done takened, and scattered hafe a box of black pepper all over them cantaloupes!!  It looked like it was covered in ants, and a lot were swimmin’ in the juice down on that silver Weddin’ platter!  

I could see the tears in Mama's eyes for how ugly that was and  all that waste.  And Mrs. Walker standin over there, just watchin to see how Mama took it.   Mama asked who did that and why and she said, "That's the way WEE like it at Mye house." 

Mama said she first started to say this wasn't her house it was the Lord's house and she hadn't no businness prinkin up somebody elses food, but she just kept her mouth shut because ladies from all over the county were coming in.   But many and many a member saw that mess and knew all that salt and pepper was just to burn Mama's hide.   I don't know if Mrs. Walker ever got to help with a luncheon again.    I do know that hardly anybody ever made over her food at First Saturday again, and plumb few ever took any on their plates---even when she made that Mountain Mama Delight, and that's sayin' somthin.       

That's all til next time.  I clean forgot to turn on the TV for my story, I got so caught up in tellin this.   Take all mistake for Love,

                 your friend,   Marthy Tidwell