Baking Memories

I was alone in the kitchen today baking an early batch of holiday cheesestraws. I wanted to get a tin of them mailed off to Jack in Germany -- a bit of love packed in a brown box full of other Christmas greetings.  But I wasn't really alone. I was with Grandmommy in her Cannons Lane kitchen; I was in our kitchen on Rainbow Drive with Maggie, Jack and Mary -- ages 6, 8 and 10; I was with Maggie in her Lathrop Street apartment in Madison, WI.

This time of year always brings a flood of cheesestraw-baking memories back to me. I like the memories as much as I like the spicy-cheddary nibbles. Grandmommy started the tradition. Seems to me she used to make them with her friend Amelia, and then one year Amelia wasn't there anymore and I was recruited to help her.

It was a two-day process. Two full days. On day one, we would grind our own blend of sharp and mild cheddar cheese. We'd mount a grater contraption to the kitchen countertop and I'd feed blocks of cheese into a funnel while Grandmommy cranked. When her arm would tire, we would switch jobs. We'd add two sticks of Fleishmann's margarine to each bowl of 4 cups of cheese and top each bowl with Saran Wrap and place it on the floor of Grandmommy's kitchen, near the hot air vents so that it would warm up overnight. The next morning, no matter how early I'd show up, Grandmommy would be up and hard at work cranking out sheet after sheet of squiggly dough. She had special cookie presses, special baking sheets, even a special spatula to slide the hot finished product onto foil paper. Once they were cool, we'd carefully pack up the mountain of cheesestraws into Christmas tins. When all that was left were the crumbs, Grandmommy would fill a tupperware of the "crumbs" as her cache.

The year before she moved from her home to the Episcopal Church Nursing Home, she packed up all her cheesestraw equipment and brought it over to our kitchen on Rainbow Drive. She was there to pass on to me not only a canvas bag full of assorted graters and cookie presses, but the mantle of being the one to continue the tradition. I suggested that we use Kraft bags of already shredded cheese and perhaps even real "butter." She wouldn't have any of it. "Don't mess with what you know works," she admonished me. That was our last time together baking.

For next several years, Maggie, Jack and Mary would pitch in. They come through the kitchen and help me press out one or two sheets of squiggles and then they would be off to sports, or homework, or whatever else consumed their lives those days. If I was lucky, they would deliver them to neighbors and their favorite teachers.

When Maggie was senior in college she asked me to come to Madison and bake cheesestraws with her. The plan was for me to fly to Chicago, take the Badger Bus to Madison, bake with her the next day, hang out while she delivered cheesestraws to her crew teammates and took her last final and then drive home with her for Christmas break. As we baked, the snow started to fall. It snowed and snowed and snowed: 18-inches of fresh, fluffy, beautiful snow. For the first time in the University of Wisconsin's history, school was called off. Heading south to Kentucky wasn't even an option. So we shoveled Maggie's sidewalk, took a city bus downtown to a movie (we were the only ones in the theatre), did a little Christmas shopping on Regent Street and just hunkered down until life returned to normal. Don't tell Maggie, but it was a very special time for me.

This year the cheesestraw tradition continues. Mary has already requested a day in the kitchen baking cheesestraws for her friends. She comes home on Saturday, so one day that next week, we'll haul out the presses, the cookie sheets and the special spatula. Maybe Maggie will come join us. Grandmommy would be so pleased.

____________________

Mary Rinehart's Christmas Cheesestraws

This recipe fills about 4 medium tins (5"x7") 

The night before, set out cheeses and margarine to allow to come to room temperature.

ingredients:
2 stick of Fleishmann’s unsalted margarine (226 gr) -- left at room temperature until it is soft
2 cups of finely grated sharp cheddar cheese - room temperature (8 oz package)
2 cups of finely grated mild cheddar cheese - room temperature (8 oz package)
3-1/2 cups sifted Swans Down Cake Flour (14.5 oz)
1 rounded teaspoon cayenne pepper (or slightly more if you want them spicy!)
3-1/2 teaspoons salt

preparation:
Preheat over to 350 degrees (convection)
Combine margarine and cheeses in standing mixer. (I use the coated flat beater attachment.) Mix well.
Sift flour together with salt and cayenne pepper.
Add flour mixture to cheese mixture and mix well.
Form into “large bullets” and put mixture into cookie press fitted with a star attachment. If dough seems cold or stiff, put it in the microwave for 15 seconds.
Crank out onto light colored cookie sheets in “snakey” pattern.
Bake for 14 minutes, or until just slightly brown. If not using a convection oven, switch cookie sheets half way through baking.
Once cooled, slide straws off onto foil paper and let cool completely before packaging in tins.

Give only to those you really love.

If Only Quilts Could Talk...

Blessed are the piecemakers. -- anonymous

I organized the upstairs linen closet this week which is only remarkable in that our closets are never very organized (or don't stay that way for long.) This job was long overdue. When I would open the door, pillows would tumble out. You get the picture. 

I took everything out and started folding the quilts, tucking them neatly back into the closet.

All of a sudden, I was not alone. I was upstairs with three loving spirits: Ed's grandmother, Mama Fitts (Eliza Bristow Fitts); my paternal grandmother, Ree (Marie Hettiger Carpenter) and my maternal grandmother, Grandmommy (Mary Blacklock Rinehart), for these were the ladies who stitched together all the quilts that our family has found comfort in over the years. Forts have been built; children have been tucked in; fragile items have been wrapped; tables have been set; picnics have been laid; and Christmas trees have been skirted. If only quilts could talk...

Every one of Mama Fitts' quilts was used as a tablecloth for this engagement party.

Sister Sherry's birthday party, featuring Grandmommy's star quilts

Four little beds: all ready for grandchildren

Each treasured quilt is a work of art. I only wish the artist had stitched her monogram in the bottom corner. But even without initials, I can tell whose hand stitched each quilt.  

Mama Fitts' quilts are all tiny postage-stamp coverlets, patchworked together from outgrown or outworn clothes. Ed can even point to a tiny blue patch made from a shirt he wore as a young child. 

Mama Fitts

Many of Mama Fitts' quilts we inherited from Ed's mom; they are the ones Ed remembers growing up with. They are well loved (i.e. well worn) and in need of some repair. Others came from his Aunt Gladys, who never had children; those quilts are in much better condition. 

The quilts made by Ree are all appliquéd, most with orange and yellows poppies on a white background, with scolloped edges. She made quilts for each of her nine grandchildren, a gift to each upon their marriage. I remember having pretty intense conversations with her about when I might get my quilt if I chose to never marry. We settled on age 35. 

Ree (with Grandpoppy)

Grandmommy's quilts are geometric and of traditional design: mostly stars and rings. But my favorite is one she made for me when I was born: two lambs appliquéd in the softest cotton and palest of blue, pink and yellow fabrics, now faded nearly to white from 65 years of use. If I look hard enough, I can just make out my name: Debra Lynn Carpenter and my birth weight: seven pounds, eleven ounces, embroidered on the border. 

Grandmommy (with me)

These quilters were born more than a century ago; none of their children or grandchildren showed any interest in the craft of quilting. But I'm encouraged. Daughter Mary has taught herself how to quilt and has made a quilt for her nephew, Norbert. Amy, Sister Sherry's daughter, is an accomplished seamstress and perhaps quilting will be in her future. And Sister Julie's twin daughters, Katie and Molly, are both amazing and accomplished artists that love hand crafting.

Norbert, happily playing on Mary's quilt

So, who knows, perhaps quilts will once again be produced by the women (or men) of our family. I hope so.

On a related note...

Last spring Ed and I traveled to Paducah, KY and while there, spent an afternoon admiring the quilts at the National Quilt Museum. If you are ever in the area, you should go. 

One Thing Leads to the Next

It all started when I headed out to the garden to check on the puny cucumber plant that I had bought late in the season at the Shelbyville Farmer market. Just in the past couple of weeks, it has taken over one corner of my corn patch and is growing prolifically. Lifting up one of its many tendrilled vines, I found not one, but six! ready-to-harvest cukes. 

A bar of Philadelphia Cream Cheese, an onion and one drop of green food coloring later, I had mixed up a batch of Benedictine Cheese.  I could just hear my grandmother telling me that the pale green cucumber spread was developed by Miss Jennie Benedict sometime around the turn of the century. The way Grandmommy would talk about her, it made me think they were friends or at least acquaintances who would meet ocassionally for tea. 

My memory took me back to the many times I would be sitting in Grandmommy's tiny kitchen keeping her company; she would be grating cucumbers and mixing up the cheese, spreading it on white bread and then carefully cutting it with one of her many cookie cutters into stars, or circles or diamonds, before arranging them on a pretty tray – all for my benefit, for no special occasion. It was just how she did things.

The whole making-Benedictine-Cheese-in-my-kitchen thing, thinking of Grandmommy-in-her-kitchen thing, caused me to go up to our loft and search through Grandmommy’s old cookbooks. Sure enough, I found a well-worn version of The Blue Ribbon Cook Book by Jennie C. Benedict.  

I took it to bed that night and spent an hour reading it cover to cover. (Yes, I read cookbooks like other people read bestsellers.) The yellow-tinged, cooking-spotted pages were a blast to read. First of all, the cook book had its own index system, where pages were short cut for one of 15 different sections: Bread, Soups, Fish, Meats, Poultry and Game, etc. 

In the back of the book there was a whole section entitled: Simple Dishes for the Sick, followed by Dainty Menus for Convalescent Patients. The first recipe in this section is called Toast Water. And here it is (exactly as written). 

TOAST WATER

Toast three slices of stale bread to a dark brown,
but do not burn. Put into a pitcher,
pour over them one quart boiling water. Cover closely
and let stand on ice until cold. Strain.
If desired, wine and sugar may be added.

(Note: If you weren’t sick before you drank this, I bet you are now.)

The back section is pages of ads (paid, I suppose) for products that Miss Benedict recommends. They include everything from Calumet Baking Powder to Taylor Trunk Company, to the Fifth Avenue Fish Market. 

Can you read this copy?
I'm wondering how much times have really changed?

Now, here’s the weird part. Nowhere in the book does she provide a recipe for Benedictine Cheese. The copy that I have is actually a 4^th edition one, published in 1922. It wasn’t until the 5^th edition, published just three years ago (2008, University Press of Kentucky), that the recipe was included.

A few days later, I was trolling around on the Internet looking for the actual recipe for Benedictine Cheese and discovered all kinds of interesting things about Jennie Benedict.

One: She was born in Louisville, KY in 1860 and trained with the famous Fannie Farmer at the Boston Cooking School. She returned to Louisville and opened her catering business in 1893, working from a small kitchen in her back yard. Seven years later, she moved to a larger kitchen in downtown Louisville and later opened her own restaurant: Benedict’s. 

Two: She was an accomplished businesswoman, becoming the first woman on the Louisville Board of Trade. She also helped organize the Louisville Businesswoman’s Club in 1897. She is credited with serving the first school lunches in Louisville: chicken salad sandwiches that were sold from a handcart. 

Three: In 1925, she retired to her home “Dream Acre,” on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River and there, she wrote her autobiography: The Road to Dream Acre. The book is out of print, but I’m determined to find a copy. 

I like this woman. I like that she was an astute business woman and a wonderful cook. I like that her work defined early 20^th century middle-class cooking in Kentucky. And I like that 100 years later, I’m still using her recipe for Benedictine Cheese. 

And so from garden, to cooking, to old cookbook reading, to research: that's how one thing leads to the next.

_____________________

Here the version of Benedictine that I use. 

Benedictine spread

8 ounces of cream cheese, softened
Juice from one grated medium cucumber

Juice from one small grated onion

1/2 teaspoon salt
a few grains of cayenne pepper
1 drop green food coloring

To get the juice, peel and grate a cucumber, then wrap in a clean dish towel and squeeze juice into a dish. Discard pulp. Do the same for the onion. The cucumber juice together with the onion juice should measure 1/3 cup. Blend all ingredients. 

Taking Grandmommy's China Out for a Spin

In some ways every generation balances the pleasure of traditions, legacies, roots,
with the equally American appeal of a fresh start.
I wonder how much stuff, and stories, our children can carry with them to their own table
and still have room for the new.

- Ellen Goodman

Like (retired) columnist Ellen Goodman, this Thanksgiving we are taking my grandmother's china out for a spin. Yesterday as I held the stepstool steady, Mary pulled Grandmommy's "M" china down from the top shelf of our pantry where it was carefully stacked last March when we moved to the country.

For the past eight months, I've only used our simple Fiesta-ware and my plain stainless cutlery. Our wedding china, Grandmommy's "M" china, Ed's mother's white-with-gold-rim china, all seem too froufrou for our country lifestyle. But not today. Thanksgiving is a day for bowing to tradition – for being grateful for those around us and for remembering those whose lives have shaped us. So out comes Grandmommy's china and Ed's mother's silver goblets.

We'll sit down to a very traditional dinner of turkey, three kinds of dressing, cranberries, mashed turnips and potatoes, chipotle whipped sweet potatoes, green beans and two kinds of pies. We'll thank God for our many blessings. We'll raise a toast to those around the table, to Jack in Germany, and to those who have gone before.  And then we'll dig in!

______________________

If she were still alive, my grandmother, Mary B. Rinehart, would be 104 tomorrow.
She was born on November 25, 1907 and died shortly after her 91st birthday in 1998.
I still miss her – every day.

Having What You Need

Whenever we get home from far-away travels I crave healthy, homemade food. Green things, in particular. So, last night for dinner, I made a sesame edamame salad.

I hadn't planned to make it. I was inspired to make it after seeing it on The Forest Feast, a website that Jack sent me because he thought I might like it. I do. The site features beautiful photographic recipe illustrations that are laid out visually. So, of course, I like it!

It was fun to make because I hadn't planned to make it and I had (almost) all the ingredients on hand. When we lived in town, I kept very little food stocked at home and shopped for fresh ingredients every day at Doll's Market. Now, my pantry is well stocked, my freezer full, and the fresh stuff comes from my garden.

I thought about Grandmommy as I put together this salad. I written about her before, here, here, and here. When the children were little, Mary B. Rinehart lived just around the corner from us and whenever I needed something out of the ordinary, I'd call her to see if she had it. And she ALWAYS did. It didn't matter what I asked for, she had it – or could make it from a scrap of something she had. It got to be a game between us to see if I could stump her.

• Grandmommy, do you have any pimentos? How about a can of diced tomatoes?
• Do you have a japanese kimono? 
• Do you have anything that would work for elf shoes for one of the children's costumes?

She always had what I needed and was always happy to share it with me. So last night, when I decided to make this salad, I went down the ingredient list and realized I had edamame in the freezer, one perfectly ripe avocado, the last few mozzarella balls from a Cosco container, sunflower seeds left over from my granola recipe, some cilantro from my garden, and the three ingredients for the dressing in my pantry.

 In honor of Grandmommy and her ability to always have what I needed, I placed two edible nasturtium blossoms on the plate and used her serving pieces to scoop it up. She would approve.

Cleaning copper – the old-fashioned way

Every time we visited Mary in Baltimore, we made a point of having dinner at Woodberry Kitchen, my all-time favorite restaurant. They feature a cocktail there called a Gov't Mule, a gingery-minty-limey vodka drink served over crushed ice in copper mugs. Best cocktail ever.

For Christmas last year, Ed gave me a set of copper mugs, a pitcher and tray. He found them at one of the antique stores in downtown Shelbyville. Because they were highly tarnished, I took them to H & D Brass Polishing on Frankfort Avenue in Louisville and had them polished. They looked great.

But when I pulled them out last night to serve a round of Gov't Mules for New Year's Eve, they were back to being tarnished. I searched among my cleaning products to see if I had some copper polish, but no luck. A quick search on google gave me just what I needed, a simple recipe for my own natural non-toxic copper polish: lemon and salt.

I cut a lemon in two, piled on a teaspoon of salt to the cut lemon and rubbed the copper surfaces. It worked like a charm.

As I worked on them, I had a flashback to a memory of standing in my childhood-home kitchen with my grandmother. My parents had gone somewhere for the weekend and left Grandmommy in charge of my three sisters and me. I remember her looking at my mother's copper-bottomed Revere-ware pots and deciding that they needed a good cleaning. She asked me to look in the refrigerator for some pickles. She poured a bit of pickle juice on a dishrag and wiped each pot bottom. It was like a miracle. They changed from tarnished gray to bright copper in an instant. I was so impressed.

So I guess pickle juice would have done the same job for me as my lemon-salt concoction. I wonder what other house-keeping secrets Grandmommy knew? I wish she was still here to share them with me.

Attaching memories

My cousin Merty died last February. A few months before she died, she asked me to take home one of her beloved Christmas cacti. I wanted to warn her that I wasn't trustworthy. I didn't have a green thumb. I couldn't guarantee that her plant would outlive her.

But instead, I thanked her and placed the green plant in my bathroom in the hopes that it would get good light and moisture, and that if I saw it every day, I might remember to water it.

Much to my delight, it bloomed last December and, as if on cue, has bloomed again this week. Every time I look at it, I think fondly of Merty.

____________

This morning, I trimmed the spent blossoms off the sedum plant out by our birdbath. One by one, I cut the long pale stems topped with brown dried blossoms. And with each cut, I thought about my beloved Grandmommy. You see, my start for this plant came from Mary Rinehart's garden on Cannons Lane. It has followed me from Natchez Lane to Rainbow Drive, to Calumet, to Dover Road.

I remember sitting in Grandmommy's driveway a half century ago with my sisters carefully smashing the top layer of a leaf from this succulent. If I rubbed it just right with my thumb and index finger, the top cellophane-like layer would separate from the fleshy center. I could then blow it up like a little balloon. Great fun for an 8-year-old (or even a 58-year-old!). I taught Maggie, Jack and Mary how to do it as well.

But back to this morning...once I cut all the stems to near ground level, I discovered the most beautiful baby sedums. I got such a kick out of seeing them huddled into the very center of the plant, tightly packed, just waiting for spring.

_____________

Not all my plant gifts are attached to memories of those departed. I've got spice bushes in the backyard from Paul and Jackie, a magnolia tree from Sherry, irises from Lynn and Vivian, peonies from Gay, tulip trees from Sandy, ramps from Maggie, an orchard of fruit trees given to us by friends, lily of the valley and wood poppies from Holly, and a monster fern from Kathleen.

But perhaps my favorite is the houseplant that Mary left in my care when she moved to Brooklyn. It's a big floppy-leafed Fiddleleaf Fig tree. It seems to like its home in our study and is growing by leaps and bounds. It's a little bit like having a puppy around. Every time it sprouts a new set of leaves, I text Mary a picture. Every time I see it, or give it a drink of water, I think of Mary, off on her big adventure in NYC. I can't guarantee I won't kill it, but I'm trying very hard not to.

A Friendship Garden

I have been accused of being too attached to things. It is usually not the item so much as that which I associate with it – either a person or a memory. So my ancient, wobbly egg poaching aluminum pan once belonged to Aunt Frances and I wouldn't trade it for the fanciest model from William Sonoma. I'm attached to my costume jewlery from Grandmommy, paintings from Aunt Melta, quilts from Aunt Gladys, and every clay bowl that my children ever made at Montreat.

I've been delighted with gifts that family and friends have bestowed on us for our new home. Many are intended for our garden – transplanted from others' gardens. They give me great delight every time I see them and cause me to count my blessings for having these people in my life.

Sedum from Grandmommy's house on Cannons Lane,
via stopovers at Natchez, Rainbow Drive and Calumet.

Sisters, do you remember blowing these up into little balloons?

A magnolia tree from sister Sherry

Iris from Lynn's garden
along with a basketful of other green goodies

Lettuce and herbs from Patrice; a cottage birdbath from Karen

Apple trees in the orchard in memory of Aunt Gladys
from Jackie & Paul, Karen, Patrice, Lynn & Walt, Beth, Robin & Jim

Peonnies transplanted from Aunt Gladys' backyard,
brought by Gay along with a gooseberry bush and some daffodils

Spring ramps from Maggie,
transplanted to our creek bank

I'm hoping all these plants will take root and flourish in their new environment, bringing us years of enjoyment and a whole bouquet of fond memories.

Polishing Silver

Last week my Dad turned 84 and to celebrate we gathered for brunch at Wild Eggs in Middletown. It was just the five of us: Dad, my three sisters and me.

Afterwards we went back to Dad's house and down into his basement where my mom's silver flatware was spread out on the pool table. Dad wanted us to have it and so we figured out how to split it up among the four sisters.

I ended up with my maternal grandmother's silver. Now, rest assured, amassing flatware is not on my list of things I'm interested in doing. In fact, I've not used my own silver forks and spoons since moving out to the farm. They are just too fancy for our simple life out here.

But I was delighted to take home a wooden box full of Grandmommy's flatware. I'm not sure what I want to do with it. Use it everyday?, or just for special occasions? Put it away with my own silver? Store it for one of my children to someday (hopefully) want?

The box sat on our kitchen counter all week. The silver had not been used in years and was dark with tarnish. It seemed disrespectful not to at least clean it up. So today, I polished it. I polished each fork, spoon, and knife. I polished each iced tea spoon and each cocktail fork. And with each piece, I thought about Grandmommy. I thought about how her hands had held and polished each piece. I thought about how she must have planned elaborate parties that started with shrimp cocktails (yes, I have her shrimp cocktail bowls somewhere in my basement). I thought about how she had hand washed each piece, drying it, and placing it in the right slot in the red velvet lined box. I was mindful of her and her legacy as I worked my way through the box.

I watched as each piece transformed from near black to gleaming silver. I admired the hand engraved initials on each piece. I discovered some featured her initials: MER, and some had her mother's: LMB. A few pieces were not engraved at all. Did she obtain those later and just never bothered (or couldn't afford) to have them engraved? Why did she have so many spoons and so few forks and knives? What did she use for serving pieces? I was lost in the past.

The pieces are now back in their box, gleaming. Ready for someone, someday, to unpack them and use them. I do hope they serve shrimp cocktails...

Grateful, continued

For this morning's sunrise...

For good kitchen help...

For Maggie and Nate coming home and spending the night (and fixing breakfast this morning)...

For Grandmommy's china and Mimi silver goblets...

For just a bit of healthy kale salad to counterbalance three kinds of dressing, two kinds of potatoes, and multiple desserts...

For the MacLean boys napping on the couch and Ed watching football...

While Mary and I took at post-feast walk...

And then coming home to a Skype call with Jack in China...

For all these things and a million more, I am grateful.

Silly Old Bear

If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient.
It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.

– A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh (all quotes)

If you are lucky, and if you've had a rather charmed childhood, you may still have in your possession your favorite stuffed animal.

I've got Pooh, and he's got me. He came into my life at age two, sent as a present by an extravagant great uncle who lived in Manhattan and had taken to holiday shopping at FAO Schwarz for his young Louisville relations.

“I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.” 

Most of Pooh's friends from the Hundred-Acre Woods found their way under our Christmas tree in 1959: Piglet, Tigger, Kanga, Roo and Rabbit. There is a slight recollection of Eyore, but no lasting record of him, and Owl seems to never have been sent.

Wherever I went, Pooh went with me, as evidenced by his stained skin, his often re-attached button eyes and his need for an entirely new red t-shirt made by Grandmommy.

"It is more fun to talk with someone who doesn't use long, difficult words
but rather short, easy words like "What about lunch?” 

I was fond of the other animals and played with them some, but it was Pooh that I claimed as my own, stubbornly unwilling to share with my sisters. He has followed me to every home and eventually became beloved of Maggie, Jack and Mary.

I lost track of Piglet, Tigger and the rest of the gang. That is until this past weekend when sister Kathy and husband George came to Farm Dover for a hike and an early supper. She came bearing a large box from William Sonoma, surely a coveted culinary birthday gift. Once the ribbon had been cut and the box opened, out bounced Tigger, followed by Piglet, Rabbit, and Kanga. Roo was found hiding among the tissue paper.

“Just because an animal is large, it doesn't mean he doesn't want kindness;
however big Tigger seems to be, remember that he wants as much kindness as Roo.” 

“Hello, Rabbit,' he said, 'is that you?'
'Let's pretend it isn't,' said Rabbit, 'and see what happens.” 

“Piglet noticed that even though he had a Very Small Heart,
it could hold a rather large amount of Gratitude.” 

“It is hard to be brave, when you're only a Very Small Animal.” 

They have been reunited with Pooh and are all set for continued adventures in the Forty-Acre Woods of Farm Dover.

“You can't stay in your corner of the Forest waiting for others to come to you.
You have to go to them sometimes.” 

“We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?' asked Piglet.
Even longer,' Pooh answered.”