"Food for Thought"

           Saturday’s savory scents carry on the breeze. One neighbor, a chef at a Thai restaurant, fires up his grill and spices up the air. Our other neighbor, windows open to fall’s coolness, teases me with the fragrance of a baking cake. Sandwiched between the two homes, I raise my nose like a coon hound and sniff the scintillating aroma. My stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction, nagging me that baby carrots and tuna noodle casserole cannot compete with the tempting fragrance floating on the wind.

      “Why is it that other’s cooking always smells so wonderful?” I muse.

       I love cooking and baking. Once upon a time, friends and family looked forward to the holidays because of my homemade breads, thickly rich fudge, and nutty peanut brittle. My Hollandaise sauce dribbled over Eggs Benedict has delighted many discerning palates on Christmas morning. I can bake any bird: chicken, turkey, duck, goose. My pie crusts flake, and my cakes rise.

         When I first retired, I revisited my favorite cookbooks and searched the web for new recipes. I kept a little record of dishes I cooked or baked with notations:  takes too long, substitute something else for mangoes, simple and delicious. A star rating meant I’d make that recipe again, refine it to our taste if it needed any adjusting. I didn’t mind chopping, slicing, dicing and marinating if the end result meant discovering a wonderful new combination of spices for a delightful new taste.

         As my mother’s Huntington’s Disease progresses, I’ve noticed myself avoiding the kitchen. The more foods she cannot eat, the less I want to putter around the stove. I realized that I now do the old reliable dinners that I know won’t give her any trouble. I make huge batches of spaghetti and freeze individual servings for her. A Sunday pork roast gets divided into four tubs and popped into the freezer. She loves hamburger gravy on top of a baked potato, and can still manage meatloaf with our special baked beans. The other day after struggling with a minutely chopped chicken breast, Mom suggested I buy legs or thighs. She cannot eat the meat from the bone, so I haven’t purchased either one in a while. Tonight, though, we baked thighs with our own special sauce, deboned the meat, and watched as she ate everything effortlessly. The dark meat proved much easier for her to chew and swallow.

         As the holidays approach, I’ll look for something less traditional for our celebratory meals. The food I prepare won’t matter since the true joy comes from being together for another season. We may have a wide variety of side dishes that my mother can easily eat and enjoy. I do know that she’s still able to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie loaded with vanilla ice cream. Maybe we’ll just have desserts!

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Grandmother’s Cookbook”

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

      

“Food for Thought”

Saturday’s savory scents carry on the breeze. One neighbor, a chef at a Thai restaurant, fires up his grill and spices up the air. Our other neighbor, windows open to fall’s coolness, teases me with the fragrance of a baking cake. Sandwiched between the two homes, I raise my nose like a coon hound and sniff the scintillating aroma. My stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction, nagging me that baby carrots and tuna noodle casserole cannot compete with the tempting fragrance floating on the wind.

      “Why is it that other’s cooking always smells so wonderful?” I muse.

       I love cooking and baking. Once upon a time, friends and family looked forward to the holidays because of my homemade breads, thickly rich fudge, and nutty peanut brittle. My Hollandaise sauce dribbled over Eggs Benedict has delighted many discerning palates on Christmas morning. I can bake any bird: chicken, turkey, duck, goose. My pie crusts flake, and my cakes rise.

         When I first retired, I revisited my favorite cookbooks and searched the web for new recipes. I kept a little record of dishes I cooked or baked with notations:  takes too long, substitute something else for mangoes, simple and delicious. A star rating meant I’d make that recipe again, refine it to our taste if it needed any adjusting. I didn’t mind chopping, slicing, dicing and marinating if the end result meant discovering a wonderful new combination of spices for a delightful new taste.

         As my mother’s Huntington’s Disease progresses, I’ve noticed myself avoiding the kitchen. The more foods she cannot eat, the less I want to putter around the stove. I realized that I now do the old reliable dinners that I know won’t give her any trouble. I make huge batches of spaghetti and freeze individual servings for her. A Sunday pork roast gets divided into four tubs and popped into the freezer. She loves hamburger gravy on top of a baked potato, and can still manage meatloaf with our special baked beans. The other day after struggling with a minutely chopped chicken breast, Mom suggested I buy legs or thighs. She cannot eat the meat from the bone, so I haven’t purchased either one in a while. Tonight, though, we baked thighs with our own special sauce, deboned the meat, and watched as she ate everything effortlessly. The dark meat proved much easier for her to chew and swallow.

         As the holidays approach, I’ll look for something less traditional for our celebratory meals. The food I prepare won’t matter since the true joy comes from being together for another season. We may have a wide variety of side dishes that my mother can easily eat and enjoy. I do know that she’s still able to enjoy a slice of pumpkin pie loaded with vanilla ice cream. Maybe we’ll just have desserts!

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman