Another Baking (mis)Adventure

My husband’s family has A Family Birthday Cake recipe. It’s a basic white cake (homemade, of course, not out of a box) with lemon custard filling and coloured icing. Each sibling has his/her own colour — my husband’s is green.

As my husband’s birthday approached (the first we had celebrated together after our marriage), he “informed” me that I would have to get the recipe from his mother and make The Family Birthday Cake. None other would do. In due course, she gave me the recipe and I made the cake.

She, along with all the other siblings, attended the birthday celebration. I was a tad anxious as I served up the cake — you know the stereotype about mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law, how we never quite measure up. Fortunately for me, this particular mother-in-law is an extremely gracious lady. She gave me the Mother-in-law Seal of Approval! I relaxed, having passed the crucial test with flying colours.

Today, another family birthday approaches so this morning I made the Family Birthday Cake. Separate the eggs — Check! Beat the eggs whites — Check! Cream the butter, sugar and vanilla – Check! Add the milk alternately with the flour and baking powder — Check! Pour into greased and floured cake pans and put in the 350 oven — Check!

Because there are always bits of cake batter left in the bowl, I settled into my post-cake-making reward — licking the spoon and beaters. I mused as I took my first taste how I was flouting the now common perception that you shouldn’t eat raw cake or cookie batter because it contains raw eggs.

EGGS! GASP!!!

I’d forgotten to fold in the beaten egg whites!

Quick! Get the pans out of the oven! Scrape the batter back into the bowl! Carefully fold in the egg whites! Wash and regrease and reflour the pans. Pour batter back into pans and put in oven. Bake for 30 minutes.

The cake turned out just fine. It’s now iced with red (well, more like hot pink) icing, ready for the celebration. Bon appetit!

#Baking #BirthdayCake #FamilyBirthdayCake #BirthdayCelebration #BakingMisadventure #Humour #AlmostDisaster #NonFiction #MargaretGHanna

The Fellowship of Food

I’m on a liquid diet these days (I’ll spare you the details of “why”). Fruit smoothies and soup blended to mush fill the stomach and nourish the body but they fail in one regard – they do not nourish the soul.

I miss texture. I miss the crunch of carrots and snap peas, the chewiness of good bread, the juicy explosion of cherry tomatoes, the annoyance of apple peel between my teeth, the fibrousness of a steak.

I miss the variety of flavours. Blended foods are blended flavours. Nothing stands out. Blueberries, bananas, papaya, kiwi become one. Same with stock and lentils and rice and cabbage and whatever other vegetables I put into the soup.

I miss the variety of colour. Stock soup is always brown; cream soup is always white. Fruit smoothies are some form of pinkish-bluish-white (I’m sure the paint stores have a fancy name for that colour).

What I miss most, though, in this time of COVID is the fellowship that attends food.

Food binds us together as family and community. ‘Breaking bread’ with someone may be a simple gesture, something of seemingly no great consequence, rather like hugging someone, but that act signifies so much:

We are friends.
We hold some values in common.
We have shared history and experience.
We can put our differences behind us for just this moment.
We trust each other.
We belong together.
We are part of something larger than ourselves.

All those young people you see on TV who are flocking to bars and beaches once they’re open? – they not just being “COVIDiots.” They are responding to the deep-seated, primal human drive to be with one another. They are celebrating an essential aspect of what it means to be human – to be part of something larger than themselves, to be part of community. Even as I shake my head, wondering “How can they be so careless! So negligent!” I envy them the joy and comradery they are experiencing.

A cup of coffee drunk alone is only a cup of coffee. Shared with a friend, it is laughter, stories, jokes, memories, and plans.

Just as a blended fruit smoothie is no substitute for the joy of eating each fruit individually, neither is food eaten alone a satisfactory substitute for the sense of belonging and oneness and joy that attends food eaten with friends and family.

Until my circumstances change, I will continue to “make do” with a liquid diet. And, until our circumstances change, we will continue to “make do” with vicarious virtual community.

Let’s hope those circumstances change sooner rather than later.

#Smoothies #LiquidDiet #FoodAsCommunity #SharingFood #FoodAndFamily  #NotesFromIsolationWard #HumansSocialBeings #LivingInCommunity #Contemplation #Meditation #COVID

The “Chocolate Squares” Caper

I made “Chocolate Squares” the other day. That’s what we called a certain decadent, toothachingly-sweet, calorie-laden, carb-ridden, chocolatey dessert when I was growing up. Only when I was well into my adult years did I learn they had another name: Nanaimo Bars.

“Chocolate Squares” have a special place in my memory bank because one day, when I was maybe 12, I decided to make them. On my own. No help from Mom. I was a “big girl” now.

We had received the recipe from Mrs. Hill, one of my grandmother’s friends. It was hand-written on a 3″x5″ file card. And, as with many recipes from people of that age, details were sometimes a bit sparse – they assumed you knew what to do.

I didn’t know that.

The first layer was no problem. I melted the butter, cocoa and sugar in the double boiler, then added the beaten egg, the crushed graham crackers, chopped nuts and coconut. Once it was well mixed, I spread it in the pan.

So far, so good.

The recipe for the second layer read “Spread on . . .”, so I spread on the icing sugar and sprinkled on the Bird’s Custard powder. Next came ½ cup of butter.

That’s when I realized there might be a problem. How do you spread ½ cup of butter, even when it is soft, into a powdery layer of icing sugar? Not only that, but then I was supposed to add some cream. Things did not look quite right.

Time to call in the expert. “Mo-om!”

Mom was in the living room or maybe in her sewing room doing something, certainly not housework. She was a staunch believer in the “Housework if necessary but not necessarily housework” philosophy. There were so many other things to do that were far more interesting or rewarding than – Ick! – housework.

She also had a warped sense of humour.

Mom walked into the kitchen, took one look at my messy spread-on-as-the-recipe-said layer and burst into peals of laughter.

I was devastated, traumatized. For life. (No, not really but it sounds more dramatic, doesn’t it?)

When she finally stopped laughing and had wiped the tears from her eyes, she said, “You’re supposed to MIX it before you spread it on.”

“But, but, the recipe didn’t say anything about mixing it!”

Like I said, some of those old recipes are a bit shy on details.

Anyway, Mom helped me scrape the mess into a bowl where I mixed it up, as I should have, and then continued with the rest of the recipe. The Chocolate Squares turned out just fine. Only Mom and I knew how they had almost been made.

#BakingAdventures #BakingDisasters #Baking #ChildhoodMemories #HannaFamilyHistory #NanaimoBars #MargaretGHanna #Humour

The Million Dollar Rain

It’s raining, it’s pouring
The old man is snoring.
He went to bed
And he bumped his head
And couldn’t get up in the morning.

We awake to wind and rain. Rain pouring down, gusting down, sheeting down. Hammering against the walls and windows.

Dad comes in from the barn on a gust of wetness, hangs his coat on the hook, declares, “It’s socked in for the day.” Mom yells, “Take off your muddy boots!”

After breakfast, Richard and I put on our coats and rubber boots and walk the quarter-mile to town and school, bracing ourselves against the gusting west wind and the driving rain.

Dampness seeps through the school. It smells of damp coats, damp hats, damp text books, damp hair, damps socks, damp notebooks. At recess, we head down to the basement, play pump-pump-pull-away, or stand around in knots and talk and giggle.

At noon, we tromp home for dinner. Richard pulls off his rubber boots and examines a wet sock. “My boot has a leak.” Dad examines it. “There’s a crack above the sole. I’ll take it into town and get it vulcanized. Wear your overshoes this afternoon.”

After school, the rain takes a breather – it’s only drizzling. The dog bounds toward us, drops a stick at our feet. Richard tosses it and she streaks off after it, mindless of mud and water. A cat delicately picks its way around puddles, flicks a contaminating bit of mud from a paw and scurries into the barn.

That night, we go to sleep with the sound of rain thrumming against the roof, splattering against the window.

Rain, rain, go away
Come again some other day.

The yard is a morass of mud and slop. Dad comes in, hangs his sopping wet slicker on the hook, declares, “Raining too hard. We might as well go Moose Jaw.” Mom yells, “Take off your muddy boots! I don’t want to have to wash the floor again.”

We snarf down breakfast and head out in the ‘53 Ford. We fishtail out of the yard and down the road to the highway which, itself, is only gravel, so we fishtail some more. Mom gasps, “Careful!” and grabs the door handle. She white-knuckles all the way to Assiniboia and Highway 2 which is paved. An easy drive then, with the requisite stops at Mitchelton for gas and Conn’s Corner for a bite to eat.

First stop in Moose Jaw: Joyner’s Department Store. New shoes for Richard and me. Fabric for Mom. A new tie for Dad. The clerk puts the bill and our money into the carriage and onto the track that whisks it away to the central cashier who empties the carriage, puts the bill and change back into it and onto the track to be returned to our clerk. How does it know where to go? we wonder.

Next stop, the Exchange Café on the corner of Manitoba and Main, across from the CPR station. We always eat there, we always order the same thing – fish and chips, because it’s exotic (yes, really!). The Chinese brothers who run the place always give Richard and me lollipops when we leave.

Off to Eaton’s, the upper class shopping establishment. Next to Kresge’s, not so upper class but they have little sugar-coated doughnuts to satisfy our sweet tooth.

Back to the car. Parcels in the trunk, we head for home, yawning all the way. Richard and I are soon asleep. So is Mom. It’s still raining when we get home. We go up to bed with the sound of rain thrumming against the roof, splattering against the window.

Sunshine and Shower
Won’t last an hour.

We awake to sunshine and glimpses of blue sky. A stiff breeze chases away the ragged remnants of rain clouds. We jump out of bed. So much to do – puddles to jump in, rivulets to divert and dam, mud pies to make.

Dad comes in from the barn, hangs his jacket on the hook, declares, “That was a million dollar rain! And kids, don’t forget, chickens need to be fed and eggs picked up right after you eat.”

Chores. Bummer!

Note #1: Until the Joyner’s building burned down in 2004, it had the only remaining operating Lamson Cash Carrying System in North America. Read more about it here, and see it in operation here.

Note #2: There were no “million dollar rains” during the Dirty Thirties. Addie tells how farmers and others survived those terrible drought years in “Our Bull’s Loose in Town!” Tales from the Homestead.

#Rain #ChildhoodMemories #MooseJaw #JoynersDepartmentStore #MargaretGHanna #ExchangeCafe #FarmLife #RuralLife