Nothing can compare to being the proud owner of a family classic.
Some of my friends have had the good fortune of acquiring quilts, every hand-placed stitch representing of a long-ago generation`s love, affection and family pride. For others, there`s no place like home sweet home, where a dotted-Swiss canopy bed anchors a room still filled with the joyous miscellany of childhood.
For better or worse, my own mother didn`t sew, and our family home was sold so very long ago. My enduring memories of Mom are a simple breed of memento, steeped all the same in family tradition-a pot-luck assemblage of penny postcards, neatly-snipped-but-long-yellowed newspaper clippings and faded scribblings doing frugal double-duty on the backs of the largest collection of used note-pads east of the Mississippi. My family remembrance is Mom`s beloved recipe collection, housed in random order in an old tin box . . . inherited when I was only 17.
Like any other good friend, Mom`s recipe box always has been there when I needed it. From teaching (it isn`t easy for a teenager to take charge overnight as the family chef) to providing reassurance and inspiration, Mom`s casually organized recipe collection provided a solid apron-strings connection from mother to daughter.
To anyone who ever intimated that there are no guarantees in life, I can only suggest that that individual never has supped at our family dinner table. Mom was, of course, a terrific cook who enjoyed cooking, and her recipes held the keys to her culinary kingdom. Could any oven-fried chicken in a six-county area compare? Did any other youngster`s visions of holiday sugarplums include kolackys bursting with fruit in Mom`s expertly crafted lighter-than-air-crusts?
When my mother was at the kitchen`s helm, you could always depend on requests for second helpings of her thrifty specialty of the house: an eggless, sugarless chocolate cake-still a delicious menu finale.
Mom`s recipes touch the heart as often as they impress the taste buds. When the need arises for creating a heavenly cheesecake, I can-in no time at all-lay my hands not only on the directions to the hands-down family favorite (endorsed in tiny writing on the back of a penny postcard), but I can pick up a bit of late-`50s family chatter, to boot:
”The glass for the frame is 25 cents. If you`re going to be home Sunday evening, we`ll drop it off-about 7:30. We won`t stay long. The Santa picture of the girls is beautiful. Love, Mae.” Just imagine trusting both your favorite recipe and your social life to the delivery of a one-cent mailing!
The directions for Mom`s special orange salad mold come complete with a Christmas ”wish list” … circa 1939.
Mom`s collection of hand-noted instructions speak of humble but loving beginnings. A perfect pie crust was achieved by maneuvering two everyday-silver knives chopstick-style to ”slice” the shortening/flour mixture into pea-sized bits that were guaranteed to maximize flakiness. Standard pastry blenders were undoubtedly meant for folks of greater means.
Over the years, I`ve been the recipient of a half dozen books, boxes and other varied devices all meant, once and for all, to place step-by-step directions for apple pie or lemon meringue readily at my fingertips. The well- meaning gift-givers (some from as far away as Scotland and Australia) have meant to lend a helping hand, to compel me, once and for all, to ultimately organize my potluck melange of cooking instructions into some meaningful, A-to-Z, appetizer-to-dessert order. Their kind gifts continue to rest with their ribbons and gift cards.
In a world ordered by computer precision, the recipe box is user-friendly in a most appealing way. How nice it is to identify something by a fudgy fingerprint-or a familiar script-on the side of a recipe card and to experience a totally stress-free system of filing: Open box. Place recipe clipping inside. Close box.
Best of all, though, is the sense of culinary confidence and well-being that comes from knowing that with Mom`s recipes at hand, a good, homemade meal is never far away at all.
