Trying a little something new. Something I’ve wanted to do for a
while. For the next few days, I will be posting the pieces I submitted
for my Writing Minor Portfolio. They are all from classes I took
Sophomore to Senior Year at Keene State College. Most of them are memoir
in nature, but a few are slightly different. These are pieces I love, but
know still need work. If you would like to know more of the stories
behind the pieces, let me know and I will be happy to share! Also, any and
all constructive feedback is always welcome – just because these were the final
versions to be submitted doesn’t mean that they are perfect.
Oh, and also? These are mine. Do not
steal them. Thanks.
Someone’s
in the Kitchen with Pooh-Pah
Written for Cooking Eating and Dreaming, Junior Year
“Pooh-Pah!
Are you making dinner? Can I
help?” Mary runs into the kitchen,
excited in that five year-old way to play chef with her grandfather. I smile and laugh – my niece is so much like
me. She climbs on her chair in front of
the stove and throws me a heart melting smile over her shoulder.
“Auntie!
I’m helping!”
“I see that, Mary! Be careful, and listen to Pooh-Pah.”
“Oh,
Auntie!” she giggles as she turns back to stir the boiling water for the Kraft
mac and cheese. I watch for a moment,
enjoying the scene with wistful eyes. I
can’t lie - I am a little jealous.
I am a daddy’s girl. Always have been. My father was the cook of the family. He taught me, encouraged me. When I was living on my own for the first
time, he was the one I called for cooking advice. Now he cooks with his granddaughter, her tiny
chef’s cap and apron adorned with Disney Princesses, his gentle guidance
teaching her how to properly stir the mac and cheese.
It is December, and I am home from
school. December in my family means a
lot of things: school vacations, Christmas Pageants, Caroling. Singing the Christmas Cantata on Christmas
Eve; complete with a duet of “O Holy Night” with Dad during the Offertory. And fudge.
Tons of fudge.
Fudge has been very important in our family
for decades. My dad used to make it to
give to bank tellers at Christmas, and for our annual Open House. Eventually, it spread to our teachers in
school, the ladies down at the JC Penney Hair Salon, church members, our bosses
at work, and friends who lived far away.
He would even make it for someone’s birthday in July if they asked. Watching Dad make batch after batch every
Christmas, sweating over the hot stove, cutting the freshly chilled fudge with
his giant machete, was fascinating to me.
One year, he finally taught me how to make the fudge.
He stood
next to me, giving me gentle directions.
We chatted about how he came to this particular recipe (which I will not
share, so don’t ask), which pot works best, and his off-temperature candy
thermometer. “If I ever lose this
thermometer, I am screwed. It’s off by a
few degrees, but I know exactly where it needs to be to hit the right boiling
point. That is the key to making
fudge.” I nodded, taking in his sage
advice while I continued to stir the pot.
After the
mixture had reached the magical boiling point, we mixed in the chocolate and poured
it into the pan to be refrigerated and sent out as Christmas gifts to loved
ones and acquaintances. It turned out
pretty good, in case you’re wondering.
I have since
forgotten how to make Pastor Ted’s Etna Famous Fudge. I know he will show me again and again until
I can make it from memory, batch after batch, just like him. Someday, we can both teach Mary how to make
it, keeping the family tradition alive in her.
I still call
my dad for cooking advice. I give him a
hard time for putting his Furi knife in the dishwasher. We talk about Top Chef and Rachel
Ray. Cooking always and forever will be
a major part of our relationship. Even
when I insist on making food for my family with no help, he is always there in
the background, a calm reassurance that if I mess up, he can help fix it. If it is beyond fixing, he eats it anyway,
insisting that the effort was more than enough.
One Fourth
of July, he taught me how to grill steaks.
I had broiled and pan fried steak before, but was nervous about the
grill. He sat out in the blistering
heat, the sun shining in our eyes. Once
he showed me how to get the grill heated properly, he sat in the sun lighting
sparklers. I soaked the steaks in my
fabulous bourbon marinade; caramelized onions, cooked corn on the cob and fresh
green beans. We had Hood ice cream cone
sundaes for dessert. Mom and I ate in
the living room, while dad sat at the kitchen table, occasionally piping up as
we talked about traditional Fourth of July movies. Mom took two bites of her steak and
proclaimed “Ted, I think Beth may have surpassed you!” After much protest from me, Dad quietly but
firmly stated from the kitchen “That’s how it should be.”
As I stand
in the kitchen of my childhood, watching the new baby of the family learn from
the master, I think to myself “the baton has been passed...” Dad has always said that I would be his
little girl; that no matter how old children get, parents will always think of
them as kids. That is, of course, until
they have children of their own. The day
Mary came into our lives, I was no longer the apple of my Daddy’s eye. She has his heart in her tiny fist, and none
of us really seem to mind too much. I
suppose that’s how it should be.
No comments:
Post a Comment