When I was little, Mama started baking for the holidays around the first of December. Having grown up during the Great Depression, she remained haunted by the things she’d wished for as a child. They became her two extravagances as an adult: food and shoes. Christmastime for our family meant plenty of cakes, pies, cookies and bedroom slippers.
There
was a pecan tree in our back yard, which Mama claimed to be allergic to, so my
brother and I were sent to collect the nuts for her holiday baking sprees. We
would pick them up off the ground, put them in paper sacks and carry them back
to the house. It was our job not only to pick up the pecans but to pick them out
as well. We used a hammer for cracking and an ice pick to clean out the bitter
tissue hidden within the fine, ribbed folds of the pecan meat.
Mama
would bake a batch of cookies, give us two to eat, then put the rest in the
freezer for later. The day our new chest-type freezer was delivered, Mama
crammed everything in it but dust bunnies.
If
there had been a contest, Mama’s fruitcake would have won. Both my brother and
I loved it so. It was full of candied cherries and pineapple and the pecans we
had labored so hard to pick out. No figs, dates or raisins. Nothing dark and
gooey.
On
fruitcake baking day, the warm fragrance that wafted out of our old kitchen,
that lingered in each room long enough to make our stomachs growl, is a memory
etched on my heart. It might have been the almond flavoring that added punch to
the aroma, but I suspect it was Mama’s extra helping of soul.
The
other day I came across an old cookbook that had belonged to my mother. There
were pictures of pies and cakes filled in with a red Crayola, my favorite
color. Gazing at the faded pages, worn now by many seasons of use, I cried a
little bit.
I
saw where Mama had scribbled down some of her favorite recipes, everything from
sugar cookies to rum balls. I found the Coconut Pecan Pie she had concocted
herself that had once won a cooking prize. The family favorite, Chicken Perlow
was written on an index card and stuck in the middle of the book. And there,
next to made-up recipes and ones borrowed from magazines or good friends, was
her original white fruitcake recipe.
The
smell and taste of that fruitcake snapped my synapses to attention like a
rubber band. I had never baked a fruitcake, but my taste buds clambered for
that long ago holiday delicacy. I decided to bake one for Babe and me. If it
didn’t flop, I’d bake another for my brother.
Christmas
music filled the house as I mixed the fruit, nuts and almond flavoring. By the
time I packed it all in a tube pan, I was grinning all over myself. The sweet
fragrance drifted through my own house this time, and it was almost like going
back to the womb.
I
followed Mama’s directions exactly, the one exception being the use of a
pressure cooker. She steamed her cake for an hour, then baked it for another
two. That method will remain untried by me, since Babe is convinced that I’d
blow the house to kingdom come.
Three
hours later, I took the cake out of the oven and placed it on a rack like the
recipe instructed. It cooled for thirty minutes, but I could stand it no
longer. Upside down it went on the cake plate, where I allowed it to rest for a
bit.
The
next time I checked, it looked like the heart of the cake had been pulled up
and out, as though it were a watermelon. Candied fruit and nuts decorated the
kitchen counter, the floor, and eventually the bottom of my shoes. It was a
mess, but the cake smelled wonderful — just like Mama’s.
I
could have cried, I could have repeated well-rehearsed expletives or pitched a fit,
but I didn’t. I went instead to my bedroom where I keep a pair of old pink
bedroom shoes under the bed. The heels are worn down and thin, the terry cloth
has been smoothed over time. They had once belonged to Mama — a Christmas gift,
no doubt. I loved having them under my bed, so that is where they lived.
I
slid the shoes out, put them on my feet and flip-flopped my way back to the
mess awaiting me in the kitchen.
What
would Mama have done with this situation, I wondered. She’d have said, “Oh, for
God’s sake! When life deals you crumbs, make crumb cake.”
I
grabbed a handful of the sticky mess and rolled it into balls. Then I called my
grandsons in from where they were digging up all my St. Augustine grass.
“Y’all
come in here. You’re about to be the first person in the civilized world to
sample a Gummy Bear Ball.”
They
gobbled them up as if they were one of the starving children in China Mama used
to tell me about when she was trying to get me to eat everything on my plate.
When I asked how they liked the treat, they grinned and said, “Got milk?”
Mama
would have liked that answer.
One Old Bathrobe . . . Priceless
My first thought
on this chilly anniversary
date is Mama,
gone now
these 27 long
years.
My eyes seek out
her bathrobe
the one I keep
hanging on the
bed post.
Crawling on my
hands and knees
over rumpled
quilts
and Downy fresh
sheets I
take the robe
from its resting place
and bury my
face. Drawing deeply
I inhale the
remaining
essence of her
warmth,
breathe the last
drops of
my mother.
Under my bed
with the
toes peeking out
are Mama’s
pink slippers.
I pull them out
and slip them on
my feet.
For a very few
seconds
I am part of her
again, womb-like
and safe. With
her robe
wrapped around
my heart,
my day begins
softly
with a memory.
Her life, her
love
and her ability to bake
a damn
good fruitcake!
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