Eileen Goudge - Something Warm from the Oven: Baking Memories, Making Memories

To my mother,

who taught me that the most

important ingredient of all

is love.

Yet the concept behind Tea & Sympathy was so simple that when people called it a stroke of genius, Kitty had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. The idea had come to her in the most mundane way possiblewhile eating lunch in the staff room at Miramonte Elementary. Nibbling on a stale Fig Newton, shed idly mused about how much she missed her grandmothers icebox cookies. Where had they gone, shed wondered, all those remembered treats from childhood. Baked goods as heartwarming as they were toothsome, that you didnt need a culinary degree and half a day to prepare. What insidious plot had succeeded in abolishing them from cupboards and cookie jars where theyd once reigned supreme?

From One Last Dance

MY EARLIEST AND FONDEST memories are of food. I grew up in northern California, one of six children. We lived miles from the nearest grocery store, which for my mother meant that shopping expeditions had to be planned carefully; most of our food was either bought in bulk or made from scratch. She baked all our bread; at any given time the deep freezer in the garage contained at least four or five different varieties. Cheese came in wheels. Flour and sugar were stored in barrels in the garage next to the one with the diatomaceous earth for the swimming pool filter, which led to a memorable occasion in which my sister Karen, mistaking the powdery substance for flour, baked cookies that were literally hard as rocks (no reflection on her baking ability; shes since become a gourmet cook).

Tucked in beside the deep freezer was the white fifties refrigerator from my parents first house. My mother kept it stocked with whatever fruit was in season: apples from Mr. Jellichs orchard in the fall; oranges and grapefruit in winter; flats of strawberries in early summer, and peaches, apricots, and grapes in late July and August. (Blackberries we picked from the woods behind our house.) And since fruit was the only snack we were allowed between meals, the old refrigerator provided more than extra storageit was a lifesaver. Arriving home from school each day after the long trek from the bus stop, most of it up a steep hill, I was always starving. Id come in through the garage, grabbing a handful of fruit from the fridge along the way. In those days, it wasnt unusual for me to devour five or six apples in a sitting. In fact, I ate so many growing up that if the old saying is true, about an apple a day keeping the doctor away, I should live to be one hundred.

Stepping through the back door into the kitchen, I was often met by the sight of my mother elbow deep in bread dough at the counter. (I dont think she ever made a single recipe of anything in those days; everything was doubled, tripled, or quadrupled.) If I hung around to watch, shed pinch off a handful for me to knead. I loved everything about it: the squishy feel of the dough between my fingers, the little popping sounds it made as the air bubbles were squeezed out, the dense yeasty smell mingled with the nutty aroma of oatmeal, rye, or cracked wheat.

When the dough was pounded into submission, it went into a huge brown ceramic bowl, which was covered with a dishtowel and placed in a warm spot to rise, out of reach of small hands. By the time the loaves emerged from the oven, crusty and brown, the smell had wafted into every corner of the house, and the call to supper would unleash a small stampede. Breakfast the following morning would bring wondrous toast. If heaven is a place where you can eat anything you want without gaining an ounce, I would start each day with a slab of my mothers oatmeal bread, toasted and buttered, spread with my grandmother Mimis marmalade.

Mom also made what are to this day still my favorite desserts. The only time we ever ate store-bought cookies was on our annual camping trip to Pinecrest Lake, when my dad would treat us to Mallomars and Oreos from the general store. Birthday cakes from mixes were for children less fortunate than us. And the only thing a commercial pie was good for, as far as I knew, was on shows like The Three Stooges, when it was thrown in someones face.

My mother wasnt a fancy cook, but everything that came out of her kitchen was the essence of comfort food. For Sunday dinners shed make apple crispthe only night of the week my sisters and I would vie to clear the table, all the better to even up the edges of whatever was left in the pan. Her lemon chiffon pie was the product of lemons from the tree in our front yard. (Even then, I knew the difference between Meyer lemons and the inferior kind sold in supermarkets.) Gelatin molds were made from scratch, with real fruit. And if youve never tasted warm persimmon pudding with lemon sauce, you dont know what youre missing.

On birthdays, she made your favorite cake. Mine was, and still is, banana cake. My fathers was either German chocolate cake or maple chiffon, depending on his mood. My sisters and brothers taste ran from the prosaic, like yellow cake with chocolate frosting, to the more exotic baked Alaska. The tradition has carried over into the next generation, with the grandchildren putting in requests for their favorite birthday cakes.

Valentines Day and wedding anniversaries brought heart-shaped cakes ringed with miniature pink Cecile Brunner roses from the garden. For Easter, there was a chocolate cake decorated with marshmallow bunnies, their smiley faces painted on with a toothpick dipped in red food coloring. For kids parties there was a cake in the shape of an elephant or a giraffe. And for one memorable Fourth of July, which happens to be my birthday, someone had the bright idea of putting sparklers on the cake instead of candleswhich I dont recommend unless you like your frosting covered in a gritty gray film.

With all this bounty came bowls and beaters to lick. Wed fight over who got the last smear of batter or frosting. We became experts at snitching cookie dough when my mothers back was turned. Once, when my mother was called out of the kitchen, my sister Patty seized the opportunity to scoop up a handful of cookie dough, which she crammed into a baggie and stuffed down the front of her pedal pushers. Unfortunately, the baggie broke just as my mother walked back in, sending a stream of batter down Pattys leg. Talk about busted!

My own love affair with baking began with a copy of Betty Crockers Cookbook for Boys and Girls, given to me one Christmas by my Aunt Betty (no relation to Ms. Crocker). Inspired, I donned my mothers apronI had to wrap the ties twice around my middle, I was so small, and went to work mastering such delicacies as pigs in a blanket and three men in a boat. Before long, I was on to blondies and brownies, velvet crumb cake, and molasses crinkles. I learned to make a heart-shaped cake using a square layer and a round one, cut in half. And who knew there were so many uses for Bisquick? I still have that book. Torn and dog-eared, its one of my most prized possessions.

Every so often my sisters and I would play what we called bakery day. Wed each choose a recipe, usually something easy like cookies, and with Moms blessing (her only rule was that we had to clean up afterward), wed spend the day making them. By the time the last tray came out of the oven, the kitchen would be a mess and wed be so sick of it allliterally, given the amount of cookie dough wed consumedwe wondered what we could have been thinking: This was as much fun as a trip to the dentist. Amazingly, it did nothing to dampen our enthusiasm the next time one of us piped, Lets play bakery day!