Today my two daughters and I baked and frosted
cupcakes. I love baking with my
gals, the same way I used to love baking with my mother. I have so many fond memories of bonding
over the chemistry and aromas of the kitchen. (I also have a few scars from the times I tried to go it
alone and surprise the family with some fancy concoction I found in the French
cookbook my father had bought my mother for their anniversary one year. (Nothing says romance like a
cookbook. It is better, I suppose,
than the commemorative pope plate he bought her years later even though we’re
NOT Catholic, but that’s another story.
My father is actually quite romantic, in his own way.)
My brother and sister and I would salivate over the full
color pictures from that French tome: Crème Brulee, Chocolate Mousse,
Chocolate Éclairs, Apple Tarte Tatin, and Cherry Clafoutis. We
would beg my mother to make these arduous concoctions, imagining our dining
room set up as a boulangerie with
cake platters and cookie trays and chocolate fondues, taking up every available
table surface.
While my father loved to buy my mother cookbooks as gifts
(and still does), we usually stuck with the German tried and true recipes that my
Oma had taught my mother: the most commonly made were pfeffernusse, or peppernuts, the older and harder and crunchier
the better; Katerinchens, a firm
spicy cookie that was both practical and satisfied a sweet tooth, yet didn’t
over do it. Both were excellent
for dunking in the tea we always had after our evening meals.
In this day and age it’s hard to believe, but my mother baked
nearly every day. (She still does!) She usually got
started in the evening, after she had made the meal, cleaned up afterward,
maybe weeded the garden for a while and had prepared our lunches for the next
day.
When the rest of us had thrown in the towel and were clustered
around the console TV, my mother would be in the kitchen mixing up a storm:
batter being whisked, eggs cracking, and the Mixmaster awhirr. Even in winter, our house was always
warm in the evenings and full of spicy smells.
The amazing thing is, my mother did this cheerfully and with
pleasure. It seemed her idea of
relaxing was rolling up her sleeves and getting out the rolling pin as compared
to our idea which was sprawling out on the green shag rug and watching reruns
of Happy Days and Laverne and
Shirley.
My mother’s cheerful flurry of evening activity meant that
our evenings often consisted of a lovely, warm snack before bedtime as well. It
may be why, to this day, I can’t seem to spend an evening without a snack (or
ten) in hand: I’ve been predisposed and habituated to it by a loving,
industrious mother who couldn’t keep herself out of the kitchen.
For special occasions, my mother would bake her famous many
layered Napoleon torte, each layer
consisting of a pancakey yet flakey pastry, with custardy cream spread between
each and doused over the whole lot.
A piece of that cake is like a hearty meal in itself and it could sit in
your stomach like a Thanksgiving dinner does, too. Delicious, heavy goodness. Another specialty of my mother’s was bienenstick (bee sting) cake, which boasted a sugary-almond crunchy crust and a vanilla pudding
filling.
If you know the biblical story
of the loaves and the fishes, you know what it was like at our house. On Sundays, as we grew older, we would often
end up with a cluster of teenagers at our house midafternoon and invariably my
mother would start pulling out a multitude of wholesome baked goods that she
had stashed away in the freezer, in the cupboard, in tightly sealed jars, and
secreted away in layers of wax paper in Tupperware containers. They spilled out everywhere and there
was always a surplus. There were
butterhorns and cinnamon buns, cookies and cakes and squares and bars. And then there were the jars of canned
peaches and cherries and plums and the frozen strawberries and blueberries and
raspberries that she would thaw and mix with sugar and pour over big bowls of
ice cream. Our house was like the
gingerbread house in the countryside that housed every sweet delight one could
conjure up.
Around Christmas all the stops
were pulled out and about a month before the big day, Omi and my mother got
baking. My grandparents had a
mudroom in the front of their house that had long ago been converted into a
larder where all the baked goods were stored. It was the one part of the house that was unheated and when
you opened the door to it, you would be greeted with a blast of cold air and
the aroma of spices and orange and chocolate chip cookies. In the Christmas season, our noses
would be assaulted with the smells of lebkuchen and syrup platz
and linzer torten. Was that a Frankfurter Kranz sitting under the Tupperware clear bell? It was like
heaven in a room. Just closing my
eyes and taking a deep inhale now brings me back to that very special room that
smacked of love and happiness.
These days my mom and dad often bake together, and my dad
has taken over in the bread making department, making a delicious array of
creative, hearty rustic loaves that he throws together with abandon whenever
the desires strikes him. They love
perusing cookbooks in bookstores and going through the ones they have at
home. Food and cooking is one of
the strongest bonds of my parents’ marriage. They delight in the making of it and the eating of it
together. It’s a beautiful thing
that I take as a model of happiness and contentment. They find food incredibly important, both the making and the
eating of it. It is reverent to them
in a way that most people don’t understand in our fast food generation. I admire this deeply.
For me, I still equate baking with the love of my mother and
grandmother and how industriously and happily they whipped up beautiful food
for their ungrateful spawn. Like
other kids of the 70s, we yearned for Oreos and Girl Guide Cookies and Hostess
treats like Twinkies and Snowballs.
There were times we actually felt deprived! In retrospect, how dare we complain or think the
transfat-laden store bought goodies were in any way superior to the delights
that came out of our kitchen? Who
was even aware of hydrogenated oils and red dye number three and preservatives
back then? All we knew was that
the other kids had sweets that were sweeter and softer and gooier than what we
were eating. Ingrates!
I love to bake with my daughters now so they will have health(ier) treats to take with them in their lunchboxes, but mostly so that
we can establish that same ritual of mother/daughter togetherness that my
mother did with me. Time in the
cozy kitchen making chemistry out of baking was time that brought me closer to
my mother, her roots and helped us to be together in a natural way that wasn't forced.
These days, I’m into a health food, be-kind-to-animals
lifestyle so we’re experimenting with eggless, milkless concoctions. In the last few weeks we’ve made vegan
oatmeal cookies, vegan peanut butter cookies and today its vegan chocolate
cupcakes. We’re just about to embark on the frosting for which we will be
using soymilk among other ingredients.
It may not be traditional German baking, but it is two girls and their
Mommy starting a baking tradition of their own: a tradition that brings us
together to make something with love and goodwill and that teaches us that
working together to create something beautiful and nourishing is also fun and
memorable.
My aspirations for
my daughters and the kitchen:
- To
pass on some of the special recipes that are a part of my heritage.
- For
them to spend time with their Omi, baking in her kitchen in Hope.
- For
them to learn the chemistry of cooking and how fun it can be.
- For
them to enjoy both the process and the product of their kitchen
experimentation.
- For us
to spend many hours of pleasure in that place of love and warmth.
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