Holiday Baking Cooks Up Memories

As soon as nights get longer and colder, I find myself scouring cook books and magazines for festive recipes.  The irony is that I may whip up one of two of these temptations, but always, always, I return to childhood standbys.  While new flavors tease family taste buds, traditional recipes comfort and connect us to loved ones and times long gone.

A perfect example is my faded and speckled fudge recipe written on a tiny scrap of yellow paper.  I remember as a new bride calling my mom  for instructions to make my husband our family’s old-fashion fudge.  Every time I place that yellow square by the stove, I recall standing at the phone  that night, connecting with home which was hundreds of miles away.  I had a new little house and loving husband, but talking to my mother reminded me of the family that nurtured me and of happy childhood Christmases. 

Recently, I discovered the original fudge recipe printed in my great-grandmother’s Searchlight Cookbook, which my grandmother gave to me. It made me wonder how many aunts, cousins, and other relation had  mailed or called either Great Grandma or Grandma to learn to make this family favorite.  How many of them felt momentarily transported to their loved one’s kitchen and then stood over their own stove while feeling their mom’s or grandma’s presence.

Not only did my mother make amazing holiday fudge, she also let my brother and me help her bake red and green sugar cookies each Christmas.  We would add ingredients she had measured, and then we’d watch as she turned flour, sugar, eggs, and more into  a soft, sweet dough that she’d let us roll into  small balls.  (I wonder if she knows how many of those pre-baked cookies we sampled . . .) 

Once Kent and I laid out even lines of cookies  in a 3 x 4 design on her rectangular baking sheet, Mom would carry out three little dishes—one filled with red sprinkles, one with green, and one with a drizzle of water.  She gave us each a flat-bottomed glass to dip first in the water and then in one color of sprinkles.  Our job was to flatten the dough ball, imbedding the colored sugar.  To this day, Christmas brings those sparkling green and red cookies to mind.

Marriage means more than joining lives, it means joining traditions, so I added my husband’s favorite cookie to my baking repertoire.  His famiy emigrated from Switzerland in the early 1900s and brought their linzer tart recipe with them to Kansas.  That concoction of ground almonds, flour, cinnamon, sugar, egg whites, and strawberry jam now graces Christmas plates in Kansas and Tennessee.  

Cream candy, forgotten cookies, frosted sugar cookies, fudge, linzer tarts, and more keep not only our house but our daughters’ smelling like  holiday confectionary shoppes.  However, it isn’t just the scent of baking that permeates the air, it’s  generations of family memories tickling our noses. 

I like to think that I’m not the only one who reminiscences while cooking.  When my daughters use family recipes, I hope they sense their mom, mom-in-law, their grandmas, their greats, great-greats, and great-great-greats in the kitchen.  No wonder it sometimes feels a little crowded during holiday baking. 

Christmas Magic: Turning a Tumbleweed into a Christmas Tree

courtesy Nicedemus Natl. Hist. Site

Despite stickers embedded in fingers and palms, I don’t want to give up my beautification project.  Nope, I’m not digging backyard sandburs.  I’m decorating a Prairie Christmas tree. Yep, I’ve gone Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I’m turning a tumbleweed into a showcase for curling green, gold, and red ribbons accented by shiny ornaments.

A girlfriend invited me to celebrate an old-fashioned Christmas at the Nicodemus Township Hall, which included designing a tumbleweed Christmas tree followed by homemade soup and cookies.  How could I turn down that offer?

The catering crew buzzed our senses the moment we walked in the door. Homemade gingersnaps and peanut butter cookies, old-fashioned peppermint sticks, fresh-brewed coffee, hot cider, and ham and beans distracted participants from the mountain of tumbleweeds piled on the stage.

On a table below that heap of well-traveled Russian thistles, an assortment of colored Christmas ribbon, miniature ornaments—round, bell, and bulb shaped--tinsel, and cans of powdery snow challenged participants to fashion something lovely from prickly stems.  

Over the years, I’ve read books and magazine articles touting turning a common prairie invader into an elegant Christmas decoration.   I’ve even visited homes where the artistic host produced a centerpiece out of these Russian interlopers.  While admiring such creativity, I’ve never tried to craft such holiday magic myself.  That changed Saturday, December 8th.

While many wannabe decorators selected huge orbs, I chose a lean example that had one main stem with a few straggly protuberances.  I couldn’t imagine it doing much serious rolling over a pasture, even during a big wind. It looked more like  Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree than an actual tumbleweed, although I’m certain DNA testing would confirm its origins.

My first challenge was stabilizing its stem in the red Solo cup provided.  Toby Keith had no idea the real purpose of the RSC was to provide a stand for a prairie Christmas tree. During that little procedure, at least a hundred stickers dug their way into my thumbs.

Once I had the “tree” set up, I analyzed it’s festivity potential.  With so few branches, it seemed best to go with a less is more motif.  While some folks slathered on spray snow, ribbon, ornaments, and tinsel with grand success, I suspected that would overwhelm my sparse example of drought-inspired plant life.

Using scissors the park service provided, I curled red, green, and gold ribbon and tied  them one to a branch.  Completing that task, I tied a mass of eight colorful ribbons to top my straggly collection of spikes.  To enhance my design, I added  contrasting Christmas ornaments.  It was simple, yet elegant.  Who says that about a sticker bush?

When I thought I was done, I wasn’t.  The weight of the colorful orbs caused it to tumble to the floor where several glass bulbs shattered.  After cleaning up my mess, I re-evaluated and resorted to western Kansan’s favorite standby—duct tape.  

I stabilized that tree with long strips of gray adhesive in every direction.  Of course, those weird spider webs begged to be hidden.  That drove me to a sack of cotton balls and a bottle of school glue.  Yes, my decorating skills now depended upon techniques perfected in kindergarten.  I glued cotton balls over the duct-tape until it looked like my imprisoned weed sprouted from a fuzzy snow bank atop a red Solo cup.

What began as a lark became a three hour challenge.  I nearly forgot to hit the snack table in my attempt to turn a straggly stem into something festive.  I question the beauty of my little tree , but the stickers irritating my hands make surprisingly lovely designs.

courtesy of Nicodemus Historical Society

You Can't Take the Girl Out of the Hunter

Not so long ago, if memory serves me right, most  people considered serious women hunters a rarity.  Their appearances on the outdoor channels were uncommon, and you couldn’t find camouflage or blaze orange specifically designed to fit female anatomy. 

The last ten or fifteen years has changed  that.  Google “Women on the Outdoor Channel,” and you’ll visit multiple sites showcasing Tiffany, Gina, Vicki, Julie and more females scouting, harvesting, and showcasing hard-won trophies.  You’ll also find ad after ad promoting Real Tree Camo designed for feminine shapes.  While the fairer sex may be joining or leading males in the field of hunting, be aware that gals who stalk trophy bucks still like glittering gems and whip up prize-winning cookies. 

The first Saturday of deer season, I spent the morning at an area craft fair.  It spotlighted local vendors and hosted a cookie walk that made me salivate just looking at the assorted baked goods.  I traveled from booth to booth, examining ornate woodwork, afghans and quilts, potato bags, cookware, jelly nails, and several styles of jewelry.  

During my journey around the venue, a couple of blaze orange jackets and hats caught my eye.  Trained in old school thinking, I expected to see a couple of guys in town for lunch.  Instead, two lovely hunters took a midday break to check out beautifully displayed necklaces, rings, and bracelets.  Why not, I thought.  You may be able to take the hunter out of the girl, but you can’t take the girl out of the hunter. It reminded me of a friend who commented that his wife’s manicure kit was as well stocked as her tackle box.  Ladies need their girl stuff.

I confirmed  that thought a few hours later at another Christmas festival in a different location.  This one hosted a cookie contest that required  recipes to include chocolate.  I hadn’t attended this event before, so I paid close attention to participants and their activities.  

After we delivered  my friend’s cookies to the competition directors, we joined the crowd playing Santa Bingo.  Only a couple of tables away, I spotted a young woman dressed in camo from neck to toe.  Obviously, she’d taken a break from her stalk to celebrate the season with a bingo card and corn kernel markers. 

 Within an hour, I understood even better why she’d interrupted her hunt.  Finished sampling dozens of chocolaty confections delivered by hopeful prizewinners, three judges emerged with full bellies and happy smiles to announce the winners.  A previously noisy room became silent as we awaited  their verdicts.  

Declaring a 13 and under winner, a judge called  out a name.  From my peripheral vision, I saw familiar camouflage  duds striding confidently up the aisle between packed tables.  This young woman had taken time from stalking this season’s contribution to the deep freeze to collect a $25 award.  According to the announcer, this wasn’t her first win.  She’d earned the prize in the past as well.

Western Kansas women amaze themselves and their men all the time.  One of their talents is that ability to follow their bliss into the woods after a huge white tail  or muley and then come home to cook a delicious meal followed by scrumptious cookies.  It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she may have a new bauble on her finger that sparkles when she passes the cookie tray.

The Great Plains and Small Town Hearts

Over a decade ago, I lucked into a National Endowment for the Humanities Seminar titled  The Great Plains: Texas to Saskatchewan.  For five weeks, Tom Isern  led 19 other teachers and I to read and analyze literary and historical texts, discuss conclusions, and visit iconic sites to better understand what it means to live on the plains.

One identifying characteristic of this land is its vast horizon paired with  few vertical disturbances like trees or skyscrapers.   That distinction made it into plenty of diaries and journals as pioneers left locales where coves and hollows or great groves of trees cupped around them, making them feel secure as a babe in its mother’s arms. When my mom worked at the Meade County Courthouse back in the 60s, she discovered records of early immigrants institutionalized when they were unable to cope with the open t space and frequent wind.

Fellow seminarians from other regions shared that the immensity of our vistas disquieted them as well.  That reminded me of a Japanese exchange student I took on a visit to Oklahoma City.  She exclaimed over and over , “Why don’t you build cities in this land?  Why don’t people live here? You should use this space.”

For those of us accustomed to so much sky and so few upright interferences, outsiders’ viewpoints challenge us to think about where we live and what it means to be a plains person.  Recently, I’ve traveled the more isolated highways of western Kansas, stopping to explore almost-ghost towns like Densmore, Ogallah, and Edson that were once thriving communities.

 I love isolated miles of asphalt stretching infinitely over hills and valleys.  I smile  to think how these trails must confuse anyone who thinks all of Kansas is flat.  High spots abound that permit  travelers to see across counties.  Imagine Indians and other early explorers standing on these ascents to view scores of buffalo, deer, elk, turkey, and antelope.  In all directions, they saw a rich land that could feed many.

Seeing  crumbling remains of once well-built churches, multi-story brick or stone schools, plaster and lathe homes that housed growing families, and the always peaceful hilltop cemeteries reminds me that hopeful hearts once acted on the thought that this is an abundant land. These little hamlets about every 15 to 20 miles across the prairie remind us of Jeffersonian Democracy in action.  Here families worked the soil, tended their businesses, worshipped their God, and educated their children into a better life.

As folks gravitated away from these self-sufficient little villages to cities, they lost something.  These small towns tied to the land, these schools that required all students to participate in declamations, plays, music, and sports; these churches that took care of not only spirits but also physical needs of residents created well-rounded citizens who dealt together with whatever difficulties arose. 

In forested regions, close-growing trees hold one another upright when the wind blows, and in mountainous landscapes one rock supports another. Nature offers no protection in the  open plains, so humans must sustain one another.  Neighbors become one another’s rock, cove, hollow, and grove.

When I think back to that seminar and this place I call home, I acknowledge that lifestyles  change.  We can’t all live in self-sufficient villages, but we can celebrate open space that reminds us this is a rich land that feeds many and a place that teaches us to look out for one another.

Trophy Dust Bunnies

Athletes compete to make the play-offs.  If effort and luck shine on coaches, managers, players, owners, and fans, two franchises make it to games such as the Superbowl, World Series, Stanley Cup or other legendary competitions.  Olympians dedicate four years to earn those few seconds or minutes they have to claim gold. Hunters spend seasons seeking the biggest buck, bull elk, caribou or other record setting trophy to decorate the family room.  After a week of packing a house we lived in for 16 years, I have decided homemakers need their own prize.

Athletes and hunters have to meet criteria to claim victory.  Sports competitions require speed, strength,  and skill.  Game stalkers’ strive to meet or exceed state, Pope and Young, or Boone and Crockett records.  To have their competitions taken seriously, housekeepers need to establish a list of golden qualities to identify champion dust bunnies.

After the last two weeks, I may be perfectly qualified to establish those norms.  We have sorted, packed, and cleaned a house we lived in for 16 years.  When I say lived in, I mean that.  This was no model home where people took shoes off at the door, pets stayed outside, or folks ate  only at the table.  Grit made its way to odd corners, pet hair is part of the vacuum bag collection, and a handy bottle of Resolve took care of spills.

Despite my statement this was not a model home, I dusted, vacuumed, and mopped once or twice a week.  I thought I was a stellar housekeeper until we started moving items that hadn’t exactly taken root but hadn’t seen a new locale for a long time.  If there had been a season on dust bunnies, and I had had a shotgun, I would have golden trophies to dust.

After the initial embarrassment of realizing I wasn’t the homemaker I thought I was, I took an analytical approach.  These were dandy fuzz collections and deserved respect for their length and circumference.  I suspect dark corners under heavy cabinets lend themselves to breeding a super species of these critters, as that is where I found the best examples.  

Looking at the constituent parts of these monsters, I see that drafts found a way into household caverns to roll that first speck of dirt or hair into another and another and another until the collected mass needed a name. Looking at these artistically, the mixture of elements enhanced their integrity.

After seeing each trophy’s individuality, it was hard to attack them with the vacuum cleaner.  I knew once they were sucked into the inner workings of that machine, they’d lose their uniqueness and turn into either a giant glob of dust, hair, and fiber or they’d separate into individual components during their journey from the beater brushes to the collection bag. 

Okay, so this is a lot tongue in cheek, but I did find some dandy dust bunnies that deserved recognition for size and form.  What I do know is that real housekeeper Olympics would award prizes for the contestant  who found the fewest and smallest of these creatures.  Folks who grow humongous dust based creations would receive scorn rather than accolades.  

My goal in my new home is to model myself after the Amish Cook who thoroughly empties and cleans her home twice a year.  That ought to keep fuzzballs at bay and me busy enough I can’t make up stories about trophy dust bunnies.