Legacy

Over the years, especially since my mom is gone, I have become the keeper of the….things. All of the things. So. Many. Things.  Five generations of things. From the plates that my great great grandmother brought here from Silesia, the bible printed in German, sepia toned photos of people I’ll never identify, to crockery mixing bowls and wooden cookie molds and the metal sifter from my great grandmother, my grandmother and my mother (even though the cooking/baking gene seemed to have skipped over my mom, she made a righteous potato salad) right down to my brothers china, copper pots  and sterling tea service. While I treasure all of the things, most dear to my heart are the recipes.

Oh sure, there are many, many cookbooks (a veritable library’s worth last I checked) and recipes clipped from magazines, newspapers, yellowed from decades and just about falling apart. These are not the best ones. The best ones are the handwritten ones.

There are the ones in my Nana’s handwriting, writing that got progressively shakier as the years went by, but is still readable. The ones that refer to 4 “scoops” of flour. Good thing  I still have her sugar scoop, otherwise, how would I know what a “scoop” is. Hers are mostly hastily written down on scraps and bits of paper for our benefit, because she never, ever, that I know of,  had to actually USE a recipe for the Almond Horns or the Sour Cream Pound Cake or the Chocolate Pound Cake. She just KNEW.  There are typewritten recipes with her personal  handwritten notes, and who they came from.

There are actually one or two in my mom’s writing. On her pig notepad paper. The damn pigs. Probably written with a pen with pigs on it. And at the bottom “Mrs. Skipper”.  Fortunately I know who Mrs. Skipper was. She was a friend of my Nanas in Georgia.

Then, the crown jewels, my brothers collection. Many are written, in his distinctive hand, on index cards, with notes such as “Wonderful”  or “Difficult but good”.  There is his Salmon Pate, various cakes, breads, scones, trifles, Mousses, Cucumber sauce, Crown Roast, and so many more.  Some have coffee stains on them (because we all know that chefs always have a cup near by), and one would think, “God, why don’t you copy that on a clean card”. No. I don’t need to. I need to know that he used this recipe. That he knew it, that he perfected it.  My brother once did a cocktail party for Ted Kennedy. He must have known what he was doing, no? There are the half recipes that he wrote on what ever paper was handy quite literally as Nana made her cakes. Because that was, quite literally, the only way to get the recipe out of her sometimes.  Recipes hastily scrawled on my father’s ledger paper,  random scrap paper. All treasured, all saved.

And then, I carry on the tradition. My handwritten recipes that I hope I will someday hand down to my girls, and so to my grandkids, if they are so inclined. On several of my recipes, the title is followed by who’s recipe it was…Nana, Lily Reeves, Aunt Grace, Mother Medeck….there’s a whole bunch of generations and family history there.  And I wouldn’t give them up for just anyone. I have the original Red Velvet recipe, you know, the one from the 40’s, that didn’t need red coloring….because there was some chemical reaction in the ingredients that made it “red”.  These are recipes from the 30’s and 40’s with lots of butter and sweet things, occasionally lard is mentioned. I will not discard these treasures. I cannot.  I mean….molasses cake. Seriously. I drool. Nana’s Chocolate Pound Cake… I grew up on this in the summers on the farm.  Just the name brings back a flood of memories, running barefoot through the summer dewed grass to the barn, trekking down through three pastures to fish in the lake with  my grandpa, picking the blackberries that grew on the fences between the pastures, with no fear of the cows nearby, sitting on the front porch watching the thunderstorm pass through while Nana’s Beef Stew simmered on the stove and her cucumber salad marinated and perhaps, if we were very good, a fresh peach cobbler in the oven. It was, after all, Georgia. You know, the peach state.  

And so we carry on the tradition.  I have a few of Katie’s hand written recipes, with her notes. I will not copy them, I will treasure her creations, olive oil stains and all, just as I treasure my brothers and my grandmothers. And I will keep them safe for the future chefs in the family. My brother’s legacy. I am now the keeper of the recipes, and of so much more.  May they be treasured and used for years to come.