Just so you Know….This really is about CAKE!

Much of what and who we are is shaped by our past. I really want to write about this luscious pineapple upside down cake I made at 1 a.m. early this morning. I wanted to write you about how Grandma Ruth would bake one in an old 12 inch cast iron skillet seasoned from years of fried chicken, and pork chops…. How I’d come through the back door (after school) surrounded by the yellow walls of her tiny kitchen. Then being enveloped by the glorious smells of gooey dark brown sugar, butter and golden canned Dole pineapples (yes, I’m name dropping here–they are the best short of fresh pineapples!). I wanted to write admitting my love for the overly sweet maraschino cherries (the jumbo ones, please)…..about how most people hate their cloying sweet taste and, honestly, how I could mindlessly snack on the entire little jar.

I wanted to tell you these things–I really did and well, I could still tell you all these things (and more) but, I can’t get around the fact that when I told Grandma about how I got my love of the pineapple upside down cake from her baking them. She couldn’t recall any of it. Not one memory. Nothing. All she could do was live in that moment in time. Right then. Me and her on the phone while Mom’s showing her the photo (I’ve posted below). She was telling me her opinion of me as a baker but, I wanted her to recognize who gave me that inspiration. Dementia’s seemed to have had the last laugh. She couldn’t recall ever making a pineapple upside down cake, or the recipe she used on the back of the Swan cake flour box….or her standing at the stove top stirring the molasses brown sugar and butter or the pineapple rings (as I waited for her to leave me at least one from the bottom of the can) or her skillfully, flipping the heavy cast iron pan onto the dinner plate that donned the finished cake. Dementia has done that.

It was the thief in the night that stole it all….no more sharing cooking tidbits like don’t let the topping stay on the bottom of the pan for a long time without immediately flipping the plate or it will stick to the pan. Dementia– with it’s cruel intentions against memory and time and the back and forth of conversation…has taken it. It has taken her concern for the future. It has taken what little is left of the transitory present, leaping its way into the past as soon as the moment is gone. It’s quite cyclical but, instructional. It’s how we should all live our lives–in the moment– in the present and then, whether good or bad just let it go.

But, I do recall, although I know she can’t remember…I tell her–not for her benefit, but for my benefit. I need to recall it all as dementia continues to have its way with her. Is it my way of saying thank you, Grandma, for all you’ve done for me? Is it my way of giving her her flowers while she’s living? Or, is it my way of connecting with her with whatever is left of her memories? Yet, she still knows us. She can still give some damn good advice–and she still fries the best chicken in the whole world…Yes, maybe, it’s all of these reasons. And maybe, since she’s unable to make connections we become the keeper of her memories. It is the least we can do for a woman who has done so much for all of us.

Grandma Ruth’s cake came from the basic 1-2-3-4 cake recipe (yes, the one on the back of the Swan cake flour box and all I can add to this memory is that I’m just thankful she’s still with us. My family approaches tomorrow (the first year without my brother on Father’s Day) as a grim reminder of who’s no longer on this earth and my grandmother is that necessary link. We need her nurturing kindness which dementia didn’t take and while her memories are void of knowing any details of her first husband of 36 years, or that her son is dead (for almost 20 years) or the inevitable question of where she put her pocket book.

One moment please, about THAT pocketbook. Once an important item…now housing random items that lay in its lining like trash strewn on the side of the road such as chewing gum balled up paper towels with an old biscuit and a checkbook she’s found from a now, defunct account. The pocketbook takes its place among the lost but never found of forgotten memories. Listening to my grandmother on the phone my mind is flooded with memories of a time in my childhood when she went through the same thing with her mother. It’s all so deja vu–just a different person–and a different time (but you thought this would be a blog about cake!)

COPYRIGHT © 2018 blog author Cheryl D. Sorrells–All rights reserved. No parts of this blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Cheryl D. Sorrells. Inquiries should be addressed to Cheryl D. Sorrells @ cherylsorrells@yahoo.com

A Watchful Eye….

Luscious banana nut bread with walnuts and raisins, with a slather of cream cheese one the side. (My artisan pineapple wine is also pictured).

She had the tiniest dark eyes I’d ever seen (a trait from her mother who was 100% Cherokee)–and the sweetest smile. My great grandma  Emma. She always said I’d carry on her legacy as a baker so, I consider it no coincidence that I love baking. When I was a child we’d go to Waverly, Florida, to visit my her where she lived in a cute bungalow house with an orange tree in the yard. She’d been a domestic cook for white people in segregated Central Florida during her younger years. Entering her house there was always a pound cake, fruit cake, or her favorite, spice cake in the oven or on a cake stand. After her stroke she came to live with us and that’s where my intense training as a baker came into fruition. She was a master baker. She’d sit in the dining room watching me–and stopping me along the way to always taste, re-taste, and test my batters before fully committing them to the oven. I was always under her watchful eye. “Wait,” she’d say…”now, taste it…is there enough salt?” She could touch the dough and see that it didn’t have enough water or too much “this or that.” I had to learn patience…always too eager to put something in the oven.

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As I was baking this banana nut bread…I could hear her voice….instructing…and I taste the batter just as I did when I was 14 years old (the baker in training)….I know that in her younger years–she was a tough person when it came to house cleaning–she was a strict task master. I’m glad I knew her when fortunately or unfortunately, illness had softened her. She also was a great story teller (like her Native American mother–her namesake–Emma). She could interpret dreams (a trait she learned from her mother). I would listen to her tell me things like what it meant if a bird flew into your house through a window or what it meant if you dreamed of water. I was also mesmerized by some tale she would spin. I think of her often especially when I’m baking having learned so much from her. I know she’s watching and smiling down on me somewhere in the universe….

COPYRIGHT © 2017 blog author Cheryl D. Sorrells–All rights reserved. No parts of this blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Cheryl D. Sorrells. Inquiries should be addressed to Cheryl D. Sorrells @ cheryl.bakes@yahoo.com

Poverty in America—Somewhere between a “Choke Butter” Sandwich and Government Issued Cheese

The Realities of Congress’s Proposed Food Stamp Program Reduction—

The Condition of Poverty

Miss Lily was a woman who had one, “good” eye. She’d lost the other one in a fight with her husband years before I knew her. Its remaining orb, a sunken in crevice sealed shut. She lived in our apartments, in Daytona Beach, until her death. A dark, mahogany colored, spry, woman, (despite her handicap) who dusted the furniture, made beds, and washed dishes in the mornings at my grandmother’s. In return, my grandmother, gave her a much needed, reduction on her rented one bedroom apartment. Miss Lily was on food stamps. In the 1960’s , she and other people in her similar situation would go to a distribution center to get monthly, governmental, allotments of butter, cheese, a large coffee can size jar of peanut butter and food stamps to obtain other staples. Sometimes, she’d give my grandmother a container of the peanut butter for us. The cans lay on a wooden, planked shelf, arranged like soldiers, in her tiny kitchen. I thought, why does one person need so much peanut butter? Opening the can, we’d see at least one inch of oil which lay at the top. Mightily, we’d try to stir the oil into the peanut butter. It was a feat, not meant for a child’s hands. My brother and I, as well as, the other kids in the apartments, who we played with, made snacks with it. The peanut butter always stuck heavily to the roof of our mouths. It hung heavily in our throats. So, we named our snack “choke butter” sandwiches. As children, our toughest decisions were whether we wanted grape or strawberry jelly, on which side of the bread we wanted it, and, most importantly, could we have a cold glass of milk to wash down the sandwich?

Is this Deja Vu?

In 2012, America is still having a tug of war debate about the issue of poverty and Food Stamps. Yes, food stamps– not, hedge funds, bailouts, capital gains taxes, the housing bubble, dirty assets, tax evasions or off shore accounts. What’s the result of such a debate? It is class warfare. During the Roaring 20’s, a song often played across America’s dance halls and clubs, called, “Ain’t We Got Fun”? The lyrics are in part, “the rich get richer and the poor keep getting poorer…ain’t we got fun?” Are we revisiting  the time of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby—or has this society never left those times?  

As a child, I recalled, no matter, how cold or hot the weather got– the needy returned to the center, receiving their monthly allotment of food stamps, one pound of government issued butter, one tub of the peanut butter, and one (humongous ) block of cheese (which made the best macaroni and cheese and grill cheese sandwiches). These lines reminded me of those in the 1930’s. In our neigborhood in Daytona it was able–bodied, Miss Lily, who was one of the first to hastily arrive at the center. She’d report back throughout the neighborhood like the town crier,  saying, “well, they ran out of butter this month”, or “they’ll only let you have one block of cheese this time.” Perhaps, that is why sometimes, the old woman took a can of peanut butter, regardless of need.  Maybe she was anticipating a month when it too, might be unavailable. She probably figured it would be useful at a time when her money was tight. Maybe, at a time when her food could invariably, run low, or when her meat rations might become depleted. At least, then, she figured, there would be protein enough to survive throughout the month. Regardless, of the the time–food stamps are insufficient to carry a family through the entire month.

Making a Way out of No Way

Every summer when we returned to Florida for vacation, Ms. Lily and the other tenants, would host an outdoor fish fry on a makeshift grill made of stacked bricks and a black iron skillet. They would buy the day’s catch of mullet or whiting, for a couple of dollars, from old men who’d spent a Saturday catching them on a pier or out on a boat for the night’s supper, then, peddled their remaining fish to neighbors. Our fish fry was a simple affair. Stacks of fish lay adorned in a long aluminum pan awaiting, a slice of plain, white bread, yellow mustard and—our requested– French fries made from real Idaho potatoes (not from the frozen aisle at the grocery store) .

Miss Lily passed away years ago, but, her last words to me, before her death, are as impactful now, as they were then. She said, “do not forget me.” No, I never will forget her or how she could stretch a pot of beans to last a week or more. I will not forget, how she’d freeze a pot of braised collards just before they were about to spoil, then take them out later in the month, and on a “rainy day” eat them with renewed vigor. She could cook down a pot of pork neck bones, garlic, onions and rice that soothed a hungry stomach. Nor will I forget how she’d walk across town to catch a bargain of buy-one-get-one-free, this or that. I can still see her walking briskly, a bandana head rag tied tightly on her head, and those dark sunglasses hiding her empty eye socket.

Society’s Objectification–Blaming it on the Poor

Why are we in this society mislabeling the face of poverty? Why does this society stigmatize and scorn them? Recently, to raise awareness of poverty in this country, television, celebrity chef, Mario Batali, forged an ultimate food challenge for his family…to live off of the monetary equivalence of food stamps for one week. What were the results of his challenge? It is extremely difficult to live off of $4.50 per meal for a family of 4. He and his family barely made it through the week. However, Mr. Batali, is an “Iron Chef,” on The Food Network, and the owner of several restaurants across the U.S. Fortunately, (and I say this admirably) because of his success as an entrepreneur, he and his family will never feel the real sting of poverty. As for the million or so other people on food stamps in this country—well, if Congress has its way, they’re in for a threatened reduction in stamp benefits.

Respecting the plight of the poor and those on food stamps, I am reminded of the following words by Martin Luther King, in 1967, at the Southern Christian Leadership Conference:  “Your whole structure must be changed. A nation that will keep people in slavery for 244 years will “thingify” them—make them things. Therefore, they will exploit them, and poor people, generally, economically. And  a nation that will exploit economically will have foreign investments and everything else, and will have to use its military to protect them. All of these  problems are tied together. What I am saying today is that we must go from this  convention and say, America, you must be born again!”

The objectification of our “burdensome” poor– those on welfare, food stamps, or the uninsured is a part of our history since the time of John Adams when he spoke to his wife Abigail about the burden he felt  because of women, slaves, children and the poor. Concerning our contemporary society  however, this isn’t just Congress’s distorted perception. It’s all of  America’s. It is our symbolic “choke butter” sandwich that nothing except truth can wash down.  Now, with our remaining “good eye” we must plunge towards a new horizon—renewed with hope and armed with the idealistic principles upon which our nation was founded. In a country with over 8 ½ million jobless—a non-reduction in food stamp benefits, is the least, this nation can do for its poor.

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*COPYRIGHT 2012 by Cheryl D. Sorrells–All rights reserved. No parts of this blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Cheryl D. Sorrells. Inquiries should be addressed to Cheryl D. Sorrells @ cheryl.bakes@yahoo.com.

What’s on the Rail for the Lizard Today?

Pure, Simple, and rich in flavor. Nothing’s better than Vanilla

Now, I wouldn’t call myself a purist—but, I’ve always been one of those people who, when it comes to food, would rather have fewer choices than too many. I’m the one at the table who keeps the waiter returning with, “have you made a choice, yet?” I know under his breath he’s screaming, “make up your damn mind lady!” For example, the latest food craze is the cupcake. Some cupcake shops have as many as 150 varieties. In addition, these cupcakes have too many tiny, ornate, inedible tchotchkes that adorn them, but, are these really necessary? Is the height of the icing a reflection of one’s social status? Why must bakers attempt to make cupcakes that twirl, spin, jump, change colors or talk? I exaggerate, but, a glow in the dark cupcake– really? Really, people? Why? What I find, often, when I bite into most of these glycemic, showpieces is a stale, tasteless product which will never become my cupcake nirvana no matter how many life-like gum paste figurines adorn it. Has this society abandoned the values of quality, style and taste, for overt presentation, and mindless frivolity?

African Americans and Figurative Language

Times were simpler during the Roaring 20’s. The writer, Zora Neele Hurston, who was also, a linguist, and an anthropologist researched findings which showed that African Americans developed a flair for speaking slang reflecting their experiences in America. For example, what do you think the phrase, “A thousand on a plate” means? That was a phrase used by someone in a diner to request a plate of beans. What about the phrase, “what’s on the rail for the lizard today?” (a phrase I grew up hearing from my uncle). He’d ask my grandmother the question and she’d say, “Well, today I made beef stew.”The term was used to inquire about the daily special on a menu. The lizard, a lean reptile, lives on diet of insects but, metaphorically, it was a reflection of a society where African Americans, lived segregated from the main stream. Often they lived in impoverished conditions struggling to find work.

Food as a Symbol of Our Human Experiences

Later, the Depression Era,  became lean times for most other Americans, as well. They too, would learn to survive on a plate of beans, crackers, or a can of sardines. My grandmother, a mulatto, who lived in Tennessee, was a young woman during the 30’s, and despite, society’s later economics upswing , she still prepared foods reflecting her past experiences. She’d sit watching television crumbling a slice of cornbread into a tall glass of cold buttermilk—a childhood favorite, or her Southern roots (I’m not sure which one). I tried it once. The sharp, tanginess of the buttermilk combined with the mushy cornmeal, only made me shudder—definitely, an acquired taste.

 Contemporary Society’s Eccentricity

Today, however, America is a reflection of a more complex society. Americans exist with a myriad of state-of-the-art choices. For example, calling someone on the home telephone has practically, become obsolete. Now, a person can text, FB [Facebook] or email. We can  use a cell phone or computer, to speak to someone. However, whatever happened  to the America where there simply weren’t any choices to debate?  When we were forced to make decisions?  For example, do you want vanilla? Yes, or no? Do you want dinner? Yes, or no? In the “Leave it to Beaver” generation I grew up in, if Mom decided on chicken for dinner then it was chicken– for everyone and it was prepared one way. We didn’t complain. I don’t think we ever thought we could complain, and, if we did, we knew it wouldn’t matter. In my house, remoulade wasn’t so impressive–grab the mayo.  We  didn’t flambé the meat– Dad, grilled it. It was an unpretensious America where a hot dog, with mustard or ketchup, was fine.

Today’s society suffers from acute excessiveness.  No longer, is it vanilla, strawberry or chocolate—it’s “give me more, or, give me nothing at all–which brings me back to the vanilla cupcake. If cupcake lovers knew more about vanilla’s geographic origin, its delicate, botanical nature, or the lengthy, extraction process —maybe, they’d have more respect for its quintessence.

The Richness of Simplicity

In Madigascar, vanilla plants require the richest soils devoid of pesticides. Each sapling is easily susceptible to disease. In addition, the curing process for vanilla extract also, requires great care such as, storing it in drak bottles. Extract must cure for a minimum of 6 months to one year in a dark cabinet. Currently, the vanilla extract I make for my baked goods has been stored for over a year, yet, it’s just beginning to reach its peak.  I use a combination of Tahitian and Madagascar vanilla pods. The floral flavor is mild, and over time gets increasingly rich. The aroma is like nothing on the shelves in a grocery store. I’ve enjoyed the patience it requires making my own vanilla extract. Periodically, I open a bottle to evaluate its stage in the curing process. This last batch I made has been curing since April 2011, and while it’s very good for cooking, I’m still waiting on a deepening of its color as the pods slowly diffuse their distinguishing flavors into each bottle. So, here’s to the vanilla cupcake. Sublime, basic, simple and pure–better yet, here’s to vanilla! Where would bakers be without it?

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*COPYRIGHT 2012 by Cheryl D. Sorrells–All rights reserved. No parts of this blog may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, Cheryl D. Sorrells. Inquiries should be addressed to Cheryl D. Sorrells @ cheryl.bakes@yahoo.com.