Umber (19.9 — Vera’s Story)
March 21, 2012 § 2 Comments
I admit I was getting plenty sick of my own cooking. Occasionally, when I couldn’t face another dinner of stewed prairie chicken or boiled beef with potatoes, I tried to invent my own dishes. My experiments, like “sardines with raisins,” were met with little enthusiasm, and I was asked to stick with tried-and-true recipes until I had more experience preparing meals. So one afternoon I retrieved my mother’s recipe box from the top of the china cabinet, and started shuffling through it. Reading the names on the index cards was like reciting a holy litany of food: hominy fritters, apple pandowdy, creamed frizzled beef on toast.“ To each name my reverent response was “oh, yes, I liked that.” When my eye fell upon the words “apricot tarts,” written in mama’s swirling handwriting, I remembered the smile she wore as she rolled out the dough, and the smell of warm apricot jam, and suddenly I was gripped with enthusiasm.