by Janet Yung
I attribute my culinary abilities to my mother’s calamitous kitchen adventures, years spent trying to put together meals both “interesting” and “nutritious”. Until exposed to other households where pans were not routinely set on fire or pie crust overworked so that coming out of the oven they were almost inedible, and better suited to resole a pair of shoes, none of us knew the difference.
What I came to understand was domesticity was not my mother’s thing. Straddling two worlds, she was a woman longing to be liberated from domestic chores, showing her mettle in the real world. Outside the home, people appreciated the skills at which she clearly exceeded. Running figures at the end of the day in the family business — a grocery store, the nature of which struck me as ironic at an early age — brought a satisfaction her work at home couldn’t.
The final tally of the day’s receipts and the general bookkeeping were her main tasks, but
she relieved my father in the odd hours he was occupied with other aspects of the business — fixing broken bits of equipment, running to the wholesale market, or, occasionally making deliveries to long time customers, housebound and without a way to the store. Seated behind the counter, she was most animated chatting with a delivery man or customer, their transaction completed, catching up on the neighborhood gossip.
One rainy Saturday morning, munching on a store bought cookie, I wondered how hard it would be to actually make homemade ones. The only time I’d ever seen my mother pull the ancient looking cookie sheets from a drawer beneath the oven was during the holidays. And, then, only after much cajoling on our parts for real Christmas cookies. “But these are so much better,” she’d reply holding up the cellophane package of cookies baked in some other kitchen, presumably earlier in the year.
Dough wound up on the floor or in our mouths before landing in the oven, the final results often burnt around the edges while soft in the center. “This oven never worked right,” was my mother’s conclusion at the end of the debacle.
With that memory, I dug out one of my grandmother’s cookbooks. A book kept only for its sentimental value since I was fairly certain it hadn’t been consulted since landing in the bottom drawer of a nearby hutch.
“What would be the simplest?” I wondered out loud, paging through the cookie section, settling on what I decided would be a favorite — peanut butter cookies — and began assembling the necessary ingredients, the cook book placed reverently in the center of the table, opened to my recipe of choice
“What are you doing?” the voice of my younger brother followed the sound of the back door slamming. The quizzical expression on his face, evidence he had little exposure to the sight of someone working in the kitchen.
“I’m going to make cookies,” was my response. He laughed and disappeared, leaving me to my own devices.
I took on the challenge without regard to my mother’s admonition I shouldn’t light the stove or oven without adult supervision. My brother left in my care, I reasoned that technically qualified me as an adult, my yen for peanut butter cookies out weighing any qualms I might have about my status.
The assembly was slow, digging through the pantry for the requisite flour, baking soda, powder and sugar. Lined up on the table, I began the process of blending and mixing, storing the finished product in the refrigerator till hardened sufficiently to roll into balls and press on the ungreased baking sheet.
Once, they were in the oven, my brother reemerged from wherever he’d sequestered himself asking, “What’s that smell?” sniffing the air.
“Cookies.” I’d delved deeper into the cookbook, determined to expand my repertoire with my apparent success.
“Should you have the oven on?” his eyes wide at the obvious breach of rules while mesmerized by the aroma wafting from the oven.
Not bothering to dignify that question with an answer I looked up, “Would you like one when they come out of the oven?” His nodding, the only guarantee needed to know my secret would be safe.
My mother called from the store a little after four to make sure everything was okay and assured me she’d be home in time to start dinner.
“What are we having?” I asked and by the silence on the other end, knew it couldn’t be good.
“Well, I haven’t decided yet,” which I interpreted as some frozen dinner or something from the drive through depending on when she could get away. “Do you have any ideas?”
“No,” although I was on the brink of suggesting she let me try my hand at something, flush with my success, positive if I could follow one recipe, I could follow another.
I scrambled from my seat and began cleaning up the mess that came with baking, wondering if the scent of fresh baked cookies would still be permeating the air upon her arrival. Navigating uncharted waters, I’d never had a reason to be secretive, uncertain how I’d face the inevitable discovery. Not to mention the leftover cookies whose numbers had been reduced, but not decimated, in spite of my brother’s assistance.
“It smells good in here,” were the first words from my mother’s mouth an hour later sailing through the kitchen door loaded down with bags of take out. “Have you been burning candles?” she eyed me suspiciously, sniffing the air while unloading dinner.
“No,” was my truthful response.
“She made cookies.” My brother materialized with the aroma of dinner in the air.
“In the oven?” my mother asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” I looked down, awaiting the fallout from my transgression.
“Where are they?” My brother was more than willing to accommodate this request, dragging out the plastic sealed container from the back of the pantry.
The lid snapped open and she picked out one, eyeing me as she took the first bite. “You made these?” she took a second bite. “They’re good,” sounding more surprised than upset.
“Thanks,” I managed, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“They taste like grandma’s,” she said.
“The recipe’s from her cookbook,” I pointed in the direction of the place it was kept.
“Was there anything else in there you’d like to try?” and I could tell by the smile playing on her lips, the torch was being passed without hesitation.
