Mennonites and many notes

How surprised was I to find that I could still bake.   This wonderous discovery came when I boldly searched through our kitchen bookshelf, filled with dozens of volumes that the Macster has collected over the years.  Ahh but lurking in the far corner was my grease spattered, coffee stained and dogeared favorite of the past 38 years - my Mennonite Treasury of Recipes.  A book so cherished, so beloved, they named it a Treasury.
The front cover was lost years ago in a move, or perhaps it was the time I tried to make 'never fail' pie dough.  Those ill fated words belong right up there with 'you can't miss it' as you drive off to be lost lost LOST in a maze of Edmonton streets.  But I digress.

My long suffering Treasury of Recipes still credits the contributors with the old style wife names - like Mrs. Henry P Friesen, or Mrs. J.J. Dyck.  Occassionally a proud Agatha or Sarah was included - but more modest females were known more by their husbands name.  Was that the original 'representing'?  These were the women who could sew - make an apron, use if for years, then convert it to the most efficient clothespin holder known around! These aprons were awesome - big pockets for hankies Granma used to deal with snotty noses or scraped knees when we grandkids were around.  Soft, warn over the daily dress, I still remember the way my grandma's apron smelled - like outside and  soap and Avon....that was my granny Marie!

Grandma was a real Mennonite cook too - she would whip up a batch of vereniki in a flash. Served with cream gravy, made in the cast iron pan that she'd fried the homemade smoked sausage in...mmm mmm.  All done on a wood stove - the big ones with the hot water reservoir.  I can still recall the scents, the sounds of forks scraping those big cream coloured plates, and me as a skinny kid having a vereniki eating contest with Grandpa.  Smooth warm cream gravy, fat pockets of "glums" and a shake of salt and pepper - heaven on a plate! I think my record was 7 that day.  And it got the approval of my grandpa whom I adored - my big, bald, wonderful grandpa with his thick Russian accent - I am pretty that is where I got my bullheaded streak and occassional stubborness.  Yes, occassional. 

So when I looked for Christmas cookie recipes tonight, it made me sort of homesick for family and comfort food. Mennonite food.  I saw a cookie recipe where the flour portion was defined as 'enough flour to make a stiff dough' and the oven temp is shown as 'hot'.  These are recipes for women who meet in small groups and discuss the weather, the church bulletin and making cookies from 14 cups of flour.  Mrs. Jake Leiding could tell with the soft poke of a finger if something was 'done' or if it needed a few more minutes.  Cholesterol was not a word heard while eating dinner.  No sirree! With apron at the ready, Mrs. Pete Peters could feed a crowd in a heartbeat - whether a table full after a day of harvest, or an MCC conference where Borcht for 12 dozen was called for! 

A bit daunted, and feeling out of practise,  I was feeling unworthy of  the Treasury and slunk over to The Best of Bridge.  Modern, glossy, with mouthwatering photographs of wonderful creations.  Let's try this instead! I found the Jewish Shortbread recipe - no explanation of why it was of that denomination, certainly as un Mennonite as I could imagine, but hey, finely ground walnuts baked into short bread deliciousness? Sounds doable to me!

On with the oven and out with the Macsters Cuisinart - a lovely kitchen machine - far above the title of gadget.  A few on hand ingredients, some rolling of the dough into little finger sized ropes  (like making little plasticine dinosaurs)  a rip of parchment paper and ding! Lovely little crescents of sweet delecate flavour...mmmm yes and I made them! And miracle of miracles - they were as good as I'd hoped.

And now, dear audience, to finish the never fail pie dough story.   I may have mastered the short bread, but the pie dough - to this day it eludes me. My first effort was many, many years ago - using the Treasury as a guide: I added the cold water, used a fork to blend, floured the counter top and worked the dough - and worked it and worked it and instead of the smooth, warm, soft pie dough I tried to create - a hard, stubborn monster was born. The dough, not the cook!

I learned a lesson that day - not an especially important lesson but a lesson none the less.  You can't add more water to already made pie dough.  And if frustrations overtakes, and you throw the offending dough ball against a fridge door -  it will stay there.  For hours.  Or until someone walks into the kitchen and reaching for the fridge handle exclaims "what the hell is this?"

I've never been known as a gal who quits.  Well perhaps at times it's a case of not knowing when to quit.  Pie crust attempts followed over the years - crusts that defied the strongest of teeth; tortierre that eluded all but those armed with jackhammers and chisels; and tarts who's shells were like those of a clam. Pleasing to the eye, but inedible to the end.  Saskatoon berries in a chastity crust. OK I admit it - I was stubborn as an ox, insisting I could bake.  I like to think Grandpa would have been proud of my persistence, tho perhaps not so much with the end results.

For now I'll stick to cookies! Attention to ingredients, careful measurements, not leaving the kitchen when cookies are in the oven (very important), and remembering to let them cool on a wire rack - it's something I can do with a high probability of success.  Jewish shortbread turned out great - surprising me and the hubby with their sweet taste and melt in your mouth texture. 

Lulled by false sense of achievement I have to ask:  Am I kidding myself that after 50 years I just might have what it takes to open the Treasury of Recipes and like Indiana Jones grab onto those jewels of my youth? Syrup Kuchen, Portzelky and Pfeffernuse? Well I'll never know until I try!

I used to have one of Grandma's old aprons, perhaps I'll go search for it.  I have my family females and menno-girlfriends who can offer guidance as I, Mrs. J. MacArthur nee Friesen, reconnect through a river of rich cream gravy to my Mennonite heritage. 

Na yo, let's go!