Mama's Rolls

 

You can ask anybody around here and they will tell you that my mama was a good cook.  You can especially hear it from the children she kept in her “retirement” years when she baby sat a couple dozen kids during their growing up years.  And you can hear it from their rueful parents, who will tell you how many times they heard, and still hear, “it’s okay, but it’s not as good as Gertrude’s.” 

The good cook gene seems to have skipped me, although I can do okay with some things.  Maybe because I spent most of my growing up years riding horses, working with my 4-H calves, pigs and lambs and avoiding anything that was too girly.  Or maybe because I had my nose stuck in a book so much of the time or was busy writing my own stories.  I wish I had paid more attention to how my grandmother created her homemade fudge and lemon pie.  I wish I had asked more questions about exactly how Mama mixed up her cornbread dressing and, most importantly, her homemade rolls.  I have the recipe, but the directions are a little vague about some things.

I am almost embarrassed to admit that I am 68 years old and have never cooked a turkey.  Or made Mama’s homemade rolls.  But this year, two years after Mama died, I offered to have Thanksgiving at the house for Mama’s family, a group that could range between a dozen people or two dozen.  My aunt in Maury County had Thanksgiving the last couple of years of Mama’s life, when it got to be too much for her to cope with, and last year we skipped holidays altogether because of the pandemic.  Back in the early fall, my aunt mentioned how great it would be to have dinner again around our big table and I said, before I had time to think about it much, that I would have Thanksgiving this year.  

I have to admit, I had a few qualms about my plans, when I had more time to mull it over.  I had never cooked a meal like this for 20 people.  I had cooked meals for small groups.  For large groups, I had served finger foods, sandwiches, chips, brownies and cookies, but it was casual entertaining at its most literal.  Casual, like telling someone, “the crackers are in the cabinet right beside the sink” or “the glasses are over the sink.”  I used to have a waffle brunch on New Year’s Day, but someone else cooked the waffles and all I had to do was fry bacon and sausage and put out the plates and forks.

This was different.  Turkey, dressing, corn, peas, mac and cheese, my mom’s homemade rolls, two kinds of pie.  And then, just to make things more interesting, I decided to use my mom’s good china and crystal.  If I am going to do this, I might as well go the whole way.

I went to the store every day last week.  I went twice on Wednesday, Thanksgiving eve.  I had decided to make a fudge pie.  After emptying one entire pantry cupboard, I discovered that I had no cocoa.  I also had to empty an entire cabinet to find the container of sage I was almost sure I had bought last year.  So, Wednesday morning, off I went to search almost bare grocery shelves for cocoa.  Then, Wednesday afternoon, I discovered that I had no appropriate cheese for a last-minute casserole I thought we needed. (We didn’t.)

I looked up cooking turkey so often on Google that I started getting suggested turkey sites every time I logged on.  First, I had to figure out how long it would take to thaw.  Then I had to cipher how long to cook the thing.  Fifteen minutes per pound was the most common answer to that, which meant multiplication and thoughts of “that can’t be right.”  A turkey is not the easiest thing to handle, especially when directions call for rubbing it with oil.  I had plenty of suggestions from friends, including to buy a cooked turkey from someone.  That felt like cheating, however, so I persevered through the do-it-yourself route.  As I tend to do sometimes, I became obsessed with cooking turkeys, during my waking hours and my dreams. 

The rolls were another endeavor that became larger than life.  My mom had this roll recipe that produced the lightest, fluffiest, tastiest rolls in the known world.  She made them every Christmas and Thanksgiving for decades.  Since I had already gone for broke on this meal, I decided to tackle “Gertrude’s rolls” too.  Why not?  I did at least have sense enough to make (and eat) a couple of trial batches.  The first was edible, just barely.  The second were pretty good, but not exactly like Mama’s.  I did what I usually do – I researched making rolls on Google to try and figure out what I was doing wrong.  I concluded that the main thing wrong was that I am not Gertrude, but it did seem that I had been a little overzealous in the mixing of the dough.  I hoped the third time would be the charm.

On Monday I took inventory of dishes.  I think I have mentioned several times before that I live in a house that is over 100 years old, lived in by five generations.  Several generations left dishes in the house when they passed on.  So, there was no shortage.  What there was is a shortage of dessert plates.  I would have sworn my mom’s china had dessert plates or bread plates or whatever you call them.  If it does, I can’t find them.  I had options – I could pull out another entire set of china that belonged to my great grandmother.  I could use a mishmash of small plates, or I could just use paper plates for the pie.  I don’t always do well with a lot of options.  I found myself obsessing over dessert plates almost as much as over the turkey.  Turns out, nobody cared what kind of plates they used for dessert and most of them just used the same plate they ate their meal on.

On Tuesday, I discovered that there was a dead mouse, or mice, somewhere in the vicinity of the hallway that led to the kitchen.

On Wednesday, the dogs brought part of a deer they found somewhere and presented it as their contribution to Thanksgiving.  Scout scattered torn papers faster than I could pick them up.

I saw a post on facebook about what to do about dogs during Thanksgiving, to keep them from bothering guests as they eat.  I started reading it but after the first tip, I realized that the author had obviously never owned a dog.  “Feed the dog his meal at the same time the family is eating their meal,” it read.  Unless your family can eat an entire meal in less than one minute, that’s not going to work.  Or maybe it’s just my dogs that can inhale their food quicker than I can unfold my napkin.  I didn’t finish the rest of the article.  My family is used to dogs anyway.

I had a mild mental breakdown Wednesday afternoon, becoming convinced that people might leave the table still hungry.  Something about this house, where I am sure no guest ever left the dining room without being full, must have brought this on.  I can still remember my mama and my grandmother serving three different meats, two kinds of pie, and two kinds of cake when the only guests were the preacher and his wife.  I made an extra pie, then got up Thursday morning and made brownies and a pineapple casserole.  By late Wednesday night, I had stopped hoping for the turkey to be good and just hoped not to kill anyone with it being under-cooked.

Come Thursday morning, the house at least smelled like Thanksgiving.  I broke one of my best casserole dishes.  Four people were subtracted from the guest list because of an ear infection. The turkey turned out tender and juicy and DONE.  The cornbread dressing was pretty good for an amateur, but when my aunt arrived and mentioned gravy, I could only give her a blank, deer in the headlights look.  It was probably a good thing I forgot about it, because my gravy making skills are hit and miss and she offered to make it. Even more amazing were Mama’s rolls.  Either she intervened from above or my experimentation and research paid off because they were pretty close to what she made.  My aunt, two cousins and I sampled them right out of the oven, and we all agreed they were good.  We had way too much food and I am still eating pie and brownies, three days after the feast.  Scout had his first taste of Thanksgiving leftovers Thursday night and now gives me an incredulous look when I fill his bowl with plain old puppy food at mealtime.  I’m happy about the abundance of leftover food, since I am way too tired to even think about cooking anything else. Leftover Thanksgiving food beats almost any other kind of food anyway.

When my aunt was packing up her leftovers to go home and everyone was filling traditional plastic containers of each other’s leftovers to take, we briefly talked about Christmas dinner at her house.  She asked if I was willing to tackle the rolls for that feast.  At that moment, I felt like I had been awarded a gold medal.  Now, if I can just remember exactly what I did that last time.  Maybe I need to make (and eat) a couple more practice batches.  Scout will eat them, even I don’t.  And this time, I don’t have to cook the turkey!

Bringing Scout Home

 

This story begins back in September when I wrote a lighthearted response to a facebook picture of a brand-new litter of collie puppies from Sophie’s breeder.  The proud mother was Sophie’s litter mate.  “I would really be tempted by these if they weren’t related to Sophie,” I commented.  Her reply should have been a warning.  “I just sent you a private message,” she said. 

Not being a cautious type of person, I read her message.  Turns out, she had a male puppy from an unrelated pair. The father was the young dog I had seen and admired when I picked up Sophie almost two years ago. I tried to be responsible about this.  I told her I would think about it and let her know.  Then she sent a picture.  I did think about it.  Then she sent a picture of the mother.    I thought about how cute he was and how stunning his parents are almost all that day.  Then I wrote out a check for a deposit and put it in the mail.  

Temptation

Fast forward to the first week of November and Puppy was ready to come home with me.  Now, I know that the smart thing to do when transporting a new puppy is to put him in a crate.  I have a perfectly good crate.  But I think a better way is to hold the puppy, get to know him, tell him all about where he is going and find out what his name is.  So, I enlisted my friend Clay to accompany me on the 2 ½ hour trip and act as driver on the way home.  He had made the trip to pick up Sophie, which was fairly uneventful, other that her three bouts of car sickness.  It was the same area, although a new address, so it should be a nice trip on a fall day. 

The night before, I pulled up directions and a map on my phone app.  There were a lot of turns, but the directions seemed pretty clear.  That was before I found out that the area where we were going has no road markers.  None.  Not even a little tiny wooden sign with a name scribbled on it.  I had the names of all the roads we were supposed to turn on.  Totally useless information.  The only guide we had was a little blue ball on the little map on my phone.  I did not fully trust the little blue ball.  And Clay is not the most technology literate person I know.  He can’t even work his own phone very well, much less mine.

To be fair to myself, I have had some unfortunate experiences with GPS.  I believe I have mentioned before a night in Huntsville, Alabama, when my friend Carol and I toured the entire town several times, including two visits to a nice subdivision and a parking lot of a Mexican restaurant.  It was a nice subdivision and I like Mexican food.  But we had already eaten, and we wanted to go to the western store. 

Anyway, things went fairly well up to the point that we left the town of Woodbury and entered Warren County.  That was the last time we saw any indication about where we were or what road we were on.  It took quite a while for Clay to figure out how to work the app on my phone, which kept going to a blank screen every now and then.  And I couldn’t take my hands off the wheel or my eyes off the winding road we were on.  It probably didn’t help that I kept repeating, “We’re lost” and asking, “Do you have any idea where we are?”   It’s a wonder he didn’t push me out of the truck on the way up that mountain.  He just kept saying that the blue ball was saying we were on the correct route.  Several times, I said that I didn’t think that blue ball knew where we were going and that I was never going to see my new puppy.  It was quite a stressful journey, for both of us.  Clay needed a cigarette in the worse way and he said he thought I needed one too.   The only bright spot was that I was not pulling a horse trailer and we had plenty of gas.  And we saw several nice-looking houses for sale, just in case we couldn’t find out way back home and had to live there.

Turns out, the little blue ball was right.  Remarkably, it took us right to the door where I met my puppy for the first time.  I was distracted on the trip home by getting acquainted (his name turned out to be Scout) and changing out the towels he threw up on.  I was on my fourth and last towel on the last leg of our journey – he had to outdo Sophie by throwing up four times instead of just three.  I suspect he was beginning to worry that he was going to be living in that truck forever.   

I think I only asked Clay if he knew how to get back through the maze of unmarked roads three or four times.  He mostly didn’t answer me except to give me a look.  I think he did mention that if I ever bought another puppy, I needed to find someone else to go with me. 

It was quite an adventure, bringing Scout home.  I have a feeling, however, that the adventure is only beginning with this sweet, lively, smart little bundle of fur.  He has Sophie’s same sweet collie eyes, an enthusiasm for life, and seemingly boundless intelligence.  He learned to sit for a treat within the first 24 hours and went right to sleep on his blanket by my bed the first night.   

I saw a shooting star in the yard during our 3:00 a.m. potty run.  I am once more getting used to sharp puppy teeth, sweet puppy kisses, missing shoes, and enjoying moonlit night journeys to the yard. After a slightly rocky start, Sophie has taken to him and is busy teaching him the ropes.  She has already showed him her secret way out of the yard. This story will have a sequel, maybe many sequels.  “The Adventures of Sophie and Scout” has a nice ring to it. 

Letting Go

 

I have a walnut tree in view just outside the kitchen window.  It is bare now, except two lonely walnuts, side by side, refusing to fall.  It’s been about a week since I noticed them, and I’m wondering how long they are going to hang on and why.  I don’t know whether to admire their tenacity or despair at their unwillingness to let go. 

When it comes to possessions, letting go can lead to freedom.  Holding on too hard to things can tie you down – just watch an episode of Hoarders to see where it can lead!  Most people do not go to that extreme.  The other extreme are those people who get rid of everything, keeping only the barest essentials and living in a barren house.   I don’t think I would like that any better than living like those hoarders.

I am still in the process of settling into a new old house, combining two households of stuff.  The house I left was my home for almost fifty years.  The house I moved into has been occupied by my family for about 150 years.  So, basically, I have 200 years’ worth of stuff to deal with.  And much of it is soaked with memories.  

My great-great grandfather built this old house

An old house clings to its past, refusing to allow its  owner to get rid of its mementos.  Luckily I have a large house, with room for memories and a love for history.  And I’m thankful for ancestors who felt the same way.

Oddly enough, some of the hardest things to let go are the mundane, the little things.  I have a little box of shells.  I’m not even sure where they came from.  But I can’t bring myself to throw them away. I mean, someone collected them from a beach somewhere, at some time.  They picked each one up, looked it over and put it in a pocket or a bag and brought it back home.  And here I am, not interested at all in shells, but reluctant to let them go.  They are in a rather large box of stuff labeled “Misc stuff” with other stuff I can’t figure out whether to keep or not.  Every now and then I take out that box and go through it, looking at everything and trying to decide what to do with it.  Then I put it all back in the box, close the flaps and put in back in the closet.

My mother kept, apparently, ever card she ever received.  I inherited that trait, at least in part.  So I have many boxes of cards – holidays, birthday, wedding, anniversary, and others.  Some of them go back to my baby days.  I sorted through a lot of them when I moved into the house and they now inhabit two shelves in a spare closet.  There are other mementos – horse show ribbons, pictures of every litter of puppies and kittens ever born on this place, postcards, pretty calendars.  No one else would want them and I can’t just throw them away.  The only things that disappear in this house are things that might be valuable – like my baseball card collection.  The last time I saw them, they were in my old bedroom closet.  They are nowhere to be found.  I know I didn’t throw them away and I know my mother wouldn’t have, so it is a mystery that will never be solved.

I can’t tell you how many books and articles I have read on getting rid of clutter.  They all had different methods, but basically the bottom line was to let go of a lot of stuff.  If I could do that, I wouldn’t need the books.  One of the most recent methods I read about was the one where you are supposed to pick up everything you own and decide if it brings you joy.  If I picked up everything in all ten rooms of this house, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting rid of anything because I would be 100 years old and somebody else would be worrying about what to keep.  Just the books alone would take a lifetime, because of course I would have to re-read each one to decide if it brought me joy.  And then I would have to listen to every CD, album, and cassette tape.  Listening to the cassette would probably involve tracking down a working cassette player, which just goes to show you that you can’t get rid of everything because then you will need it for sure.  Then there are all the DVDs and videos I have collected.  Watching them again would be a life’s work.  Maybe I could listen to music and read at the same time, but then I wouldn’t be sure if it were the music or the books bringing me joy and I would have to start over.  Then there would be the pictures!  I’m not clear on whether you would have to pick up each individual picture and decide or if you could just pick up a whole group to assess.   But to do that I would have to sort and organize them and after I invested that much work, I think I would have to keep them.  It’s a really good thing I am in this big house.  I can see all kinds of pitfalls in this joy method.  I mean, how much joy is enough?  Does it have to send thrills down your spine?  Or just mild contentment? 

The kitchen would be easiest.  Nothing much in there brings me actual joy.  But I think I have to have dishes and pots and pans and my trusty cast iron skillets.  And my crock pot.  It doesn’t bring joy, exactly, but it makes cooking bearable.  I have two crock pots.  I have a normal sized one and a small one.  I saw the small one and thought that would be handy for making meals for one person.  It would be handy, except I have yet to find a crock pot recipe that doesn’t make large quantities of food, way to large for a one-quart container.  I have not found any way to make a small amount of soup, for instance.  I think the only thing I’ve ever made in my handy little crock pot is cocktail weinies in barbeque sauce once or twice.

 I’ve already discarded most of the things in the kitchen that brought me misery.  I am ruthless with those.  Like the waffle iron.  Speaking of waffles, I was looking through a new catalog today.  They had several waffle irons that make waffles in different shapes.  There was one that made little hearts.  Why would you want a whole waffle iron just to make hearts?  Wouldn’t you get tired of little heart waffles and wish for just some normal sized square waffles?  But then you would have to have two waffle irons cluttering up your counter space.   I turned the page and there was another version that made little waffle cars and trucks.  And another that makes waffle legos.  There was a picture with it of a little building built of the waffle legos, with strawberries around it. (I think they were real strawberries, but there might be a waffle iron that makes strawberry waffles.) Does anybody really buy these things?  And make waffle legos and cars and trucks?   Maybe you could make both and build little buildings with the lego waffles in which to park the little waffle cars and trucks.  I can only imagine what a mess someone like me could make with that.  If I want waffles, I just go to Waffle House.

I’ve been to many estate auctions over the years and wondered at some of the things I’ve seen there.  So, I think I’ll just keep all this stuff and let someone, someday marvel at what I’ve kept.  Maybe someone will want that little box of shells.

Postscript:  This morning I looked at my walnut tree and discovered that only one walnut remains.