Take a stroll down a “crumb filled” memory lane with me.

 

Crossword clue snagged poignant memories: number twenty-seven down asked for a word that meant “gently add, as egg whites to batter”.

 

Correct answer, FOLD, conjured up a Sponge cake, baked from scratch during one of our summer visits at Dad’s Spartan home, after our parents divorced.

 

My first attempt at a “made from scratch”, a Sponge cake recipe, found in the good old Betty Crocker cookbook.

 

I’d measured, sifted, and was ready to assemble the wet and dry ingredients, which I’d then pour into the aluminum tunnel type pan. Its tall, deep sides would accommodate the expansion of the fluffy   potion and support the end result.

 

Separated egg whites were beaten into stiff peaks, per the recipe, using a manual whisk.

But then, with equal vigor…I beat the results, into the bowl, with remaining batter, erasing any benefit of the airy mixture’s ability to add height to the end result.

 

The carefully scraped contents of my bowl went into the pan, and slid onto the bottom rack the preheated oven. I’d removed the other racks to make plenty of room for the expanded end result.

 

The timer went off and I peered into the oven. The expectation, to see the contents swelled up to the top, disappointed greatly. The cake hadn’t risen beyond the point of the batter line when I’d filled the pan.

 

The resulting product lived up to its name, indeed a very sponge like cake. “Tough and chewy” would be a charitable description.

 

Dad ate it without comment, and managed to swallow a second slice for good measure.

 

Acquiring culinary skills takes time.  Most chefs will admit to a few food failures in their early years.  Trial and error taught me better than any of my home economics schooling.

 

Economics of the times meant waste was a sin. Family finances didn’t afford the luxury of tossing the less than perfect results down the disposal. We ate our mistakes.

 

My younger sister’s first attempt at baking garnered similar support from Dad.

 

She’d cracked open his old stained copy of Dad’s copy of “Betty Crocker” and paged over to the section marked COOKIES.

 

Her selection: the Oatmeal cookie recipe.  Somehow a breeze or maybe an unseen nudge caused the page to turn to the next recipe…Peanut butter press cookies.   Lizzie soldiered on, not realizing the error.

 

The “new” recipe had, of course different portions of flour, liquid, that were incorporated into the bowl with the first few ingredients of the previous page’s recipe-

 

Results I remember- the oatmeal bits were a bit dry… but Dad thought they were “tasty.”

 

Liz recalls he embellished the rather crunchy hunks with a liberal dose of Peanut butter and chewed with gusto.

 

Whatever the effort, our father praised the result.

 

Dad never let on that our work was at best only edible, when washed down with a large glass of milk.

Happy Father’s Day to all the Dads out there who’ve “swallowed” their kids culinary efforts, without complaint.

 

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Paper … or Gold?

 

I consulted the little Hallmark booklet, given free with each and every purchase by the stationery store. Hallmark’s pamphlets listed gift suggestions, by the month, the birthstones, flowers, and other paraphernalia. This particular booklet’s pages included a list of appropriate items for wedding anniversary gifts.

Aided by this resource, I decided on an awesome gift for my grandparents on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. A mash-up of first and fiftieth anniversary gifts, inspired by card games from the past…toilet paper. Not just the standard issue, that wouldn’t do. But fifty packages of toilet paper and it had to be gold colored toilet paper, well that fit the bill.

 

A little history: my grandparents survived the Great Depression with frugal habits. Items like fancy soaps or embossed four-ply toilet paper were considered luxury items and not in the household budget of practical Midwestern farmers.

Grandpa eked out a living on rented farmland, and Grandma sold the hand churned butter from the dairy herd she tended.

Future years yielded a proud day when Grandpa held title on the fields he plowed, and the cattle in the barn were their own livestock. Grandma’s collection of wooden butter paddles decorated the kitchen wall of the modest brick home they built on their property.

 

Social activities were low-cost affairs. Folks played horse shoes, pulled taffy, and played cards. Hors d’oeuvres were catered in the kitchens of farm wives. Attendees brought the card table and chairs required to have seats for the games.

As a small child I was allowed to watch the foursomes in my grandparent’s living room. Later, matured in my card skills, I was allowed to sit in for a round when one of the players needed a break. Euchre was the preferred game. Contract Bridge and other fancy card play were eschewed by the down to earth farm folk.

 

Prizes were awarded at the end of the evening’s festivities, but frugality still reigned and a nicely wrapped package of toilet paper came into play as a gag prize.

My grandparents and their peers dwelled in the after-the-kids-left-home phase of life. They could certainly afford the luxury of soft cotton squares rolled around a cardboard spindle replaced the thin paper pages torn from the sears and roebuck catalogues.

 

Scented bath soap came from the grocery store where much easier on the skin than rough cut bars, made in batches from lye and ash.

 

Toilet paper prizes were wrapped in fancy gift paper, tied with pretty ribbons and presented with great ceremony to the table with the highest score. Even though they knew what the elaborately wrapped packaged contained, the winners fussed over their prizes.

 

Observing this ritual over the years planted the seeds in my teenage mind—

The perfect gift for my Grandparents on their Golden Anniversary would be a box filled with 50 packages of gold colored luxury brand toilet paper.

 

A big party was planned, and I knew many of their card playing friends would be at this celebration. I hoped they’d appreciate the humor as much as I did.

 

What I didn’t figure on was how to find the necessary quantity of toilet paper and gold colors. My dad, my partner in crime, gave me some sage advice. He suggested that I scale the project back to fifty rolls, rather than fifty packages of fancy toilet tissue.

 

We lived in a middle-sized Midwestern town so had several grocery stores. Dad thought my idea was a fun joke on his parents, so he agreed to help me procure the product for our prize present.

 

My parental partner in crime drove me from store to store, as we depleted the shelves of golden hued bathroom tissue. Still a few rolls short of the desired fifty, we made do with some fancy gold filigree designed paper on a white background.

 

One of the stores had just unpacked a case of goods and the box was big enough to hold the fifty rolls that completed our gift.

“Took three packages of gift wrap, a whole roll of scotch tape, and a large spool of ribbon to wrap up our present,” I whispered to a cousin as she marveled at the huge gift box.

 

We arrived at the party carting our large box.  Placed with grand ceremony on the table beside the cake and punch bowl, it dwarfed the other gifts and cards.

On pins and needles I waited for the moment my grandparents opened our present. I think Dad was as anxious as I to see the expressions on my grandparents’ faces when they opened enormous gold papered box.

The gift had its expected effect. Grandma and Grandpa both had big smiles on their faces. They each hoisted a roll and posed for photographs their golden paper booty.

One of the party guests, a regular attendee at my grandparents’ card parties hooted with glee. “Well, I guess I know what to expect for prizes at Euchre parties, and for quite some time!”

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