Crisis Food
In my house, creamed chicken on baking powder biscuits meant trouble. My mother always made this in times of crisis. Now, the crisis may have been something good like a pending trip or something bad like Aunt Nell going to the hospital again, but the message was clear. Creamed chicken on baking powder biscuits equaled stress. The only crisis time she didn’t make the dish was the day she suspected my father of having a “thing” with a woman named Lulu O’Grady. The beautiful Lulu was the talk of our Irish-American town. It seems she had tossed herself into Buck Creek in despair over her affair with a married man.
That day, my mother wouldn’t cook. She just packed her bags and stood in the front hall while my dad begged her to stay. Finally, in desperation, he turned to me for assistance. Being a natural little actress at age five, I managed to produce copious quantities of tears to accompany my entreaties of “Mommy, please don’t leave us”. I’d successfully practiced crying on cue while watching Margaret O’Brien in “Meet Me in St. Louis”. The tears worked, and that’s a good thing because our town later learned that Lulu’s liaison was with the Fire Chief and not my dad.
She didn’t make creamed chicken on baking powder biscuits the night of the Lulu crisis. As a matter of fact, I think my dad actually coughed up the bucks to take us to Howard Johnson’s for what passed as spaghetti in rural Ohio back then.
Which reminds me…with our “crisis” chicken and biscuits, she always served peas…little green pellets so hard that one could fracture a molar if you bit down wrong. Where did those things come from? I think they were frozen because the canned variety were so mushy and tasteless that, every time she served them, my gags made her fear I might cover our oil-clothed table with green slime.
I can’t remember the last time I ate peas. Now, it’s fresh dark greens and broccoli and asparagus mostly, with an occasional carrot tossed in if I make a pot roast. I think the pea industry needs a healthy dose of public relations to restore their former glory as the only vegetable served on most tables in the 1950’s.
Which makes me wonder…does split pea soup come from real peas? I love split pea soup, but Matt won’t touch it…probably the color and texture elicits memories of his own gagging reflex from the mushy canned peas his mother gave him when they lived in Canada.
Well, anyway it’s funny the way families used to eat back in the days when they ate every meal together. Fried chicken on Sunday with mashed potatoes and gravy…pork cooked into extinction with mashed potatoes and gravy…rump of beef roasted to strings with mashed potatoes and gravy. The side dish was usually applesauce. The memories make my carb-starved taste buds drool even now.
Mealtime was different then. My father would sit down while my mother or Aunt Nell scurried around the kitchen to serve him. He ate quietly, sullenly, with never a compliment on the cuisine. But he ate a lot! When the dishes were cleared by my mother, she would cut him a huge piece of the cake or pie she had baked that day. That was dessert. Ice cream was NOT dessert in my house and was never served unless it topped a piece of chocolate cake or apple pie. Cookies were not dessert either. Cookies were snacks. Pie or cake was dessert…period!
She baked wonderful pies filled with cherries, raspberries, apples or butterscotch topped with meringue. Recently, I found the recipe for butterscotch pie in her very own handwriting. Of course, I had to make it. Now with my epicurean heritage, I will be the first to admit that I am a sugar addict. However, that butterscotch pie was so sweet that I could scarcely swallow it. But I forced myself. The whole pie in one sitting, in remembrance of my mother. Funny, isn’t it that as I felt every gooey mouthful slide down my gullet, glorious sensory memories flooded over me, even as I felt my teeth rot from the plethora of brown sugar.
I hid the recipe from myself lest I ever make it again. I’d give it to you, but I don’t think you’d like it unless your favorite erotic dream involves falling into a vat of chocolate in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Instead, I’m including here the recipe for Lulu O’Grady’s Irish whiskey Cake. I named it for Lulu in retribution for my mother’s evil thoughts about her when I was five. Enjoy, but be sure you have a designated driver accompany you after you eat it. Oh, and bow your head for just a second and ask everyone around the table to chant “Lulu…Lulu…Lulu”. It’s the least we can do for the lady who was a grand old tart!
LULU O’GRADY’S IRISH-WHISKEY CAKE
1 BOX BUTTER CAKE MIX (DUNCAN HINES WORKS WELL)
1 PACKAGE INSTANT VANILLA PUDDING MIX
1 OZ. WHISKEY (IRISH PREFERRED)
½ CUP OIL
1 CUP MILK
1 CUP CHOPPED WALNUTS
4 EGGSPREHEAT OVEN TO 350 DEGREES. SPRAY A BUNDT OR TUBE PAN.
MIX TOGETHER CAKE MIX, PUDDING MIX, WHISKEY, OIL AND MILK. ADD EGGS ONE AT A TIME, BEATING WELL AFTER EACH ADDITION. FOLD IN NUTS. BAKE 50-60 MINUTES.
GLAZE
½ CUP BUTTER, MELTED
¾ CUP SUGAR
½ CUP WHISKEYPLACE ALL GLAZE INGREDIENTS IN A SAUCEPAN AND HEAT UNTIL SUGAR DISSOLVES. POUR 2/3 CUP OF THE GLAZE OVER THE CAKE WHILE THE CAKE IS STILL IN THE BAKING PAN. LET COOL 15-20 MINUTES UNTIL GLAZE IS ABSORBED INTO CAKE.
RELEASE CAKE FROM PAN AND PLACE ON SERVING PLATE. POUR REMAINING GLAZE OVER THE TOP, USING A PASTRY BRUSH.
SERVE, CHANTING LULU, LULU, LULU.
Jeanne Charters
author of Funny, Isn't it?
jeanne@jeannecharters.com