On Mothers: Jewish Coffee Cake

My parents brought me up in what I refer to as a fairy tale. I was innocent and loved and hugged and kissed and grew up in the right amount of time. I wasn’t afraid of my parents, I was afraid of disappointing them. 

Their own childhoods were wildly different, but clearly their childhoods created them, so we can’t be too upset. 

My grandfathers were both known as good men, marked by the war. My mother describes my grandfather as the best man she’s ever known, followed by my own father. My dad explains his father as a more typical father from the fifties, but close to him. They both died before I was born. My father’s mother was a flawed-but-overly-generous soul who died when I was seven. My mother’s mother is the only grandparent I really grew up with. 

Grandma McAllen was loving and proud of us and proud in general. She gave birth to nine—I repeat, NINE—children. She had seventeen grandchildren, two great grandchildren, and touched hundreds of people as a nurse, a good coworker, and a wonderful neighbor.  She was Irish Catholic, strict, and loud. She liked her SoCo&limes, black tea, cookies, and reading the newspaper. She was honest, blunt, and a terrible cook. My mother says she disappointed my grandmother a lot growing up, but in the past few years, my mother has been the primary care giver for her.  In her hospice bed, my grandmother abdicated (or I suppose forgave) my mother of all the sins she has ever committed and anxiety she gave my grandmother. 

 

 

One thing I learned from my grandmother is that you can hate the sin, but love the sinner. My grandma and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of social issues. But we didn’t discuss those. I didn’t introduce the Lady as my Lady because I didn’t want to be the cause of my grandmother’s heart stopping. We didn’t talk about Obama or different religions. We didn’t talk about my Holocaust and Genocide Studies concentration in college. But what my grandmother was, who she was, was someone who loved. Unendingly. She showed me what a mother’s love could be, and what a daughter’s love could be. I hope to love my children in the same ways she did, though maybe with a little less yelling and a little more patience. But I think fewer than nine children might help that situation.

My grandmother passed this June, around the time I really needed my own mother. It worked out well, though we’re working on the boundaries of what I need now (like not being taken care of). But when I asked my mom what I should bake this week, her response was “Jewish Coffee Cake” because it reminded her of Grandma. Okay. 

Also, a regular at the bar asked for apple crisp. I asked him to pay for ingredients. He told me he could tell it was baked with love. Gramma’s legacy lives on.

To Set A Goal: Whoopie Pies

I was walking to the only grocery store in town to buy the few ingredients I needed wearing a sweatshirt I frequently wear to bed (but not that night!), loose men’s sweatpants, and a clearly tired, unwashed face. I assuaged my fears of running into too many people I knew by telling myself at least it was a Friday morning—Saturday would have been a mistake.  And at least I brushed my teeth.

But what I realized was that this is what goals are.  I have to set a goal and continue to try for it. When I first started this blog, I woke up early on Saturday mornings, no matter how late I stayed out the night before or how late I planned on staying out. So I want to try to make sure I do that. And this week, I wanted to make something I hadn’t made before and make something for my mom to bring to work (and compare recipes).  

I decided on Whoopie Pies because I normally hear good things about them and I found a cute Martha recipe that said “Halloween” without too many complications or absurd ingredients.  Then my mom said she wanted to bring something in to work for Halloween that had pumpkin because she’s a basic white woman and I found another Martha recipe that had pumpkin filling.  So I buckled down Friday morning and decided to bake. 

One think I like about Martha is that because I don’t know how interesting I’d find her*, but she writes little comments in recipes to increase understanding.  There was a little comment on the normal Whoopie Pies that said applesauce was added for moisture and texture. I then decided this was the recipe I needed to make. 

So I made a batter that was stickier than I expected and a filling that was less than I expected and made these whoopie pies.  Tiny nonpareils are hard to get to stick exactly where you want, but I busted out two (for the IG, of course) and decided boys didn’t care about the rest. 

I then set up two cell phones! And I’m an adult and sort of paying for it by myself! #goals to be an adult!? 

Then I put together my mom’s recipe and heard that they were okay. But for future reference, you can do what you want with the filling, but the original recipe for the cookie part was so. much. better. Applesauce for the soft, moist cookie?! Yes, please. But all together, the goal was achieved for the week.

And then when your mom asks for fresh whipped cream, you do it...

 

*I’d like to clarify this point. I think that most people are good (naïve though it may be) and I think that there are people you can be friends with, people you can work with, people you can do both with, and some people you just will never get along with. Martha and I would probably work well together—but I don’t know if we’d be friends.  I think that she and I would respect each other and I know I’d learn from her, but that friendly connection? I don’t know.