The Baking Genes
You could say I got them from my mom, who taught me to make crust in the first place, or from my aunts, who've overseen many a piemaking adventure. Or maybe from my maternal grandma, who grew up in Montana in a household full of women. She taught nursing at a community college for about a hundred years while juggling seven (!) kids. The woman is a little loopy on occasion, but wow, is she tough, and she can bake - I remember most her homemade fudge.
But I owe a good deal of my baking love to my Grandpa Hugh. I never saw him make a pie; instead, he'd make my birthday cake every year. I salivated over the cake-from-a-box, yellowy and slathered with unholy green frosting. You probably don't know that pistachio Jell-O pudding + Cool Whip = addiction. This was the frosting of a union man whose yard was full of half-junked cars when my grandmother married him in the early eighties. Hugh was her second husband, officially my step-grandfather, though I only ever knew him as Grandpa. A welder who helped build the Alaskan pipeline, he didn't stop working until he truly couldn't. Even after retirement he'd drive his rattling red Ford truck to the auto shop every day just to hang out with the guys. Last summer he was sleeping on the couch when I woke him up with a hello. He blinked at me, a bit confused by the end, and said in no uncertain terms that he didn't have enough money to buy a new car. I told him he didn't have to worry about it. He shook his head and held up his hands. "I wish someone would just give me a job to do, and I'd do it."
There's so much I could say about my Grandpa. He was gentle and had a long memory for sports scores and food prices. I loved to watch him unload his daily batch of groceries: generic sandwich cookies, salty as hell Chicken-N-A-Biskit crackers, ground beef, whatever produce was on sale. I'd spend the night there on weekends, wrapped in the black and white crocheted blanket on the couch – which my grandparents called “the davenport” -- and wake up to the sound of my grandpa clomping around the kitchen, greeting the pets. “Yes, dog. Yes, cat. Yuh-ello.” He’d make bacon and pancakes, strawberry freezer jam, rice-stuffed peppers. And he'd let me eat anything I wanted. "Can I have some icecream?" I'd ask. He'd wave his hand, grunt in affirmation. The man never worried about a diet. So, here's to my grandpa. Born in 1913 in rural California to a widow who cleaned schools; lifelong union man, lover of Jeopardy, Folgers, and good deals on produce and cars. He passed away in his sleep
this past October at the impressive age of 94. This year, as if by cosmic agreement, I lost both my grandfathers, and I miss them both, though I knew Grandpa Hugh better. May they rest in peace.
But I owe a good deal of my baking love to my Grandpa Hugh. I never saw him make a pie; instead, he'd make my birthday cake every year. I salivated over the cake-from-a-box, yellowy and slathered with unholy green frosting. You probably don't know that pistachio Jell-O pudding + Cool Whip = addiction. This was the frosting of a union man whose yard was full of half-junked cars when my grandmother married him in the early eighties. Hugh was her second husband, officially my step-grandfather, though I only ever knew him as Grandpa. A welder who helped build the Alaskan pipeline, he didn't stop working until he truly couldn't. Even after retirement he'd drive his rattling red Ford truck to the auto shop every day just to hang out with the guys. Last summer he was sleeping on the couch when I woke him up with a hello. He blinked at me, a bit confused by the end, and said in no uncertain terms that he didn't have enough money to buy a new car. I told him he didn't have to worry about it. He shook his head and held up his hands. "I wish someone would just give me a job to do, and I'd do it."
There's so much I could say about my Grandpa. He was gentle and had a long memory for sports scores and food prices. I loved to watch him unload his daily batch of groceries: generic sandwich cookies, salty as hell Chicken-N-A-Biskit crackers, ground beef, whatever produce was on sale. I'd spend the night there on weekends, wrapped in the black and white crocheted blanket on the couch – which my grandparents called “the davenport” -- and wake up to the sound of my grandpa clomping around the kitchen, greeting the pets. “Yes, dog. Yes, cat. Yuh-ello.” He’d make bacon and pancakes, strawberry freezer jam, rice-stuffed peppers. And he'd let me eat anything I wanted. "Can I have some icecream?" I'd ask. He'd wave his hand, grunt in affirmation. The man never worried about a diet. So, here's to my grandpa. Born in 1913 in rural California to a widow who cleaned schools; lifelong union man, lover of Jeopardy, Folgers, and good deals on produce and cars. He passed away in his sleep
this past October at the impressive age of 94. This year, as if by cosmic agreement, I lost both my grandfathers, and I miss them both, though I knew Grandpa Hugh better. May they rest in peace.
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