Tea In a Tin Cup

by Jo A. Hiestand

  The kitchen is to the left of the dining room; the back bedroom to the right. The stairs leading to the basement run along one wall and took most of the hall’s length. They scared me. The hall was enormous and fairly dark—daylight supplied by the fan-shaped glass window above the front door or indirectly from the living room and bedroom windows. This meant the opening for the staircase was nearly black, and those stairs seemed to lead into more blackness. Even though I knew the rooms down there, I had to navigate that dark staircase to get to them.

  Properly called a half-story, the basement actually was only partially below ground. The ceiling downstairs was also ten feet high and had windows that slid into the wall, as pocket doors slide into walls. The area was divided into three main parts, as I recall.

  From the basement hallway we came to the sewing room. It was about as large as the living room above it. My great aunt’s quilting frame holding some project in various stages of completion was always set up there. She loved to quilt, and my mom, sister and I cherished her quilts. Occasionally she’d give us each one, and I still remember having a hard time choosing the color or pattern I liked most from those she offered. It didn’t happen often. It took a long time to hand sew a quilt, and if she was giving one to each of us… Well, you can imagine the time involved. So, it was a great honor and thrill to get one of her creations. They were hand quilted and made of the softest cotton fabric. I loved snuggling beneath them, picturing Aunt Ann sitting at the frame, her needle in her right hand, the silver thimble on her left index finger. I still love snuggling beneath them.

  The other section of the basement was the main room that held the furnace, water heater, and a large metal sink. I think there was a door at the far end of the room that led outside, beneath the porch, but don’t hold me to that memory.

  But the most amazing part of the basement was the cellar. I guess it was originally a wine cellar, for there were perhaps a half dozen steps that led down to it from the basement floor. I’d never seen a room carved out below ground like that. It seemed an impossible thing to do, and equally magical. I looked at an old newspaper clipping of the house some years ago and read that the cellar measured sixteen by twenty-six feet. It had an arched ceiling, giving it another magical quality, and the floor was comprised of handmade bricks. Shelves ran from the floor to the ceiling. Canned vegetables, fruits and homemade jellies crowded the shelves. A storm door at the far end of the area led to the outside. That capped it for me. This was truly a miraculous place, reminiscent of the Gale’s farmhouse in The Wizard of Oz.

  Many times when my family and I would visit the St. Charles house, my great aunt—who no doubt knew we were coming—had just baked her coffeecakes. She baked two or four at a time. As a kid, I thought that amount very extravagant, but I realized years later that it was actually quite smart of her, for the cake didn’t last long, so an extra one or two in the freezer helped stretch out the period between bakes.

  The kitchen was warm, and smelled wonderfully of the new loaves and the cinnamon and sugar topping. The kitchen wasn’t modern. Their toaster was a metal triangle, with sides that dropped to reveal the heating coil. Slices of bread were propped upright next to the coils, and you had to keep a sharp eye on the near side of the bread to make sure it didn’t burn. When toasted to the degree you wished, you turned the bread and toasted the other side. It fascinated me.

  A large white enamel stove, sink, and refrigerator occupied most of the room, with a small black table with drop leaves near the back door. I don’t recall it ever without a tablecloth—checkered or hand appliqued.

  Every so often my great aunt would give us one of her coffeecakes. It was a treat. There was nothing in the whole as good as her just-made cake, still smelling of baked cinnamon. I could hardly wait for the next day’s breakfast when we’d cut into the loaf. We ate it as it was—savoring the thick slices unadorned or with a thin spread of butter atop its close-textured face. The next day we’d toast the slices, and I’d inhale the warm scents of the yeast dough and cinnamon.

  One year I got up my courage to ask my great aunt for her recipe. I was just starting to make breads at that time, and I thought if I could make her coffeecake I truly had achieved bread baking. She seemed pleased to give it to me, a surprise and a relief because I just assumed she’d want to keep it as ‘her’ claim to fame. I shouldn’t have worried. She was as generous with passing on the recipe as she’d been with her lovely quilts.

  I make the coffeecake every year or so, and when I do I’m mentally and emotionally transported back to the St. Charles house, and that large, old-fashioned kitchen, especially. Perhaps more than that, I see my great aunt, wearing a full length homemade apron. And I smell that wonderful fresh baked bread aroma. It’s nearly as good as a comforting hug after a skinned knee.

  Aunt Ann’s Coffeecake – 2 round loaves

  1 cup milk

  ¾ cup sugar

  ½ cup vegetable shortening

  2 eggs

  1 tsp salt

  1 TBSP dry yeast

  6 cups flour

  tbsp ground cinnamon

  tbsp sugar

  * * *

  Scald the milk.

  In large bowl, mix together ¾ cup sugar and the shortening.

  Pour scalded milk over this mixture, and cool.

  Add the eggs, salt, yeast and flour.

  Mix together. Dust countertop with some flour and turn dough onto countertop.

  Knead dough for 8 – 10 minutes.

  Place dough in a greased bowl and cover with plastic wrap or a tea towel. Set bowl in a warm place, away from drafts, and let rise until doubled in size.

  Turn dough onto floured countertop and knead for several minutes, until dough is smooth and elastic. Divide into half, and shape each half into a domed, round loaf.

  Grease two 9” cake pans. Place a round loaf into each pan and let the dough rise again.

  When dough is just higher than the edge of the cake pan, brush the loaves with melted butter. Sprinkle tops with sugar and cinnamon.

  Bake at 375°F for approximately 20 minutes, or until loaves are golden brown. Turn onto wire rack to cool.

  Chapter 3

  Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

  My first venture into pie baking wasn’t as successful as the unnamed girl in the song “Billy Boy.” I couldn’t bake a cherry pie quick as a cat can wink her eye…not even if the cat took a year to do it. And not even if I substituted any other fruit for the cherry. The thought of making a pie intimidated me.

  I’m sure it was the nerves that accompany anything never tried before that stopped me. The steps to the process of pie creation were daunting. The rolling pin, the floured pastry cloth, cutting in the shortening with forks, the filling…

  My mother was a great pie maker. I remember her lemon and French apple pies with particular fondness. She also made a great banana cream, one of my dad’s favorites.

  I don’t remember my great aunt Ann baking pies. She may have, and they were probably good if she did, but perhaps her coffeecake overshadowed any pie. In our small family, my paternal grandmother had no equal for making pies.

  Just as most families, mine gathered for birthdays and holidays. My parents were both only children. As a consequence, I had no proper aunts and uncles—just ‘great’—and hardly any cousins. Although my great uncle Gus (married to great aunt Ann) came from a family of nine, half or so of the siblings never had kids. Hence, my lack of cousins.

  During my school years, our gatherings included Gus and Ann, my mom’s dad, father’s parents and one of his mother’s sisters. Then add my parents, my sister and me. Yes, it was a small group as most families would consider it, but it seemed like a lot of people to me. The dining room table got another leaf or two inserted into it, the extra chairs that usually stood along the walls were positioned at the table, and the best tablecloth and special plates were put out. It really was something special.

  The majority of the grand occasions were held at t
he St. Charles house or at my paternal grandparents’ place. I don’t know why. As a child I never questioned it. They were the houses at which we celebrated.

  The hostess made most of the dinner. But other family members would bring a dish to the gathering. I don’t know if the hostess requested a specific food from each person or if it was assumed each woman would bring her specialty each time. My other great aunt—my paternal grandmother’s sister—would bring her Parker House rolls. They were always good, smelling as though she’d just taken them from the oven right before arriving. I don’t recall my mother taking the same thing whenever we ate together; she seemed to be able to cook and bake anything well. My grandmother, however, always brought pies if we gathered somewhere other than her home.

  I mean pies in the plural. Well, she would, because one pie wouldn’t feed ten people.

  She’d have several kinds of pie, all of course with homemade crust and filling. Nothing store bought would do. Perhaps back then, in the 1950s and 1960s, canned filling wasn’t available. I don’t know. But I doubt if she’d buy them if they were. She was a from-scratch cook and baker, one of seven daughters of immigrants who landed in Kansas before settling in south St. Louis. I’m sure she learned her kitchen skills in that German household.

  My grandmother and my mom tried to teach me how to crimp a pie crust as they did, when I finally got my nerve up to try pie baking. They both made that lovely, curvy fluted edge, like a gentle wave breaking onto a beach, or an arc of a bird’s wing. An ‘S’ of graceful roping along the pie’s edge. I could never manage it. I still can’t. I use the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, pressing outward from the interior of the pie pan and against the index finger of my right hand. It works. It creates a nice line of VVVs around the edge. But I wish I could do that curl. For some reason that nags at me. Just like my yearning to master baking popovers or a soufflé. Perhaps in my next life.

  Even though I was—and still am—a failure with the curvy pie crust fluting, I did pick up pie baking rather well. This was after my first attempt. I should clarify that statement.

  It was a cherry pie. I guess my mom thought it was fairly fool proof. What could go wrong? You open a can of cherries, add the tapioca and almond extract… Mix together and pour into the pie shell. Bake. Simple.

  Well, yes, simple. But in my excitement at making my first pie on my own, I misread the recipe. I mistakenly used half the amount of cherries. I had only one can of cherries instead of the required two.

  It was a flat pie. Good, but chewy. At least I didn’t burn the crust. It still is my favorite part of the pie.

  And it turned out better than my great aunt Ann’s first pie. She loved to tell the story. She, too, made a cherry pie (I guess most of us first-timers figured it was nearly impossible to goof up.). I never knew how young she was when she made her pie, but she was a girl. She told me when she took the pie from the oven she dropped it. The pie pan landed on its edge and rolled across the floor. When she picked it up, not a cherry had been lost and the crust wasn’t dented or broken! Thank goodness we both improved.

  Now, whatever I bake, I re-read the ingredients before putting the dish into the oven.

  Cherry Pie – one 9” pie

  2 1-lb cans pitted tart cherries, water packed

  3 TBSP quick-cook tapioca

  1/2 tsp salt

  ¼ tsp almond extract

  1 ¼ cups sugar

  1 cup flour, sifted

  1/3 cup plus 2 TBSP vegetable shortening

  2 to 3 TBSP cold water

  1 TBSP butter

  1 tsp ground cinnamon

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 425°F

  * * *

  Filling

  Drain the cherries and reserve ½ cup of the liquid.

  In bowl, mix the reserved cherry liquid, tapioca, ¼ tsp salt, almond extract, the drained cherries, and 1 cup sugar.

  Let the mixture stand and make the pie crust (or use pre-made crust).

  * * *

  Crust

  In bowl, combine flour, ¼ tsp salt, and vegetable shortening.

  With pastry blender, forks or table knives, cut shortening into flour until it resembles crumbs.

  Add water, one TBSP at a time, and mix. Dough is correct consistency when it is just moist enough to stay together when you press it.

  Using your hands, shape dough into a smooth ball. Dust countertop or pastry board with small amount of flour and roll out dough to 1/8-inch thickness.

  Cut into a 10” circle and fit into a 9” pie plate. Save dough scraps, press together, and re-roll. Cut 1”-wide strips to use as lattice top.

  * * *

  Assemble pie:

  Fill the pie shell with the cherry mixture.

  Cut the butter into thin slices and dot them over the filling.

  Adjust lattice top and flute the edges. Sprinkle the lattice strips with the ¼ cup sugar and the cinnamon. To keep the edge of the crust from browning too quickly, cover with strips of aluminum foil or a metal crust collar.

  Bake at 425°F for 40-45 minutes or until lattice top is golden brown.

  Chapter 4

  At Least It’s Not a Tie

  When I was a young child, giving Christmas gifts to my family was easy. My parents would have several presents for each relative, and I could choose which present I wanted to each person. Even if I didn’t buy the book or sweater or whatever it was, I at least chose the item and wrapped it. And that came from my heart.

  During my school years, I bought the gifts from my allowance money. It was a good way to teach me to save up for the purchases. It also gave me special time with my mother because we’d go out together for the Christmas shopping. I had a list of everyone’s name and gift ideas beside each. Sometimes the idea was grander than my earmarked money, but at least it gave me a start for what I might buy.

  For several Christmases I gave my great uncle Gus eyeglass lens wipes. The onionskin-thin tissues came in a small, cardboard packet with a fold-over cover. The tissues were perforated along the top, and could be torn off easily. I don’t know how Uncle Gus felt about these, but at least the wipes were practical. The packet cost ten cents.

  Store bought gifts were fine, but I relied heavily on handmade gifts for my female relatives. These were cheaper to make. I usually began making them in the summer months so I’d have plenty of time to finish them all. Guest hand towels, kitchen dishcloths and potholders embroidered with cross-stitch designs were one of my staple items but in Brownies one year we made half aprons. I guess either my mom or her co-leader stitched them prior to the meeting. Maybe they both did. The aprons were rectangular pieces of fabric hemmed on three sides but the tops were about two inches deep and open on both sides. Through this channel we fed a circular plastic hoop. Feeding the apron onto the hoop was rather like hanging a pocket curtain on a rod. The plastic hoop was the apron’s waistband. It was flexible, like a cuff bracelet on steroids, and expanded so the cook could slip it around her waist. Once in place, it then slipped back into its natural shape, securely keeping the apron at the waistline. One size fits all, kind of thing.

  A large patch pocket occupied the left side of the fabric panel.

  The fabric was gingham. This was a clever choice, for the checks served as a guide for our cross-stitch work. We girls could stitch whatever patterns we wanted, using whatever colors of embroidery thread we wanted. I was less than happy with the project and I told my mom that this Christmas gift wouldn’t be a surprise for her because she knew what she would get. She said that even though she knew she’d get an apron, she didn’t know what design I was sewing, or what colors it would be. I felt better about the apron after that.

  Some years for Christmas I forsook the sewing and artwork to give presents of baked goods. I bought holiday-themed round tin containers at the dime store and filled them with cookies I’d made. I don’t know about the gift recipients, but I was happier with these. Even if my relatives didn’t like the cookies, they could crumble
them and put them out for the birds.

  The baking continued into my adult gift giving, but I branched out. I still gave away cookies, but I also baked loaves of nut bread, braided bread, and small cakes. A few times I made candy and gave a large batch as a gift or included a dozen or so pieces with the tin of cookies.

  For several years I gave fruitcakes to a friend. Now, I’m not a lover of fruitcake. If you leave out the candied fruit and the liquor, it’d probably be all right. But the fruit and whisky spoil it, in my opinion. So I was surprised when my friend told me the cake I’d made was the best one he’d ever eaten. I don’t think he was joking, because he was setting himself up for the same cake next year. Which he got. I made that recipe for him at least for a half dozen years, until they moved away.

  Bob wasn’t the only person whom I knew loved the offerings from my kitchen. During the years of my childhood culinary projects, I gave my paternal grandfather homemade fudge for his Christmas present. He loved it. I know he did, because he’d eat several pieces throughout the day.

  As a child, the recipe seemed complicated, with what appeared to me to have a lot of ingredients. Stirring the chocolate chips until they melted felt like it took a long time. But, in actuality the melting takes just minutes.

  I have no idea where the recipe came from, but it became so entrenched in our minds that it was what my grandfather loved, we called it Grandaddy’s Fudge.