I've written about the weirdness between my mother and food any number of times. Thing is, it was due to that state of affairs that I developed an interest in food, and found that cooking was something I liked and was fairly good at.
Yes, my mom waved around a copy of The Good Housekeeping Family Cookbook. It was always lying open on the dining room table. What was written in those pages, though, bore very, very little resemblance to what came off the stove in our house. Very little. I mean very, very, super, way not anything like anything that resembled food.
So yeah, OK. I did it myself.*
OOO, did that steam her socks!
This did nothing to lessen the weirdness around food in our house, of course. But I did get fed.
So you see, that's why it was such a THING for me to finally confront The Good Housekeeping Family Cookbook irl.
It's sitting here right now. I still feel very, very weird about having it in my house. I'll probably donate it, unless one of you wants the thing.*
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My Mother's Weirdness
The memory of things like famine, starvation on the plains, horrendous conditions in Europe, battles, poverty and privation in general were not long ago in people's minds back in the 1960's, in my part of the world. Shit, my parents and all the older people I knew had living memories of that stuff. They learned to cook according to the rules of poverty and want. What little you had you made into stew in order to stretch it, and whatever you had went in the pot, no matter what it was. What you were able to get was usually not the best, so you boiled it to death to 'kill the germs', which fit in nicely with the Everything Stew mindset. You ate what was thrown at you and didn't complain.
And honestly, all those old-time things we used to get yelled at us - "Ya never complained! They'd whip ya! Whip ya and throw you outside! You never thought to complain! You didn't think nothin' about how it tasted 'cause it was what ya had! You didn't want it? It went to the pigs and you lost out, and ta hell witcha!' and et cetera; you heard it often enough and came to realize that those people didn't want to let go of that mindset. Not at all. Maybe they couldn't, because plenty was a new and untrustworthy concept to them. It describes my parents, and my grandparents. Not even living in their own clean, quiet home in the suburbs, with more than enough money to get everything they needed, with a grocery store less than half a mile away, could quiet the terror.
There was also that 'culture of poverty' thing to sort out, too. Oh, those 'Good Old Days' I got so sick of hearing about. They weren't good at all. The flipside of that jolly 'Aw, we didn't realize we were poor when I was growing up!' bullshit was a squalid, grinding, abusive way of life where everyone was keeping everyone equally miserable and unable to imagine anything better, that went all the way back to the fucking Stone Age. Kids were whipped for admiring things in store windows. People were called out in church, and mocked and ridiculed by their neighbors for buying any new thing. They learned early on that they were not worthy of better.
My mom did not.
My mom did not, I suspect, because in addition to being born Irish and poor in the worst slum in New York, she spent more than half of her childhood there in a Catholic orphanage.
Let that sink in.
I think someone gave her The Better Homes and Gardens cookbook when she got married. By the time I came along, it looked like it had been kicked for ten miles down a mud road. When I got my copy, I was shocked to find that it had yellow divider cards, and a plastic thingie that makes turning the pages easier. It's in pretty good condition. I don't think it was used much. Truthfully, I don't think my mothers' copy was used much either. It lay open at hand, at all times, but I don't remember her actually consulting the pages.
Like I said in a previous post, bringing that thing into my house has brought up a lot of stuff for me. I was absolutely not expecting that.
Last week I found it an estate sale over in Ontario Oregon, way out in the weeds in a storage place. I thought 'You know what, I'm 66. I think I'm over this now' and bought it for a buck. Maybe I'd get a few laughs out of it.
The instant I put that thing in the car I started feeling really, really weird, and it just kept getting worse. Fuck; maybe it was the ghost of my mom. More likely it was the ghost of my moms' overboiled sauerkraut made with big blubbery pieces of mystery fat, raisins and caraway. But I fought through, and I read the whole thing cover to cover. And here we are! Look at us! We survived!
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So that is the story of What The Fuck Is My Problem With The Better Homes and Gardens Family Cookbook. It is a tangled tale full of armchair anthropology, bad memories, and way too much caraway. I hope it has cleared up things for you.
If not, you should go put your car up on a lift.
Don't forget to wear your socks.
My Parents grew up poor and eating weird shit that sometimes they fed to us. My Dad, Thankfully, became a self-taught Master Chef, so I cannot complain about the Quality of Food provided in our Home even tho' we were far from Rich, Dad's Culinary Jedi Abilities were Legendary. My Brother inherited that Gene, I did not... I like Eating Out. I have more Cookbooks than any Sane Woman should Own, especially one that doesn't even Cook. But I like the Pictures and I won't even try to go deep into the Weeds about what Psychologically that could mean? *LOL and Winks*
ReplyDeleteI understand the psychic stress of owning too many cookbooks. I could relieve you of that stress. There's my email in the post (said the woman trying to GIVE AWAY a cookbook.God I have a problem!)
DeleteMy parents grew up during the war with rationing, so they didn't like to waste anything, but my mum was a good cook, and thankfully we were not deprived - despite the stews! I have some of her old cookbooks though, and the pictures really aren't appetising - maybe I'll take some pictures for you? I do think it took a while for my parents to get out of the war mindset - they hated throwing anything out and would store everything up in the loft. The loft was above my bedroom... and the ceiling started to bow.
ReplyDeleteMaybe you ought to chuck your mum's cookbook - I think I sometimes cling to stuff like that just to confirm that my memory is correct - it's a link to the younger me.
Sx
Over the years I've owned some UK cookbooks and I have to agree, food photography isn't a strong suit, is it. You know what, you are absolutely right. Stuff like that does create a stronger link to past events, just like you said. That's why it made me feel so oogy. Right now its sitting outside in the back of the El Apartmentomobile where it can no longer emanate "This Was Your Life" waves. It worked, too. Thanks, Scarlett.XOO
DeleteMy grandparents were of the WW2 generation - he in the forces, she at home with two kids and rationing to deal with - but they weren't the type to go down that "poverty memory lane" crap. My Nana could cook, and took advantage of the fact once rationing ended, and my Grandad embraced the post-War "modernisation" trend, painting anything and everything white to change their house from "gloomy Edwardian" to "brave new world". My Mother benefitted from that idealism, and we too never had a "guilt-trip" upbringing. Jx
ReplyDeletePS Kwik Fit never looked so good!
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DeleteI took that picture right down the street at our local Kwik Fit. These Idaho boys know what a sandspur is all about - hence the socks.
DeleteI'm lying, of course.
My mother's family was absolute dirt poor, but she was took a Home Economics class that taught her how to cook and we ate HomeEc meals all my life. They were very sturdy.
ReplyDeleteThank God for the early USDA. We were still using their instructional material when I was in Home Ec, and it was good stuff.
DeleteMy gran used to have us all in fits of laughter with her poverty stories as a young girl growing up in East Yorkshire. They bred rabbits, not as pets but for the pot, my gran had the task of cleaning out their hutch and for drowning one in a bucket when the need arises. I remember a mention of a recipe for fuchsia and rowen berry jam and as a Christmas present her and her sister were given tennis balls in old socks to bash against a wall for pleasure! *cackles* You couldn't make it up!
ReplyDeleteBut tennis balls in a sock were a thing! Seriously! There was a rhyming game, and you had to smack the sock ball against the wall as you sang it. I got told off by my mum and dad because it vibrated throughout the house.
DeleteI swear I haven’t been drinking!
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Both of you. Seriously. That is one of the most demented things I've ever heard! I shudder to think of what my boy cousins would have done with such a gift *thoughts go to early Homie The Clown scenarios*
DeleteI love this post and the responses you have received.
ReplyDeleteMy father would always get angry and tell me that I was putting a weeks ration of butter on one piece of toast. 'The war was a long time ago Dad' I would say and that made him more angry. My mother wasted nothing and was a great cook.
God bless you, yes! That right there! That war never ended for some people. I think survival kind of became who they were.
DeleteWow, this made me remember all the food my grandmother cooked for us (my mom & me after the divorce), stuff that now is expensive (thanks ya fuckin foodies) that used to be dirt cheap. Oxtails, dried cod in a damn wooden box(!), more types of beans that you could shake a stick at! What's also funny now is hearing my grown children talk about the meals they ate thinking that they were fancy because of the dish names! I should do a post about that! xoxo
ReplyDeleteI WOULD ADORE IT IF YOU DID A POST LIKE THAT!! Also...dried cod in a box?
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