The Fannie Farmer Cookbook

One of the first Christmas presents Harry gave me after we were married was a Fannie Farmer cookbook. It was inscribed with a cute little poem he wrote, and it remains a treasure today. More than that, however, it has been the one cookbook I have constantly referred to for basic recipes such as cornbread, dumplings, pie crusts, and so on. The 100th anniversary edition of this classic was published in 1996, and although it has aged since then, it would make a great gift for any new bride or inexperienced cook. After all, I'm still using the 1959 10th edition with the plain yellow cover.

Memories in My Recipe Box

 by Barbara Brabec

To many, the exchange of recipes among women would seem a trivial thing–it's just something women do and have always done. But it's much more than that.

CERTAINLY I HAD NEVER GIVEN MUCH THOUGHT to this matter until the day I pulled from file a time-worn recipe written in the hand of an old friend I hadn't seen for years. As a wave of nostalgia poured over me, I suddenly realized how closely women are linked to one another by the recipes they've exchanged through the years.

Like gifts we've received from special people, recipes can conjure up warm and loving thoughts about the women who have shared them with us. For example, a card that reads "Sarah's Peanut Butter Cookies" brings to mind the two wonderful years Sarah and I spent together back in the '50s in an apartment on the north side of Chicago. We shared a love of life, music, art and cooking, but food wasn't the only thing we cooked up in those happy days.

A few years later, when I married a man of Czech descent, my husband's friends figured I'd need some help in the kitchen to keep him happy, so many of them shared their favorite Bohemian recipes with me. How often I have used and enjoyed Loretta's recipes for bread and potato dumplings, Lois's roast duck and sauerkraut, Aunt Helen's chocolate cake, and many others. Each recipe, of course, brings to mind the personality of the woman who gave it to me. A profile of all the women represented in my files would make interesting reading indeed.

Family Recipes are Special

My family recipes are extra special, of course, especially the ones from my mother and grandma. Some of mother's special recipes include her homemade noodles, Cocoa Cream Roll (in those days she filled it with real whipped cream). and one that never got written down but will forever be mother's recipe alone: she called it "Damfino."

"What are we having for dinner?" we'd often ask, and mother would joke, "Damned if I know. I just cleaned out the refrigerator."

In those days when she was cooking for a family of five, there were always leftovers of various vegetables and meats and probably some gravy, too. At the end of the week, mother would simply run everything through her meat grinder, add some bread or crackers to stretch it, a little salt, some "Wooster sauce" or ketchup, and bake it. This "meatloaf" never tasted the same twice, but was always delicious. (Harry loved this dish and always regretted that I cooked only for two and never have the kind of leftovers mother had.)

Mother and grandma are both gone now, of course, but the memories flood back whenever I pull one of their recipes from file. Whenever I make potato salad, I cook the dressing from scratch, the way grandma did. As I measure the ingredients, I remember the way she looked: long white hair rolled into a topknot, wire-rimmed glasses astride her nose, a print apron with a bib. I can't ever recall seeing grandma without an apron, except when she went visiting or to church.

It wasn't easy, getting grandma's salad dressing recipe on paper. She seldom used printed recipes but cooked instead by habit, using "a dab of this and a dash of that." It took a long time for me to translate all her dabs and dashes into the precise measurements I needed as a cook. Here, for those who are interested, is grandma's recipe on one of the little cards I designed for myself years ago:

Friends & Acquaintances Remembered

Millie is in my recipe file, too. In fact, it was her brownie recipe that finally made me realize how much I treasured my drawer full of recipes and all the memories connected to them. I met Millie many years ago after moving to a new community. When I mentioned to a neighbor that I enjoyed crafts, she said, "You ought to get acquainted with Millie. She loves crafts, too."

And so it was that, one day, over a tray of cookies and tea, Millie and I got to know one another. I soon taught her a little hand-weaving technique that made her realize she could design an original wall hanging instead of using a kit from the store. In her late 70s then, Millie had arthritis in her fingers and weaving was difficult for her. But the sheer joy she experienced from having learned something new at this point in her life rubbed off on me and made me glad I'd taken time from my busy schedule to get to know her. From then on, we often talked cooking as well as crafts as we pondered the pains and pleasures of life. Millie soon became like a second mother to me and, in fact, lived about a year longer than my mother and gave me considerable comfort during my grieving period.

The nature of my husband's work often took us to several parts of the country, and twice to many foreign countries as well. On those trips, I traded recipes with new friends in England, Ireland, and Italy, and I'm so glad I did, because I'll never get to see any of these women again. Yet I'll never forget them because I keep using their recipes.

Malfalda, in Florence, stands out in my mind now. In the mid-seventies when we met her, she was one of Italy's well-known opera singers and the wife of a business acquaintance of my husband's. Thus it was that we ended up in their villa high in the mountains one summer evening where we were treated to a private concert and the most memorable meal of our lives. I particularly loved Malfalda's "Bean Soup," which turned out to be Pasta Fogioli. I wanted the recipe, but Malfalda spoke no English, and I had only a few words of Italian.

No matter! Food is an international language, and herbs are the same the world over. With the help of our friend and translator, Mario, who did speak English, we got the recipe on paper amid lots of laughter and arm waving to describe quantities or sizes. When Mario did not have an English word for a particular herb or seasoning, Malfalda would dash to the pantry for a sample. Mario would sniff, confirm "Yes! Oregano!" and I'd jot down the ingredient accordingly. As you can imagine, this one recipe is connected to literally thousands of memories of a delightful evening, a fascinating six-week trip, and a very special time of my life. I've since tried many different recipes for "bean soup," and no longer use Malfalda's recipe. But every time I see the words, "Pasta Fogioli" I am at once transported back to another time and place.

In looking back, I now see that in every place I've lived, and on practically every trip I've taken, there has always been at least one interesting woman with whom I've traded recipes, and each time I open my recipe box (an old 3x5 file card file drawer about 14" long), I reconnect with her once again. If I remember each of these women so fondly when I use their recipes, perhaps I, too, was remembered by them through the years.

To Keep It, Give it Away

It has often been said that we only have that which we give away, and here's a story that proves it. There once was a selfish woman who was much too proud of her cooking. When complimented on the dishes she prepared, and asked for her recipes, she always refused to give them because she wanted no competition in this department. But one day her house burned down and with it went her entire collection of recipes.

The moral of the story is clear. If this selfish woman had only shared her recipes with friends, they would have been happy to give them back to her. If you haven't traded any recipes lately, now is a good time to do it. And don't take lightly this time-honored tradition among women, for it is on such simple things as these that we build the best memories of our lives.

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