Lessons in Cooking (Jan 14, 2025)

My mother was an excellent home cook, and she loved to experiment with food. She could take anything and turn it into something delicious, whether it was sweet or savory. She invented her own recipes, self-published her own cookbooks, and entered her creations into local cooking contests. In fact, she won first place for her Honey Almond Chicken in the Delmarva Chicken Cooking Contest. 

Mom taught me to cook from a very early age, more out of necessity than anything else. She began working as a Nurse’s Aide at Beebe Hospital when I was very young to add to the family income. Later, she went back to school and earned her credentials as a Licensed Practical Nurse. Eventually, she became a private duty nurse, caring for elderly retirees who moved to the beach from nearby cities. Since she worked the night shift, cooking became my responsibility. 

I love to cook and, although I didn’t appreciate it at the time, I had access to the best ingredients in town. We had an enormous produce garden - about 3-5 acres if you count the acres of sweet corn and watermelons. My dad was an exceptional gardener with the talent to grow just about anything. We enjoyed fresh corn, string beans, peas, lima beans, onions, potatoes, broccoli, turnips, beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a variety of fruit, including strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries. My dad wouldn’t eat salads, so we never grew lettuce that I recall. I don’t remember growing carrots either, but we did eat them. Maybe we bought them at the local IGA? 

In late summer, we would begin preserving any leftover produce for use during the winter. I remember hours spent boiling and peeling beets, blanching and skinning tomatoes, and cutting corn off hundreds of cobs. I can still see the rows of wooden shelves that wound around our basement, now completely lined with jar after jar of canned goods from our summer garden. There was never a lack of food in our house, summer or winter.

I learned to cook very basic foods as my dad would not eat anything fancy. Just meat, potatoes and veggies. He did have a soft spot for bread and desserts, so mom taught me to bake. To this day, I love the smell of yeast foaming in a cup and fresh cinnamon rolls baking in the oven. Flaky apple pie, melt-in-your-mouth fudge, and chewy oatmeal cookies baking in the oven still make the best air fresheners! 

The one food my mom taught me to make that I couldn’t tolerate was sauerkraut! I hated the smell of it then, and I hate it now. In fact, my stomach won’t tolerate it. So, no sauerkraut in my house! 

Today, at 74, I’m expanding my culinary horizons, cooking dishes my father and husband would never eat. I take classes at OLLI’s, watch Food Network, and experiment with what I learn. Just this year, I mastered Chicken Curry, green enchilada sauce, and clam chowder soup from scratch – proof that it’s never too late to learn new skills. 

I’m thankful I learned to cook from my mom; and, when my daughter was young, I passed those skills on to her as well. In fact, she’s a better cook than I am!

My biggest regret, though, is not teaching my son. The society I grew up in didn’t encourage men to cook – it was “unmanly.” Thankfully, times have changed, and he’s now starting to pick up some of those skills as well. 

So, thank you, Mom, for teaching me how to cook. I may not have appreciated it when I was young, but I sure do now. Your lessons have been a gift that keep on giving! 

Not going to write . . .

 

My Mother-In-Law, A Memoir of a Unique Friendship

Thinking back to that day in early 1970, I can still feel the knot in my stomach as I prepared to meet the formidable Mrs. Downes, a woman who would leave an indelible mark on my life. A few months before my engagement to her son, Bill, I had been invited to dinner to “meet the parents.” I was extremely intimidated because of the stories I had heard about them.

In the 1930s, Mrs. Downes was a society reporter for the Washington Post. At the same time, Mr. Downes was serving as an aide to President Roosevelt. It was fate that the two would meet in the White House and later marry. Mr. Downes later became a Naval commander of the ship, The Idaho; and, later still, the head of Civil Defense. Even Bill’s grandfather was somebody important. The John R Downes Elementary School in Newark, Delaware, was named in honor of him. These people were way above my social class! I was a simple, country girl whose dad was a farmer and a mom who was a private duty nurse. However, I had been invited to dinner at their home, and there was no getting out of it.

 

As I entered the home, my trepidation increased. Hitchcock chairs, Duncan Phyfe tables, old clocks, Tiffany lamps, and a myriad of other antiques, whose names escape me, were arranged in every nook and corner of the visible rooms. In the dining room, the table was draped in white linen tablecloth. The table was set with Steiff Rose Sterling flatware, Blue Willow plates, sterling silver Paul Revere bowls, and sparkling, cut-glass serving pieces. Rows of antique, porcelain, miniature tea sets lined the plate rail that circled the room like a train track.

After introductions to Robert and Marylyn, I sat down at the table as the smell of prime rib, mashed potatoes, fresh rolls, and asparagus tantalized my appetite. However, I was too nervous to eat. As Robert sliced and served the meat, our conversation went from talk about my college professors to “those people in Southern Delaware.” And, yes, I was from Southern Delaware!

I began to wonder what she would think of me if she saw my make-shift home in Lewes and our “Green Stamp” dishes. What if I said the wrong thing today and sounded like “those people from down south?” Was Bill going to ditch me after this dinner? 

Marylyn’s square jaw marched up and down as she chatted on about her days covering the society news in Washington, D.C. One story I recall vividly is her shock at watching a senator’s wife unapologetically “double dip” her shrimp into the cocktail sauce. "I must make sure never to do that," I thought to myself with a silent "eye roll."

Her pepper-gray hair, knotted into a tight bun, emphasized her high cheekbones and thick eyebrows. She wore long, colorful beads that hung to her waist, bright-red nail polish, and real gold earrings. I’d heard from my college chums that she volunteers at the college library as a “Shusher.” I remember thinking she seemed to fit that part perfectly!

I cut my meat slowly, taking a bite now and then, contemplating how to contribute to the conversation. Then, glancing around, I noticed the Downes’ had already finished their meal. How had that happened? 

I don’t recall much more about this first meal together; but obviously, it didn’t stop Bill from marrying me. A few weeks later, our engagement was announced, with our wedding to be held on December 26, 1970. Bill went off to Army helicopter school in Forth Wolters, Texas, and would not be home until Christmas. We would marry then and head back to Texas together the next day. 

My mother-in-law was delighted to discover that I had no preferences about the ceremony. She immediately got busy making all the arrangements from getting the church, organizing a small reception, and making a list of those she wanted to attend. Personally, I was glad all I had to do was buy my gown, invite my own people, and show up! My dad had informed me earlier that “he wasn’t going to pay for any more weddings this year.” He had already paid for my brother to marry the year before. So, Mrs. Downes’ natural inclinations to “take charge” was actually a blessing for me. 

The wedding was small, yet perfect. Afterward, Bill and I traveled to Mineral Wells, Texas. A few weeks later, we made our way to Fort Rucker, Alabama, where Bill completed his flight training. Six months later, he departed for Vietnam, while I returned to Delaware to continue my studies at the University of Delaware. 

Now, she could “watch over me” while Bill was away, and "watch over me" she did – with both good and not-so-good outcomes! First, she put a deposit down on an apartment and completely furnished it with items she and Mr. Downes bought at auctions, one of their favorite pastimes. 

I didn’t have to do a thing but move in. After I was settled, I took a job at DuPont Company as a typist. I also re-enrolled at the University of Delaware on a part time basis. When I wasn’t working or going to school, I was out with my friends. This made it hard for my mother-in-law to keep track of me!

Somehow, Mrs. Downes obtained the phone numbers of all my girlfriends. This was before cell phones, so the friendly, five-pound phone book was her best friend. Whenever she couldn’t reach me at home, she would call my friends, one after the other, looking for me. I would finally get notified by one of my friends that "Mrs. D is on the hunt for you!" Eventually, I returned home, called her back, and settled her down. 

I remember one day in particular that ended in not-so-good consequences. I had gone out with a friend in her car, leaving mine at home. Meanwhile, Mrs. Downes was trying to locate me, but none of my other friends knew where I was. Frustrated, Mrs. Downes drove to my apartment to check on me. When she discovered my car out front, but received no answer when she knocked on the door, she was positive that I was lying dead on the apartment floor from exposure to gas fumes. So, what was she to do? What any hysterical MIL would do, of course. She called 911! When I got home, there was the fire department about to enter my apartment. When she saw me, she yelled, “Where the hell have you been?” 

I wasn’t very happy being yelled at, but eventually everything was resolved. The rescue squad went home without breaking down my door, and Mrs. Downes and I parted on friendly terms. But, from then on, I found it best to let her know where I was at all times. It was much easier that way!

My friends often asked me how I could tolerate such an “interfering” mother-in-law. For me, it wasn’t as hard as they imagined. Yes, she could be very annoying, but, at age 60, she was old enough to be my grandmother. To me, she was gift. I now had an older person to care about me, to take me shopping, and to invite me into her life. This was something I never had, as both of my own grandmothers died when I was very young. 

Mrs. Downes took me to antique auctions where I learned how to shop for the best pieces to furnish my new home. She took me to the Faculty Club at the University, where I not only learned some social skills but also how to enjoy fine dining. When I became pregnant, she took me to the finest department store in town and bought me a whole wardrobe of maternity clothes. She shared her family history with me and listened to me for hours as I shared my life story with her. I believe we developed a mutual respect as well as deep friendship.

Did I get mad at her? Yes, many times. Her overprotectiveness and worrying was often “over the top.” But, in the end, it was worth it. I learned so much about life from her and she treated me to experiences I never would have had. We developed a special bond that will forever be one of my most cherished memories. 

A NEW Year and a NEW Resolution

I’m smiling today, and it feels good. I've finally broken out of my “loneliness” depression. I no longer go into a mental slump the minute I walk into my apartment, something I've experienced since I moved Bill into care, two years ago.

A huge breakthrough came thanks to my daughter, Shelly, who gave me a simple but powerful "assignment” (see previous blog posting) to write about all the good things about living alone. I’m an extremely visual person and needed to see my thoughts in print before this truth took root in my brain: Being alone is not bad! 

I no longer feel that I need someone in the house, or that I have to keep busy 24/7, or that I need a man in order to make my life complete. (After 74 years of living under the “guidance” of men, I can finally say that I don’t have to have one to function! That is a miracle in itself!)

 

My next goal is to do something meaningful for the rest of my life. Yes, I will continue to care for Bill, and that is certainly meaningful, but I’m talking about meaningful to me. I want to leave this earth knowing that I made a difference, even if it’s a small difference. 

So that is my 2025 New Year’s resolution: find something meaningful to do. I’ll keep you posted on my journey! 

 

In the meantime, Happy New Year to all of you who take the time to read and comment on my blog. Your comments make my blog not just meaningful, but special! 

A Perfect Day in Galveston: Treasure Hunting and a Dash of Panic

Today was one of those days that reminds me why life is an adventure. My friend, Bev LaRock, and I decided to soak up the gorgeous Galveston weather and enjoy a day out. With bright blue skies, warm winds, and a gentle sea breeze blowing across the Island, staying indoors simply wasn’t an option.  

Bev and I spent the morning walking up and down the Strand exploring bookstores and antique shops. I’ve been on the hunt for a new set of dishes and serving pieces because I parted with all my glassware while caring for Bill at home. Now that I’m settled in my new place, I’m re-discovering the joy of entertaining and looking to replace the plastics and Corelle dishes lining my cabinets. I had found some dishes I liked online, but I really wanted to support the local merchants. 

 

Just before lunch, we walked into this small antique shop in the middle of Galveston and found just what I was looking for! A complete set of eight place settings with extra cups and saucers. It also included a salt and pepper, a creamer, two gravy bowls, and a variety of serving dishes. The dishes are labeled, Hand Painted Vernon Florence, oven and dishwash safe. Made in California, USA! They are vintage Mid-Century, 1960s. This set is SO ME! The colors are bright and cheerful – they make me happy just looking at them. The price was right for me, so I was ready to make the purchase. 

 

Now here’s where things took a twist. The shop only accepts cash, debit, Venmo, or Zelle. I’m not one for carrying cash, so I used Zelle to pay. The owner wrapped up the dishes and promised to hold them while I fetched my car after we ate lunch.  

 

Bev and I then headed to Hearsay on the Strand – my latest favorite restaurant in Galveston. After our meal, I dropped Bev home so she could go do her volunteer gig at McDonald House. As she got out of the car, I realized I had no idea where I bought the dishes! I had no receipt and no contact information from the shop! My bank only had the owner’s name, not the shop name. And neither Bev nor I could recall exactly where we’d walked!

 

With a sinking feeling, I drove up and down Strand Street trying to spot the shop, but nothing looked familiar. Frustrated, I parked the car and continued the search on foot. Still nothing.

 

Just as a full panic threatened to take over, I had an “aha!” moment: my Apple watch had tracked my walk! Pulling up the Health app on my phone, I found the path we’d taken. No wonder I couldn’t find it - the shop wasn’t on Strand Street at all! We’d ventured several blocks away to the corner of Post Office and Kempner. I would have never found them without my Apple watch! 

 

Following the trail on my app, I finally found the shop and my new dishes, all wrapped and waiting for me. What a relief!  Now all I have to do is wash them up and find a place to store the extra pieces. Some will go in my closet for safekeeping, and the rest will be ready for my next get together. 

 

These dishes aren’t just tableware to me; they’re part of my journey, a bright and cheerful reminder of a beautiful day spent embracing my new life here on the Island.

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NOTE: I just looked up the price of these and found them online. I got a really good buy! I paid $300, tax included! 

A House to Remember (Memoir, written in October 2023)

 A House to Remember

By Cindy Downes

 

What do you get when you combine a World War II veteran, a 240-acre farm, and a prisoner of war barracks together? A home. That’s right - my childhood home for eighteen years. My dad, recently discharged from the army, purchased the barracks, moved it onto his family farm in Lewes, Delaware, and divided it into three sections. He used one piece for our house, one piece for a shop, and the remaining piece was used for the ends of the buildings and room dividers. 

This home of ours featured crumbly plaster walls, an asbestos roof, and rough-hewn wooden floors. It was rustic for sure, but we did have all the luxuries of life including electricity, water, heat, and an indoor toilet. 

 

When we needed water, we grabbed a bucket or two and carefully navigated down rickety wooden stairs to our basement below. We then headed over to the pitcher pump and gave it a few strokes. Instantly, we delighted with refreshingly cold spring water as it gushed up from our very own personal well. 

 

We were never concerned about cold winter nights in this cozy coastal dwelling. Our home had Big Bertha, a heating system like no other. Big Bertha was a 55-gallon oil drum, stacked horizontally on cement blocks and conveniently located in the corner of our main living area. To keep it spewing out its luxurious heat, we periodically chopped down an old tree from our woods, sawed it into two-foot pieces, opened the fabricated metal door of Big Bertha, and stacked the wood inside. Then, we fired it up, sat back, and got warm and toasty. We even cooked meals in Big Bertha using a sturdy, black, cast-iron pot with a lid. We enjoyed such delicacies as fresh vegetable soup, chicken and dumplings, and chunky beef stew. 

 

Another feature of our house was its indoor outhouse. There was no need for us to venture outside in the freezing snow or in the middle of a hurricane as our outhouse was in the basement. It consisted of a five-gallon bucket carefully placed under a booty-sized hole cut into the top of a red wooden box that sat over the bucket. The women of our house implored the menfolk to aim properly as the top of the bucket did get slimy now and then from inaccurately streamed liquid waste. Lucky for me, the job of emptying this innovative convenience was left to the boys. 

 

My dad was before his time when it came to creating our kitchen as it had a modern, open floor plan like the homes of today rather than the chopped up back kitchens that were common in the 40’s. He custom built a ten-foot-long table, along with matching benches, that he placed down the center of this kitchen. Not only did he create an abundance of space for dining and conversation, but he also enabled the women of the house to prepare the meals and socialize at the same time. We weren't stuck in a "back kitchen." I remember many good times around this table, especially when my relatives from New Jersey came to visit. We dined on Uncle Freddy's fresh caught fish and our own home-grown produce. Afterwards, we ladies would play pinochle for hours, at this table, while the men sat in the living room and smoked. 

 

Gradually, children were added to our household including my brother Randy in 1947; me in 1950, and my brother Keith in 1955. This meant two more bedrooms, one for my brothers and one for me. Neither of these bedrooms had doors; but when I got older, I created my own door from curtains I made. This was another unique aspect of our home. Unlike the women who lived in town, we didn’t have to drive to the nearest city 40 miles away to buy fabric. Instead, we could get all the fabric we needed from our chickens. Chicken feed, at that time, was sold in beautiful, floral-printed sacks. All I had to do was cut the sacks into appropriately sized pieces and then sew away on Grandma Wilson’s treadle sewing machine - a Singer, of course! Not only did I make curtains for my bedroom door from these sacks, but I also made clothes for myself that I wore to school. I may not have been the most fashionable student at school, but I did learn a marketable skill. I later used this skill to help fund my way through college at the University of Delaware. 

 

Our home continued “as is” until I turned twelve. That was the year of the Big Remodel. Gone was the indoor outhouse, gone was the pitcher pump, and gone was Big Bertha. Now, like the rest of the world we had a double sink in the kitchen with running tap water; a full bath with pink and green tile, a tub, sink, and flushing toilet; and an oil heater in the floor that warmed the whole house. And, best of all, no more trekking down rickety stairs to the basement. Everything was located on the main floor. 

I still remember the smell of the coffee I brewed for the men as they worked, the excitement I experienced as I flushed the new toilet, and the comfort I felt as I stood on the heating grate with the warm air billowing out my skirt like an umbrella on the beach. 

 

All these modern conveniences did provide us with a more comfortable home, but they never took away from its uniqueness. Not many people can say they grew up in a POW camp - at least, not by choice! 

Mental Health Matters

 I was so glad to see this article in Nice News about Simone Biles. Mental health does matter. And finally, people are beginning to see that it is not something to be shunned or locked up for, but instead, to be taken seriously. Thank you, Simone Biles, for standing up for yourself and all the rest of us who admit we need help. You're my hero!