May 142020

Cooking is not my strong suit. I’m very good, however, at eating. As we wait for the locusts and the rest of the plagues to arrive, we have to have something to eat. I’m the cook; my husband is the shopper. In these strange times, this means he’s the one who goes to get the pickup at the grocery store. We are fortunate that we are both retired (well, husband May 31), and don’t have to go anywhere.

My mother was many wonderful things, but she was not a good cook. She didn’t believe in butter, only whitish-oleo-margarine (which I have not eaten since I moved away at 18). Both of my grandmothers were good cooks, my grandmother McVay far better. She made homemade yeast rolls, pies, and sometimes cut up potatoes for homemade French fries for my brother and me. My husband can work his way around the kitchen, but he doesn’t really want to cook.

Since we are blessed to have food and many aren’t, and since I hate to waste food, I try to use up what we have. This is why yesterday husband Herman made homemade buttermilk biscuits. The buttermilk was going to celebrate its birthday (what we call expiration date) so we needed to use it. This also meant that today I made two loaves of Amish cinnamon bread (recipe from Vanessa Seijo, thanks V).

(And just so you know, we DO sing Happy Birthday is milk gets a little stinky in the carton and we have to pour it down the sink.)

The biscuits Herman made were, without a doubt, the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten in my life. So fluffy, so light, yet plump, but with a crispy bottom. And no baking soda taste like at breakfast joints. I am ashamed to tell you that yesterday I ate five in two settings. Now I am fluffy and plump (but no crispy bottom.)

Since I made the bread today to use up the buttermilk, Herman came barreling into the kitchen, picked up the bag of leftover biscuits, and noticed that no one has eaten another one. He counts his damn biscuits!

Then he says, “What? You don’t like my biscuits?”

This made me laugh out loud. He was his mother, made over as a sixty-ish, long-haired man.

My late mother-in-law made the most delicious pot roast. No one has ever accused me of eating too little. Once at her home early in our marriage, I had a nice helping and a hearty second helping, and she said, “What? You don’t like my pot roast?”

That apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.

I wish you all peace and comfort. And if you aren’t a frontline worker, you can support them or others. Send a note, send an email, call an old friend, and donate to your local food bank.

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