Just like Mom

Joyce McDonald Hoskins

"I have to have this set of Pyrex bowls. Help me check for cracks or chips." I handed my husband a bowl.

"Don’t you have a set just like this?"

"Yes. They were Mom’s. I don’t want to use them. I might break one. I can use this set."

A rainy Saturday in south Florida is a perfect day (as antique lovers say) to go out pickin’. And pickin’ through antique stores and flea markets is also the perfect time for reminiscing.

"Oh, look," I heard another customer exclaim, "Nanny had one just like this." I smiled and continued rubbing my hand around the rim of the red bowl.

We stacked the bowls back in order. The large yellow first, the smaller green next, followed by the red, and then the tiny blue.

"The red bowl was the perfect Jell-o bowl. Exactly the right size," I commented as we took the bowls to the counter for safe keeping while we shopped. "And look, there are the Jell-o molds with the embossed Jell-o logo on the bottom. We sent in box tops for them. I’ll take those, too."

As I grew up in the late forties and early fifties, I wanted to be just like mom. I didn’t have her red-hair, but there has always been a strong mother-daughter resemblance.

Mom was a traditional 1950s homemaker. Baking was a big part of that era. But she didn’t keep house in a typical June Cleaver house-dress. She was daring, and sometimes broke traditions. She wore jeans in a time when they were strictly for teens. She looked a bit like Lucy, of the I Love Lucy Show, and she definitely shared her personality.

In those days, a housewife’s week went something like this: Monday, wash day, Tuesday, ironing day, Wednesday, sewing day, Thursday, market day, Friday, cleaning day, Saturday, baking day, with Sunday being the day of rest. It was orderly.

Since I wanted to be just like mom, I had miniature versions of mom’s housekeeping equipment. On Monday, I washed my doll’s cloths and had my own clothes line with tiny clothes pins. Tuesday, I ironed their clothes. My iron even heated-up like Mom’s. Sometimes when Mom wasn’t looking, I would dress the cat with my doll clothes. Small sweepers, brooms, and mops were a part of most girls’ possessions back then. On Fridays, I cleaned right along with Mom.

But, of course, the smell of the kitchen on Saturday made it the best day of all. Cookies, pies, cakes, rolls, bread, each with their unique aroma, scented the air. Sugar substitutes didn’t exist. We didn’t know about cholesterol. The evils of real butter, fresh farm eggs, and lard didn’t fill women’s magazines.

And everything had to be tested. The small spoon of cookie dough, the lick of frosting, the batter on the tip of your finger were all part of the fun. The left-over tads of pastries could be rolled in cinnamon and sugar for a taste test.

Being just like Mom, I had my own baking equipment exactly right for small hands. The wooden rolling pin with the red handles is a particularly vivid memory. The miniature cookie cutters made treats just the right size for a tea party with my dolls and teddy bears. Mom would let me use her scalloped pastry trimmer to make a special cookie with the leftover pie dough. I would cut small pieces into square, rectangular, and round shapes, and sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on them before baking. Sometimes I sprinkled them with colored sugar. Perhaps you don’t know that you can make it yourself with food coloring.

Those brightly colored Pyrex bowls were busy on baking day. We used the red bowl to

mix the shortening, sugar, eggs, and flavoring. We sifted flour and salt with baking powder or soda into the green bowl. Everything was combined in the large yellow bowl. The small blue bowl was perfect for whipping frosting or mixing the cinnamon and sugar.

Throughout the work day, the radio played. As the World Turns, All my Children, and John’s Other Wife could be heard in the background. Tennessee Ernie Ford singing Sweet Hour of Prayer told us it was noon and almost time for the news. The war was over, the economy was sound, and most of the news was good.

Math was never my strong point, but fractions are easy because I learned them in Mom’s kitchen. Using measuring spoons and cups, doubling or halving recipes, converting teaspoons to a tablespoon taught me to understand ratios.

My dad worked on Saturdays, but he always came home for lunch. I would take a break from Mom, walk to the street, and hitch a ride back home on the running board of his truck. The family ate together, three meals a day. Dad didn’t like Mondays because of the smell of bleach on washing day. But needless-to-say, Saturdays were his favorite lunch day. A blue collar worker with huge rough hands, he would pick up a small cookie with thumb and index finger from my dolls’ table to sample. As he hugged me and complimented me on my baking, I would inhale the scent of the pipe tobacco that was always in his shirt pocket. To this day, I find the smell of pipe tobacco as comforting as a hug. Yes, he liked Saturdays. We had hot rolls for lunch and he always went back to work with a pocket full of cookies.

Mom’s Pyrex bowls now sit in my baker’s rack beside her flour sifter with the red wood handle. I continued the baking tradition with my own children. Being boys, they didn’t have their own kitchen wares, but they do remember the tradition of cutting out and decorating cookies.

Mom’s old Betty Crocker cookbook still falls open to page 148, where the Traditional Sugar Cookies recipe is spotted with flicks of dough. Some from my childhood. Some from my sons.