Granny’s Legacy Series, Part 4 - Baking up a Storm

Today we have waffle makers, pancake mix, toasters to pop sweets … and we can go buy cookies any day we want them. Have you ever thought about what it took to be on your own? To either not have the source or the money? Baking, just like everything else, was a true adventure in my Grandmother’s time. Her specialty were buttery waffles.

When the old dog-eared, handwritten recipe book was taken out of the wooden cupboard, I knew she had given in. Of course, as children, we did not comprehend the effort, and kept begging to make waffles for weeks until Granny would relent. On the big day, we went to the farmers market for fresh milk and eggs, and then, finally, we could begin.

All I remember of the dough making process is trying to sneak a taste when she did not want me to. And of course, there was no food processor…. Do you know how heavy batter gets when it requires a perfect, smooth texture? My arms hurt just thinking about it! However, the waffle iron I remember well.

Made of black cast-iron, it looked like a medieval torture instrument. Giant pliers-like handles ended in two flat discs, about one inch thick and maybe 6 inches in diameter. The discs were intricately engraved with Celtic knotwork, which left an interesting design on the completed product, to say the least. I often wondered who crafted those, and how old they were. It’s one of my biggest regrets that I could not find it when we cleaned out Granny’s home.

The contraption was so heavy, I couldn’t even lift it until I reached my early teens. It had to be handled with precision, and each small waffle took a long time to make. First, the old gas stove was lit (which was an improvement already, during the early years we still had wood!), and the iron was rested in the flame to heat, turning it from time to time to get an even temperature all around. While I stood transfixed in the crone-ordered safety distance (Granny was a no-nonsense gal, and I learned all my cooking from watching and listening, not from being handed a knife or allowed to the stove) and dying to do something other then stare, Granny would finally open the ‘pliers’ and take a hunk of bacon rind to rub on the inside of the discs. I will never forget the sizzling, the steaming, the smells….

The tricky part was timing and precision to place a dollop of dough in the middle of the bottom disc. Slap on too much, and it would run out burning up the entire stove, clogging the gas nuzzles in the process and give us a cleaning break that would last an hour (and how I know that? I have tried and failed. I was, well, shall we call it determined? Granny had to go to the bathroom SOMEtimes, didn’t she?? To her credit, I did not receive more than a dirty look – and a scouring pad – while she sat and had a cuppa). Too little dough, and you would have a helluva time separating the waffle from the iron, surely burning it to coal in the process. Not fast enough, and the dough would harden before you could close the discs and spread it evenly. Then during the process of baking the iron had to be turned over the flame several times, to distribute even heat. And we wonder why our ancestors were such strong folks!

When the waffle was finally golden it was removed with the wood-handled kitchen knife (universal tool, believe me… I can’t hardly remember seeing her in the kitchen without , it and Gods help who dared touch it) and flicked onto the kitchen table, THEN I could finally do something (although, we won’t get into how many of them did not make it – by default – I was allowed to eat the broken one’s, imagine that. Granny was not entirely onto me, hehe. But, I have to admit, she ate as many as I did). While they were hot, the delicate discs could be rolled over a bottle into small cones, later to be filled with cream, pudding, or fruits. When they cooled, which happened within seconds, they got crispy and would splinter at the slightest touch. The rolling was accomplished with much whooping, as of course, they were scalding hot to the touch, and much hopping around. Yet, they had to be held in place until stiffened, or they would invariably unroll again.

After a whole afternoon of labor, when Granny’s arms -or the dough- would give out, the end produce was approximately 50 rolled cones, and maybe another 50 flat discs, for easier storage, in different thickness, depending on the intended use. I still have the banged up tin cans they were stored in. It was the time I started to believe in gremlins, and in the process, attempted to convince my family to believe in them too (FAT chance). I swear, I would only sneak a tiny piece of broken waffle out of the tin VERY few times a day, and yet, they kept disappearing so fast Granny always knew I made what she called “long fingers”. To this day, when someone takes out an battered cookie tin, even if I KNOW it contains, say, rusty nails, I cannot help slobbering :)

30 years ago apartment buildings were closely knit units, as you often depended upon each other in illness or old age. The children were send to retrieve the daily paper for the elderly residents, and it was the norm to share the workload (remember Laundry-Day?). During summer evenings, the women would meet in the yard and enjoy their gossip sessions. Considering there were not many secrets (who’d believe you ran into the door when the whole house could hear the nightly argument?), it was no wonder each tenant would, lured by the smells wafting through the staircase, find a reason to visit before the day was over. It was still common to borrow a cup of sugar, bring over a piece of fruitcake… or just share a story and some company. And getting away with a taste of Granny’s waffles, weeeell, lets just say it did not take much to make a perfect day in the late 60’s :)

Around Christmas time, the baking frenzy lasted for days, and whatever you say, there IS no substitute for homemade Spekulatius (spice cookies), Fruitcake (not what YOU think of as fruitcake), Vanilla moons, Coconut mounds, or Cinnamon stars…. But that’s another story :)

Granny’s Butter Cones (mix to your own preference):

Real Flour (not the white stuff with all kinds of things added and removed)
Fresh, unprocessed Milk
Eggs (from happy chicks)
Sweet Butter (unsalted)
Vanilla
Sugar
Grated Lemon Rind
Small dash of salt
Spritzer Lemon Juice (optional)
Cinnamon (optional)
Chopped nuts (optional)


May there always be a baker in your home.

© Sorceress SummerWind, September 1999