BAKE-OFF LOSER

I entered the 2017 Pillsbury Bake-Off, a contest for amateur bakers to submit "original recipes" that included a Pillsbury product (mostly from a variety of their pre-made, packaged doughs), along with an essay that told a story about why that recipe was important to each contestant's family. In these days of the internet, every recipe ever used by anyone in my family has already been posted on someone's Web site, so submitting an "original recipe" was a significant challenge.

I am a huge fan of "The Great British Bake-Off," known as "The Great British Baking Show" in the U.S. because Pillsbury already owned the "Bake-Off" name here, so I have been inspired to learn how bake. But before my forays into the world of bread, my family did not bake a lot; my mother made cakes and cookies, but the most we ever did with a roll of any of that Pillsbury stuff was (a) unroll a thing of crescent rolls, (b) bake the crescent rolls, and (c) slather them with butter until they were of proper artery-clogging saturation and then eat them. We never pondered the versatility of that crescent roll dough or dreamed up a way to turn roll it around a piece of chicken or whatever.

The prize for the Pillsbury Bake-Off was 50,000 dollars, which would be nice, and new kitchen appliances, which my mother wants, so feeling inspired with Bake-Off fever I thought I had a chance to win, and went to the store and bought every type of Pillsbury dough that I could find. After much trial and delicious error, I came up with a really cool idea for a caramel apple pie topping, including bits of (Pillsbury!) crust, to pour over ice cream. I cannot emphasize enough how delicious this stuff is. Unless I turn into Diane Keaton in "Baby Boom" and start my own food-in-a-jar enterprise, I will post the recipe here when I have the wherewithal to take photos of each step.

Sadly, the recipe and essay that I submitted didn't catch anyone's eye among the judging panel. No new kitchen appliances for mom, no money for me. Try, try again. 

As for the essay we had to write, I took a gamble with that "what does this recipe mean to your family?" topic, and instead of making up a lovely tale of gathering 'round the dinner table and eating hearty baked goods, I just told the truth.  Here is the essay:

~~~

GRANDMA

My grandmother, Lorraine, did not cook dinner. She threw parties.  It was how she approached life: everything was an "event." Every day was another chance to greet the world while dripping with sparkling rhinestone jewelry, and perfectly manicured fingernails painted Dragon Lady Red. 

This is not to suggest she was wealthy.  Her modest house, somewhere in the southern sprawl of Chicago, was about the size of the foyer in one of today's suburban mansions. But in each room there hung a crystal chandelier, and every window was draped in tulle. The living room walls were not beige, the color was "champagne," thank you very much. And when our family packed into that house for get-togethers, filled with aunts and uncles and cousins with kids, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on fold-out chairs, the platters of food were served on fine china and garnished with a sprig of parsley, just to make it glamorous. She had lived through World War II and learned to cook with food out of cans, but those stews and casseroles were fabulous after she tossed some chopped scallions on top and garnished it with a sprig of parsley.

 

My family lived several hours away, so when we drove up for visits, we would sleep at her house. At breakfast we would cram into her little kitchen, and she was always standing at the stove, frying bacon and eggs and waving her spatula around as she told stories and laughed. Almost everything in that kitchen was yellow, canary yellow, with yellow walls and yellow vinyl chairs and yellow paper napkins, and we would eat those eggs with their yellow yolks running across the plates, and and it was all so happy and bright, even on the grayest Chicago days. The table sat only 4 people, so we had to take turns sitting, climbing over each other to get to the chair in the corner, but I tried to grab the seat in the back corner so I could pretend like it was too complicated to get up again. Really I just didn't want to miss a minute of it. So I ate slowly, my eggs getting cold. And of course that always meant Grandma gave me a hard time for not eating enough because I was so skinny, dropping down more pieces of toast, and she would even try to get me to eat the parsley because it had vitamins. I never ate that sprig of parsley.

 

After I graduated from college, I lived with my grandmother for a little while in her final years of life, to keep her company and give her an extra pair of hands to take out the trash and wash those champagne tulle curtains. We cooked together, stews and casseroles made from cans. On dark Chicago winter nights, we dined by candlelight. The food, thanks to her 50+ years of experimenting with recipes, was delicious. And she still served some dinners with that sprig of parsley, although by then she didn't always have the energy to get to the store to buy it fresh.

 

When she died, Grandma's funeral service was packed with family and friends, each of whom had a funny story to tell about the goings-on at a barbecue in her back yard or a party in her basement. But the center of our family was gone, and so was that yellow kitchen. By then I had a new job and was again living far away, in a studio apartment that did not have an oven, so I had no choice but to keep things simple. And that is fine, because Grandma taught me how to cook, so I cook best when food is fun and is easy to prepare. For example, I can cook apple pie on a stove and serve it in a jar. (...which is DELICIOUS over ice cream.) 

 

And yes, when people come over for dinner, I do garnish with a sprig of parsley. I laugh when they try to eat it.

Comments

[Carie Mahoner]

I had no idea you had Chicago ties! Anyway, this is the type of tale I love. Your Grandmother must have been quite a lady with a few tales of her own. :-)