HONORING ANNA
My Dearest Mother:
I think you are the best mother ever
because you are so very clever.
~Joy, age 8 Verse on hand-made Mothers Day card
ONLY THE GOOD FRIDAY
This Eclectic Life sponsors a meme of optimism once a week. Have a look and, if so inspired, join us on Fridays, leaving good things in your wake. In memory of my mom, I offer a reminiscence of her inner spirit.
My Mother’s Day is but a memory, having lost my mom to Alzheimer’s Disease many years ago. After living with it for twelve years, death was her out, releasing her from the psychic pain that claims memory at a slow pace in a traumatic game of Reality Gaslight. Caring for her in her last year of life afforded us both time for a final bond that is with me to this day. I wouldn’t trade that for anything.
Early in her adult life, Anna was a modern working woman who loved to entertain: cocktails, on the patio if the weather cooperated, dinner in the dining room reserved for such occasions, then cordials, more conversation and cigars in the living room before a reluctant ending in the wee hours of the morning. Her friends told stories of how they feared that her new husband would starve because, you see, Anna had never so much as lifted a gravy ladle in the kitchen before getting married. I honor my mom today, sharing with you a glimpse of my fond memories of her perfectly ordinary culinary skills matched by her perfectly fabulous sense of entertainment.
Today’s preparation is her favorite dessert, Cherries Jubilee. Well, her favorite after Baked Alaska, which she never made but would always order at restaurants serving the flaming frozen delight. A throw-back to a simpler time, and last seen on menus in the 1960s although I hear it’s making a comeback. As much as she loved Baked Alaska, she never attempted it – at least not in my lifetime – preferring the much easier, but equally flaming, Cherries Jubilee.
Pulling the recipe card from its shoe box home, its yellowed cardstock is splotched from age or kitchen splashings. It is hard to tell at this point but it’s nowhere nearly as splashed as my more commonly used cards. The type-written – with a manual! – letters are a reminder of Anna’s days as a stenographer with the federal government. This card is at least as old as I am; if not the card then at least the recipe. Anna had been making it before her daughter became the sweetest thing in the house.
She prepared the fruity concoction on the stove, then transfer it just before dinner into into a copper chafing dish with a can of Sterno below keeping it warm and ready on the credenza. After clearing the dishes from the salad course – salad was always served after the main course – the chafing dish was moved to Anna’s place at the end of the table. Long before dimmers, no dinner party was complete without candlelight, the dining room basked in the soft glow of two flames flickering off friends’ faces around the table, animating them as laughter and conversation filled the room.
While the Kirsch was heating on the stove, Anna scooped vanilla ice cream into individual serving dishes and brought them to the table around the chafing dish, still hiding it’s mystery under cover while people talked, finishing wine and lounging back in their chairs. No one was in a hurry, the recent memory of a satisfying home-cooked dinner still on their lips and settling in their bellies.
A little red enameled long-handled pot with a tiny spout – no more than a single cup capacity – contained the cherry-flavored liquor, warming on the stove. She brought it to the table, lifted the lid on the cherries, and poured the Kirsh into the chafing dish. Then, with the deft of a magician, a lighted match appeared from nowhere and kissed the warmed liquor. Flames instantly sprang up over the full diameter of the chafing dish, an Olympic torch for the table, and guests would oooooo and ahhhhh with delight.
The last line of the recipe card says “Pour blazing cherries over the ice cream,” and, as nice as that sounds, the flames would die down before they could be ladled atop the frozen vanilla mounds and passed to each guest, but you get the picture. Eating Cherries Jubilee is a riot of senses, mixing textures of the almost whole cherries and the smooth and creamy ice cream, temperatures cold and hot, flavors sweet and tart. It was a 1950′s culmination of a dinner party dream come true. You can’t top that. Cordials in the living room were anticlimactic. The party continued but the food portion of the evening was ovah.
If you’re a kitten in the kitchen or believe you’re a dolt with desserts, try Cherries Jubilee. It’s sweet, it’s hot and cold, it’s made from a can. And it makes one hell of a presentation. Best of all, if my mom can pull it off, anyone can, with style. Thanks, Mom, for the sweet memory.
What a beautiful tribute. It brought back memories of all those gracious, house proud ladies who took entertainment to art. To this day, I love seeing anything that catches fire on a menu because the flames always indicate a celebration.
Jamie´s last blog ..Globe Trotting
Thanks, Jamie. Good observation about celebrations. There’s nothing like a tabletop bursting into flames to let you know that this is no ordinary dinner. Sizzling rice is the aural equivalent of food fireworks. It’s like the food is saying, “Can I have your attention, please?”