Burning Down the House: A Lesson in Generosity and Persistence

In the 1920s, my father’s parents sharecropped land they rented from wealthy landowners in Delaware. My grandmother worked as the cook in the main houses. She was short and strong. Her arms were as thick as a lumberjack’s, hard and firm from beating batters and kneading dough by hand. Her cakes were fluffy and rose a mile high. Her yeast rolls were as soft as cotton.

The results were untouchable. Literally. As a young boy, my father was not permitted to eat any of these treats under threat of physical punishment.

I have none of those recipes. Neither did my mother. Grandmom kept them neatly filed — in her head. And seemed to always forget a key ingredient when verbally telling one how to make it.

My mother’s side of the family is where the baking legacy lives for my sisters and me. We rarely ate sweets, though my dad would often savor two Fig Newtons with his coffee and enjoy a nightly bowl of ice cream. Those were never off-limits for him.

Visions of sugar plums

From Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day, however, Mom would load the dining room table with dozens upon dozens of her freshly baked goodies.

I am convinced I could hear the table groan. There were crispy Polish chrusciki made of sweet dough, twisted into a bow, deep fried, then dusted with powdered sugar, and tender kolaczki, their apricot jam centers snuggled in the arms of a buttery cookie crust. Those were accompanied by pies, fudge, brownies, cakes, and cookies.

Though many of the Eastern European traditional recipes called for rum, Mom used flavored extract. The one exception was her Cherries Jubilee — a spectacular dessert comprised of warmed dark cherry sauce spooned over vanilla ice cream — topped with brandy that was set ablaze. It became her signature dish.

As finances loosened over the years, my parents could afford a few luxury items. Among my mother’s prized possessions was an International Sterling silver-plated chafing dish complete with lid and stand.

Engraved with an ornate scroll pattern, the set was proudly displayed atop an unused walnut stereo console. Mom sacrificed a showcase presentation for preservation, keeping the set carefully wrapped in plastic most of the year.

She searched for recipes that used a chafing dish. Thumbing through ladies’ magazines, she’d discovered one for the impressive flaming concoction. And by the 1980s, it had become her holiday staple.

Mom splurged on real Breyers vanilla bean ice cream and used brandy as the high-proof spirit — pulled out of a box of leftover liquor served at my sister Pat’s 1967 wedding. By 1986, it had aged well.

During that holiday, my husband and I visited my parents on my childhood farm. It was New Year’s Eve, and we were gathered in the avocado green and harvest gold wallpapered kitchen — a place where over the years, many conversations were held.

A glowing New Year’s Eve

My mother was preparing her signature dish. I joined her at the handmade plywood table, my two-year-old son on my lap. It dawned on me — this was the same bench Mom held me on when I was two.

We chatted as she pitted fresh cherries. Her cotton apron, hastily tied with the bow askew, was stained blood red from the juice.

Stirring the prepared fruit over the gas stove with a cracked wooden spoon, we caught up on hometown gossip as one of my sisters scooped snowy white ice cream into lavender-flowered china bowls.

After the sauce thickened, Mom transferred the steaming mixture into the gleaming chafing dish.

Disappearing to our rickety back porch, an ad hoc storage area, she returned with a dusty brandy bottle topped with a paraffin-sealed cork.

Gently removing the old stopper, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose. She poured a generous amount over the cherries, turned off the dining room chandelier, and struck a long match — the kind used for fireplaces.

Nothing happened. With a flourish of her hand, she poured a bit more. Again, she struck the match. Nada.

She frowned. We turned the lights back on. Grabbing an antique shot glass off the shelf, she poured the aged liquor and took a sip.

“Mom, that’s alcohol!” I exclaimed, knowing she rarely drank.

“I know,” she said. “I’m testing it. It’s not lighting so I’m thinking the alcohol may have evaporated.”

She took another taste.

“Here Wendy, you try it,” she said, tipping the bottle over a second shot glass and handing it to me.

I sniffed the caramel spirit, then sampled it. It tasted like toasted toffee. I took another sip. So did Mom.

“I think it’s good, Mom,” I said, sampling a bit more.

Mom started laughing, her cheeks nearly the shade of her dessert.

“Oh, well,” she said, “Let me just put some more on. Waste not want not!”

With a grand gesture, she emptied the rest of the bottle, filling the chafing dish to the brim.

“Instead of matches, Mom, maybe use a lighter?” I suggested.

“Good idea!” she said.

She pulled out a gun from a junk drawer near the refrigerator. My eyes opened wide. Then she pulled the trigger. A blue flame shot from the barrel. It was a lighter!

Relieved, I finished what was left in my glass.

“Okey-dokey,” she said, giggling. “Let’s see if that did the trick.”

Turning off the lights again and leaning close to the chafing dish, she squeezed the trigger. The lighter’s glow reflected off the glazed mahogany-colored liquid.

Kafloom!

A dazzling inferno erupted, leaping a foot or more. Mom squealed and jumped back.

The fire burned brightly for a moment, then slowly diminished, ultimately extinguishing. Everyone oohed and aahed, then broke into applause.

Hiding behind the sweet aroma of simmering cherries was the distinctive smell of burnt hair.

All’s well that ends well

I looked up and saw my mother’s eyebrows were singed, along with a few stray hairs.

“Mom, your eyebrows …” I said trying to hold onto my son as he kicked and clapped with glee.

Her hand went to her face.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed, feeling the stubble over her eyes. Shaken, she ran to the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her rosy face. Thankfully, her skin was fine. The damage: shortened eyelashes, seared eyebrows, fried hair wisps, and ruined mascara.

“I guess that brandy was good after all!” she proclaimed when she returned to the table. We proceeded to eat the brandy-soaked cherries with a hint of char. Mom had suffered for her flambé — it was the least we could do.

As the family exchanged hugs and kisses on the stroke of midnight, Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve blaring on TV, no one mentioned Mom’s slightly crooked, penciled-on eyebrows.

And years later, I can still picture my dad, reclining on his beloved well-worn armchair, bowl empty, licking the last bit of cherry juice off his spoon.