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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.…
