The church I grew up in was Mennonite in name, but at some point while I was too young to give such things much attention, it left whatever conference it was involved in (I think it was the general conference), becoming, in practice, much like other conservative, evangelical churches: We didn't baptize babies. We didn't raise our hands or clap or sing praise songs. And we certainly didn't sit around talking about our feelings. But we prayed long and hard and often -- and though communion was maybe a quarterly occurrence, we found a lot of excuses to break bread together and I still know where to find everything in that church kitchen, though I haven't been in it for almost eight years.
When I was looking for colleges, my mom wanted me to visit the Mennonite-affiliated Tabor and Bethel, even Grace. But I ended up at Northwestern College, nestled right in the middle of northwest Iowa's Dutch country. And at Northwestern I met Tonya (because we both liked the same boy. Said boy proved unsuitable for both of us, though we ended up being quite compatible). And Tonya, who was from Kansas and related to Naomi Kauffman (of all people), taught me a lot about Mennonites.
This education delved into some of the finer points of pacifism and included an introduction to Northwestern's Anabaptist fellowship group (this mainly involved hymn singing and eating, as I recall) and a briefing on some of the more important moments in our history, including the details of how Mennonites brought wheat to the Southern Plains by sewing the seed into dolls, clothing, blankets and sheets to smuggle it out of Russia.
Apparently Mennonites were good at hiding things. According to my grandma, they also baked Bibles into bread to keep them from being discovered -- and to avoid death for possessing them.
Think about that for a second. And then think about Matthew 4:4, John 1:1-2 and John 6:24-35. I have to confess that I don't know if the story is fact or fiction; it's almost too perfect an illustration; however, a) my grandma told me it's true (and doesn't that just almost always settle the question?) and b) you do have to consider that there are a lot of Mennonite breads, rolls and dumplings that have fillings: Verenicke (cottage cheese, primarily), kolaches (various fruits, cream cheese or poppy seed), bohne beroggis (pinto beans!) and beirocks (cabbage and ground beef), and those are only the ones I can name right off hand.
Until a month or so ago, I had never made beirock myself.
And I hadn't shared a kitchen with someone other than my mom (and Justin) since college and Plex 20. I didn't even realize that it was something I'd missed until I spent a Saturday afternoon visiting Tonya and Kelcee in Des Moines.
Tonya procured a beirock recipe from back home and she even typed it out, after quizzing her mom about the specifics, so that I could write about it later. Her mom is one of those sorts who makes bread by putting stuff together until the dough feels right. So you can understand the work Tonya did on my behalf.
Dough:
2 tablespoons yeast
2 3/4 cups warm water, divided
1/3 cup powdered milk
3 tablespoons sugar, divided
2 teaspoons salt
2/3 cup shortening
2/3 cup mashed potatoes (you can use instant)
1 egg
5 to 7 cups flour, or enough to make a firm dough (we used more than this because it was extremely humid)
Start by proofing the yeast. We mixed the yeast and 1 tablespoon of sugar with about 3/4 cup of warm water.
Then heat the remaining water, sugar and shortening in a saucepan until the shortening is melted.
Beat the egg and add it along with the powdered milk, salt and mashed potatoes to the butter mixture. (We used a leftover baked potato. In theory, this will work. But make sure you mash it first. We missed that step and kept picking potato chunks out of the dough...)
Stir in about three or four cups of flour with the butter mixture. Keep stirring until it's smooth. (This process goes a lot faster if you have a Kitchen Aid, like Tonya.) Keep adding flour until you get the texture you want. Even if you do have a Kitchen Aid, you'll want to do some kneading by hand so that you can gauge the consistency and texture of the dough.
Once you have it kneaded smooth, set it aside in a greased bowl to rise until double.
In the meantime, make the filling.
Filling:
2 pounds hamburger
Large head of cabbage, shredded
Onion, chopped, to taste
Salt, pepper and other seasonings, depending on your preference.
Brown the hamburger, rinse. Add the cabbage, onion and seasonings. Simmer until the cabbage is tender.
Once the dough is ready, punch it down and divide into two or three sections, depending on how much you want to work with at a time. Roll it out and cut it into 4-inch squares.
Place 1/3 to 1/2 cup filling in the middle, fold in the corners -- or fold into a triangle -- and pinch the dough together to seal it.
Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until golden brown. It should make about three dozen.
I wish I had pictures, but I forgot my camera the day we made them -- I do still have some in the freezer, so when I get them out and thawed, I'll make sure to post a few photos.
These are good, but my husband has a thing about cabbage -- and onions -- and Tonya's husband calls them cabbage cakes. I suspect that means he doesn't appreciate them as he should. Kelcee's husband, God bless him, was the only one who seemed appropriately excited about our afternoon's work.
Because I can't -- or rather, shouldn't -- eat an entire batch of beirocks by myself, I plan to experiment with some different fillings the next time I make them. Tonya and Kelcee mentioned ham and cheese -- and I wonder if a vegetable or potato filling of some sort would work too.
I've also come across a variation on the dough -- more sugar, different process for putting it together -- that I want to try. I'll let you know how it turns out.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Called to the Kitchen
I've long understood that place shapes identity and, even more than that, spirituality -- something Kathleen Norris refers to as spiritual geography in her book Dakota and that Linda Hasselstrom also addresses in her work, albeit from a different vantage point.
In any case, as far as place goes, my identity is rooted in the southeast corner of South Dakota along the James River, the place, as the story goes, the scouts sent ahead from Russia picked as the best location for the new settlement. In making this decision, they bypassed the more fertile farm ground of the Red River Valley and northwest Iowa because it was "too good" and they feared the people would become "proud" working rich land like that.
If there's one thing that can be said about farming, it's this: Depending on the land and the whims of the weather for your livelihood fosters, if not a relationship with God, at least the knowledge that there are forces greater than yourself at work in the world.
But I'm only beginning to understand how food can go beyond preserving cultural identity and family history to become theology in practice. I've said before that I come from a long line of women who take great joy in feeding people. I've never thought much about it until I put it in the larger context of the Mennonite emphasis on service and, more specifically, the relief sales, the meat canning, the disaster relief.
Within this context, cooking goes beyond a means of showing love to family and community or even a spiritual gift in service of the church. It becomes necessary for showing Christ to the world. It becomes a calling.
So there it is. As much as I have worked out.
In any case, as far as place goes, my identity is rooted in the southeast corner of South Dakota along the James River, the place, as the story goes, the scouts sent ahead from Russia picked as the best location for the new settlement. In making this decision, they bypassed the more fertile farm ground of the Red River Valley and northwest Iowa because it was "too good" and they feared the people would become "proud" working rich land like that.
If there's one thing that can be said about farming, it's this: Depending on the land and the whims of the weather for your livelihood fosters, if not a relationship with God, at least the knowledge that there are forces greater than yourself at work in the world.
But I'm only beginning to understand how food can go beyond preserving cultural identity and family history to become theology in practice. I've said before that I come from a long line of women who take great joy in feeding people. I've never thought much about it until I put it in the larger context of the Mennonite emphasis on service and, more specifically, the relief sales, the meat canning, the disaster relief.
Within this context, cooking goes beyond a means of showing love to family and community or even a spiritual gift in service of the church. It becomes necessary for showing Christ to the world. It becomes a calling.
So there it is. As much as I have worked out.
Zweiback, At Last
The morning after we made the jam, my mom and I made the zweiback. It was something I'd wanted to do since April when I found Marilyn Moore's Baking Memoir in Friendly Used Books. It was a good find, and, thrilled to have all these old familiar recipes at hand, I regaled my husband with recipes for peppernuts, kuchen and zweiback (and Moore's account of how her dad got kicked out of Tabor College, which, being Lutheran and unfamiliar with Tabor as well as unversed in my uncles' exploits at Grace Bible Institute, now Grace University he couldn't quite appreciate as much as I did) over supper at the Pizza Shoppe (in my defense, we'd walked to Benson for some shopping and supper -- so the book was sitting right there beside me in the booth).I brought the book home with me to share with mom. At first, she was aghast that I spent $9.00 on a used book, but after she spent an afternoon looking at it, she wanted me to find her a copy on Amazon. She also decided that we should try Bertha Toevs' recipe (Moore refers to her as a zweiback expert: this means that her zweiback never come unstacked in the oven) rather than the one she had from Naomi Kauffman.
Both Naomi and Bertha are from Kansas, so the recipe my mom remembers from Henderson is probably slightly different than either of these. You'll notice that Bertha's recipe uses quite a bit more yeast. In Naomi's recipe, the dough needs to rise twice. In any case, though, the thing that really makes them zweiback (at least as I understand it), is the two-bun stack. In fact, my grandma told me her mom never made buns without stacking them.
Naomi's Recipe
(makes 4 to 5 dozen)
3 cups milk
2 tablespoons salt
6 tablespoons sugar, plus 1 teaspoon
1 cup Wesson oil
1/2 cup warm water
2 packages active dry yeast (1 package yeast is 2 1/4 teaspoons)
8-10 cups flour
Scald 2 cups milk and mix with the sugar and salt. Mix yeast in 1/2 cup water with sugar and let set until bubbly. Add last cup of cold milk and oil to first mixture. This cools it enough that the yeast can then be added. Now add flour until dough becomes fairly easy to handle, not sticky but not too stiff either. Grease and form ball in your bowl and cover to raise. Let rise 1 hour and knead. Then let rise another hour and form the zwieback. Put them on a greased cookie sheet and bake at 350 degrees Fahrenheit for 10 to 12 minutes.
Pastor George and Naomi were at Zion Mennonite in Bridgewater for most of my growing up years. When I was in college, they left for another call at a church in Henderson. It's a small Mennonite world.
Bertha's Recipe (as told by Marilyn Moore)
(makes about 3 dozen)
2 cups whole milk, scalded
1 cup unsalted butter or margarine, melted
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon salt
1 cup warm water
2 to 3 tablespoons active dry yeast
8 to 9 cups all-purpose flour (unbleached flour can be used, but don't use bread flour)
Bertha includes the specifics for how to mix everything together, but every bread maker has a method that works best so I'll just tell you what we did.
My mom didn't have whole milk on hand, so we used skim milk, which we combined with the butter and sugar in a saucepan. We put it over low heat until the butter melted and the sugar dissolved. (Note that scalding milk in the old-fashioned sense generally isn't necessary. Our milk is pasteurized, so we don't need to worry about getting it hot enough to kill bacteria, unless you need to be at one with the natural food chain.) Once that happened, we set it aside to cool. If it's too hot, it will kill the yeast. A good general rule of thumb: If the temperature is comfortable to your wrist, it won't hurt the yeast.
While the milk mixture was heating, we combined the yeast, warm water and a couple teaspoons of honey in a tall water glass. This is something my mom taught me to do when I first started baking. The honey -- or sugar -- gives the yeast something to feed on and you can make sure the yeast is good before adding it to the rest of the ingredients.
When the milk was lukewarm, we added the yeast and three cups of flour and beat it with a wooden spoon until smooth. Then, we gradually added enough flour to make a soft (but not sticky), smooth dough, eventually turning it out to knead -- a little less than 10 minutes.
In all, we probably used about 8 1/2 cups of flour. And the dough was very soft -- when I picked it up, it seeped through my finger.
At this point, we put the dough in a greased bowl and let it rise until doubled (then punched it down).
And then it was time to start shaping the zweiback. We divided the dough in half and then kneped it. The dough is so soft, that it's a little tricky to get it smooth. The best way to do this is to pat it (think burping a baby or giving your significant other some "love taps" on the rump; I really can't think of any other way to describe it) and pull the sides down to get a smooth ball-like top.
Then hold the dough with one hand and with your thumb and index finger on the other, squeeze off a ball about 1.5 inches in diameter. Don't twist the dough -- overworking it will make it tough.
This process is kneping. It's something I've done for a long time, but I didn't know it had a name until Marilyn filled me in.
In any case, since mom and I divided the dough, we each made 18 1.5-inch balls (for the base) and 18 slightly smaller ones (for the top). But then our processes differed.
In the Bertha Toevs method of making zweiback, you let the dough rise until doubled, about 30 minutes, before stacking them. My mom wanted to stack them before they rose, as several other recipes suggest, including both Naomi's and Marilyn's. This is how her mother made them as well.
So, my mom stacked the smaller balls on top of the larger base and pressed her finger all the way through to the pan (which should be well greased!) and then let them rise about 30 minutes or so. And I let the dough rise first.
In this method, you dip your finger in a glass of cold water and then poke a hole almost all the way through to the baking sheet. (I wiggled my finger a little to create a slight well for the small ball.) Then, you moisten the bottom of the small ball and press it in the center of well (use slight pressure -- the dough will be very light as it has already risen).
When all the balls have been stacked, preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. When the oven is ready, turn it down to 350 degrees and bake the zweiback for 15 to 20 minutes until they're well browned.
Marilyn says to eat them without butter, only fresh jam. But my husband doesn't like rhubarb (pity that), so when I make them again (and when I get a Kitchen Aid), I'm going to try this recipe for homemade butter.
In case you were wondering, the Bertha Toevs-stacked zweiback had a better survival rate than the other method. Casualties and survivors alike, however, were consumed with great rejoicing at our impromptu faspa.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Rain on the Rhubarb
My dad grew up with five brothers and one sister. All things considered, this is a relatively average-sized family. But still, imagine feeding all of those growing farm boys.
From what grandma has said, dinner alone took two fried chickens (plus a hamburger or a couple of franks for the oldest boy, who's still not a fan of poultry), several pounds of potatoes and two pies to end. Besides dinner, though, there was also breakfast, two lunches (morning and afternoon), and supper, so it's little wonder that the kitchen, and more specifically, the Formica-topped table (with a couple generation's worth of chewing gum now cemented underneath) is still the place they all return to when they need tending.
Growing up, I sat at that table occupied with old puzzles and homemade play dough. I ate countless meals sitting in my dad's old place on the long end against the wall, and drank my share of pop, which grandpa doled out a half can at a time. During the summers I was home from college, I'd walk the two miles to the house, sit down for a glass of water and a visit, and unless grandpa insisted on driving me, walk the two miles back home. From that vantage point, I had a lot of opportunities to watch my grandma manage the various personalities in her family to circumvent conflict.
But when reasoning failed, she'd simply resort to this: Do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?
In other words, change the subject now or get out.
No one knows where she came up with it, but that hasn't stopped us from adopting it (along with grandpa's rather infamous portmanteau mental "flustration," which he used repeatedly during an interview with a local news station in the late 80s/early 90s). And I can't have rhubarb without thinking of my grandma.
Rhubarb Jam
5 cups rhubarb, chopped
4 cups sugar
4 cups sliced strawberries, blueberries or chopped cherries (or you can use a pie mix)
1 small box (6 oz) Jello in the same flavor
Combine the rhubarb and the sugar in a large saucepan and set aside until the rhubarb juices. Cook the rhubarb mixture over medium heat until it comes to a boil. Boil 15 minutes or until the rhubarb is tender. Add the fruit/pie mix and boil for 10 minutes more. Turn off the heat and stir in the Jello. Once the jam is cool, it's ready to be packaged. You can put it in jars and then refrigerate, but since it freezes well, I just put mine in freezer-safe Gladware and store it that way.
My mom and I made all three variations of this jam when I was home for a visit a few weeks ago. My personal favorite is the blueberry-rhubarb -- it's good on everything from ice cream to oatmeal, and especially fresh-baked bread.
For the record, I can't imagine that rain would ever hurt the rhubarb. It's hardy, being part of the buckwheat family and all -- and maybe that's the point.
From what grandma has said, dinner alone took two fried chickens (plus a hamburger or a couple of franks for the oldest boy, who's still not a fan of poultry), several pounds of potatoes and two pies to end. Besides dinner, though, there was also breakfast, two lunches (morning and afternoon), and supper, so it's little wonder that the kitchen, and more specifically, the Formica-topped table (with a couple generation's worth of chewing gum now cemented underneath) is still the place they all return to when they need tending.
Growing up, I sat at that table occupied with old puzzles and homemade play dough. I ate countless meals sitting in my dad's old place on the long end against the wall, and drank my share of pop, which grandpa doled out a half can at a time. During the summers I was home from college, I'd walk the two miles to the house, sit down for a glass of water and a visit, and unless grandpa insisted on driving me, walk the two miles back home. From that vantage point, I had a lot of opportunities to watch my grandma manage the various personalities in her family to circumvent conflict.
But when reasoning failed, she'd simply resort to this: Do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?
In other words, change the subject now or get out.
No one knows where she came up with it, but that hasn't stopped us from adopting it (along with grandpa's rather infamous portmanteau mental "flustration," which he used repeatedly during an interview with a local news station in the late 80s/early 90s). And I can't have rhubarb without thinking of my grandma.
Rhubarb Jam
5 cups rhubarb, chopped
4 cups sugar
4 cups sliced strawberries, blueberries or chopped cherries (or you can use a pie mix)
1 small box (6 oz) Jello in the same flavor
Combine the rhubarb and the sugar in a large saucepan and set aside until the rhubarb juices. Cook the rhubarb mixture over medium heat until it comes to a boil. Boil 15 minutes or until the rhubarb is tender. Add the fruit/pie mix and boil for 10 minutes more. Turn off the heat and stir in the Jello. Once the jam is cool, it's ready to be packaged. You can put it in jars and then refrigerate, but since it freezes well, I just put mine in freezer-safe Gladware and store it that way.
My mom and I made all three variations of this jam when I was home for a visit a few weeks ago. My personal favorite is the blueberry-rhubarb -- it's good on everything from ice cream to oatmeal, and especially fresh-baked bread.
For the record, I can't imagine that rain would ever hurt the rhubarb. It's hardy, being part of the buckwheat family and all -- and maybe that's the point.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Some Context
When I was in college I had so many words, so many ideas constantly demanding my attention that I filled journal upon journal besides writing all the papers and projects required of an English major. And then I went to graduate school and after that I got a job as an editor for an online publication and though the ideas still come, I lose them because at the end of the day, my words are all used up. The difference, I'm sure, involves all the other commitments on my time that come with being an adult -- and I know I’m not alone: a good friend of mine who completed a master's program in poetry two years ago hasn't written a single line since completing her thesis. We both agree that all we need is a little discipline to help us follow through on our good intentions.
And while I'd describe my life as fairly orderly, and even disciplined in some regards, that may be the biggest difference between my mom and me, at least when it comes to the kitchen. She's neat and orderly, washing dishes and utensils as she goes to prevent a big messy backlog at the end. I just stack them in the sink -- or by the sink. She follows a recipe to the letter, reading back through at the end to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. (The one time, at least to my knowledge, that she didn't do this, she forgot the sugar in the pumpkin pies she made for her ladies' Bible study and at the last minute had to remake all eight of them using, horrors, frozen pie crust -- but that's another story for another day). I improvise and substitute and it drives her nuts, especially as she is an alpha cook. (I have a lot to say about this, but it will have to wait for another day, too.)
When I was in high school, we would get into epic fights in the kitchen, usually while I was baking for the county 4-H Achievement Days. She'd hover with a ruler (I'm not even exaggerating for the sake of a good story, as other members of my family are wont to do), measuring how much batter was in each muffin tin, how big I was shaping the buns, if the loaves met the size specified in the recipe, and I would just lose it.
You must understand, though, that my mom is one of the best cooks I know and that my success at achievement was a direct reflection on her reputation. Achievement days are a three-day event: All the entries -- from livestock to visual arts to the various categories of baked goods -- are judged on the first two days. On the third day, the exhibit halls are opened to the public (mostly moms and grandmas come) and the whole thing culminates with a barbeque, usually pork or beef, though there was the unfortunate sheep incident (where everyone complained) that my dad still talks about (because he was on the fair board and let some of the mothers who wanted a healthier alternative line up the sheep and the man who barbequed/ruined it).
My brother, who is five years older than I am, made waffle cookies -- similar to these; I'll post the real recipe when I can find it -- his first year in 4-H (when he was 8) and he earned a white ribbon (which means disqualification!), a disgrace he has yet to live down. It was a technicality -- something about a frosted cookie being entered in a category for unfrosted cookies -- but all these years later, my mom has not forgotten. All that to say, my mom really had more at stake than I did in this thing and it was shameful of me to provoke her by refusing to level that tablespoon of cinnamon with a knife. (If you're reading mom, know that I'm sorry.)
Now that I'm older and, I'd like to think wiser, sharing a kitchen with my mom is much easier, as long as I remember my place. And, for her part, she trusts me more. But mostly I think it's because we no longer have to deal with achievement-day baking and the approval of the old home economics teachers the county extension agent would round up to judge it.
And while I'd describe my life as fairly orderly, and even disciplined in some regards, that may be the biggest difference between my mom and me, at least when it comes to the kitchen. She's neat and orderly, washing dishes and utensils as she goes to prevent a big messy backlog at the end. I just stack them in the sink -- or by the sink. She follows a recipe to the letter, reading back through at the end to make sure she hasn't forgotten anything. (The one time, at least to my knowledge, that she didn't do this, she forgot the sugar in the pumpkin pies she made for her ladies' Bible study and at the last minute had to remake all eight of them using, horrors, frozen pie crust -- but that's another story for another day). I improvise and substitute and it drives her nuts, especially as she is an alpha cook. (I have a lot to say about this, but it will have to wait for another day, too.)
When I was in high school, we would get into epic fights in the kitchen, usually while I was baking for the county 4-H Achievement Days. She'd hover with a ruler (I'm not even exaggerating for the sake of a good story, as other members of my family are wont to do), measuring how much batter was in each muffin tin, how big I was shaping the buns, if the loaves met the size specified in the recipe, and I would just lose it.
You must understand, though, that my mom is one of the best cooks I know and that my success at achievement was a direct reflection on her reputation. Achievement days are a three-day event: All the entries -- from livestock to visual arts to the various categories of baked goods -- are judged on the first two days. On the third day, the exhibit halls are opened to the public (mostly moms and grandmas come) and the whole thing culminates with a barbeque, usually pork or beef, though there was the unfortunate sheep incident (where everyone complained) that my dad still talks about (because he was on the fair board and let some of the mothers who wanted a healthier alternative line up the sheep and the man who barbequed/ruined it).
My brother, who is five years older than I am, made waffle cookies -- similar to these; I'll post the real recipe when I can find it -- his first year in 4-H (when he was 8) and he earned a white ribbon (which means disqualification!), a disgrace he has yet to live down. It was a technicality -- something about a frosted cookie being entered in a category for unfrosted cookies -- but all these years later, my mom has not forgotten. All that to say, my mom really had more at stake than I did in this thing and it was shameful of me to provoke her by refusing to level that tablespoon of cinnamon with a knife. (If you're reading mom, know that I'm sorry.)
Now that I'm older and, I'd like to think wiser, sharing a kitchen with my mom is much easier, as long as I remember my place. And, for her part, she trusts me more. But mostly I think it's because we no longer have to deal with achievement-day baking and the approval of the old home economics teachers the county extension agent would round up to judge it.
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