My grandpa drove a little diesel pickup for the better part of the 1980s. It was banana yellow, well before that color was in vogue, but even so, the most distinguishing characteristic was its brand -- Toyota.I'm certain that in and of itself, a diesel-engine Toyota pickup, even a yellow one, wasn't all that unusual at the time, but pickup drivers in the heartland typically have two socially acceptable choices: Ford or Chevy, though Dodges are allowed in certain circles.
But gas prices were high in the 1970s and grandpa, God bless him, was even cheaper then than he is now (so I'm told), and that little pickup became his trademark as he roamed the countryside tracking the activities of his six sons.
The Toyota was tiny, especially compared to its Cummins-turbo-diesel, extended-cab, long-box counterparts, so you can understand why it might have held particular appeal to a kid, like my cousin Paul, fascinated by the idea of driving.
Growing up, Paul and I spent a lot of time together; we were the only cousins (of 18) the same age living north of town -- and later, we were the only ones horse mad. But in the early days, we spent a lot of time at grandpa and grandma's place and I remember sitting in the passenger seat of that Toyota while Paul manned the steering wheel and shifter. I can't say, however, if this particular memory is mine, or if I remember it because Paul told me about it later; he was a good storyteller, that Paul, so it's hard to say. In any case, it goes like this: We must have been about five and four, respectively, still too little to reach the pedals and this ultimately proved problematic when Paul knocked the pickup out of gear. It rolled down the slight hill in front of the house where grandpa still likes to park and was eventually stopped by the baler.
I remember the stomach-churning anxiety of those few moments of motion and I remember grandma swooping out of the house to rescue and reprimand. I remember sitting at the kitchen table eating molasses cookies after everything calmed down, but I don't remember grandpa's reaction.
We must have been banned from the Toyota because, really, what other outcome could there have been? This forced us to turn our attention to nosing around in the attic, breaking into the summer kitchen and camping out in the broke down milk truck.
Years later, properly horsed, we'd stop by the house to say hello when we were out riding. Grandma would bring out cinnamon rolls or molasses cookies, depending on what she had on hand. And if grandpa was around, he'd bring us out a pop, usually orange or grape Shasta. And then we'd be off again to carouse and scheme (i.e. daydreaming about the Jesse James gang and making up country songs, which Paul swore me to secrecy about. I'm not sure why because he wasn't shy about his other masterpieces, such as the chili dog song, which goes like this: Chili dog. Chili dog. Dog dog chili. First came the dog. Then came the chili. Chili willy willy willy willy. Repeat ad nauseam.)
After Paul got his license, grandpa gave him the Toyota. It was an unusual gift for a grandpa to give to only one of his grandchildren, but I don't remember it causing a fuss (though it could be that Paul was the only one who wanted it!). Grandpa and Paul shared a birthday, a name, and a calling -- both were born farmers -- so it makes sense that Paul would inherit his trademark pickup. Only Paul dubbed it the Yota, covered it with CB whips and crowned it, for a short time, with an intercom system. Yes. It's true and as I recall, he liked to drive by the Emery swimming pool issuing pool break edicts.
We lost Paul in October so suddenly to a disease so rare that it still doesn't seem quite real. Part of that, I know, is my vantage point: I wasn't around when he settled down with his wife a mile down the road from grandpa and grandma's farm. I never stopped in at his shop in Emery for a tour or to see how business was going. I didn't see him in his role as daddy those six brief months.
Instead, what I remember is how jealous I was of the horse he had for his cabbage patch doll. I remember convincing him to help me break out all the windows on my parents' old chicken coop. I remember bathing horses for the county show with "My Maria" playing on the radio in the barn. I remember driving around in his old green Pinto, which he had to abandon after it started on fire for the second or third time, listening to Sublime. I remember how he smeared Vicks vapor rub under his nose, even in public, to treat a stuffy nose. I remember a boy who was a little bit audacious yet so completely charming with a gift for living each moment so fully that you couldn't help but catch hold of his joy, even if only in remembering.
When I was home the day after Christmas, I stopped in to see grandpa and grandma. Paul's wife and daughter were there visiting, too, and grandpa, in deference to the baby, had the heat cranked up to 80 and grandma had pulled out the basket of toys she keeps around for the great-grandkids. Sydney was chewing on an old Real Lemon bottle -- the one in the shape of the lemon -- completely content. Megan looked soul weary and grandma looked like she'd been crying, and despite all you can say about God and his grace, sometimes your heart swells so full that words just can't suffice and you can only hope that the sheer force of your love is enough to offer some small comfort.
This is why two of the Hutterite colonies in the area fought over which one would supply the buns for the lunch after the funeral, why my uncle, who knew he couldn't bear to attend, arranged for Paul to be taken to the cemetery on the back of a pickup instead of a hearse, and why the superintendent of the school canceled classes that day.
And even though the sadness hung thick in grandma's kitchen, we sat at the table exclaiming over the baby, the calendar of family photos Megan had put together for grandma, and Donny's engagement to Sarah, the Oklahoma girl who had won grandma over with her pleasing Southern manners. And the covered cake plate on the corner of the counter had a few molasses cookies.
So because they're grandpa's favorites, according to grandma, because they color the background of so many of my childhood adventures, and because it's good to remember, I'm sharing the recipe with you.
Soft Molasses Cookies
(Grandma notes that "this recipe is at least 60 years old. These are Dad's absolute favorites and all the boys like them too.")
The rundown:2 cups brown sugar
1 cup shortening (yes, shortening)
1 cup sour cream
1 cup sour buttermilk (grandma notes that this should be the "bought kind;" I don't know what store-bought sour buttermilk is, or if I'd want it hanging out in my fridge even if I did.)
1 cup light mild molasses
2 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon cloves (grandma notes that one should "go easy" on the cloves; she uses a 1/2 teaspoon, but I disregarded this little tip.)
1 teaspoon ginger
3 teaspoons baking soda
8 cups flour, sifted (I didn't sift.)
The best I can tell, a full recipe will make at least 10 or 11 dozen cookies. That's a lot, my friends. Enough to feed seven kids, one husband and assorted hired hands, perhaps, but way more than will even fit in my freezer.
I made a quarter recipe, which yielded 2 1/2 dozen. I could have gotten more, but I was tired of rolling out the dough.
Since it's difficult to halve an egg, I used one. This one, from a chicken who roams the range, beak intact, and works toward the democratization of organic and natural foods by selling her wares to Wal-Mart. I like that about her.
Grandma says to mix the ingredients in the order given. But here's what I did:1. Cream the sugar and Crisco.
2. Beat in the egg.
3. Add the buttermilk, molasses and sour cream.
4. Add in the dry ingredients.
5. Grandma doesn't say to do this, but I recommend it: Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and stash it in the freezer while you wash up the dishes. This step is vital to an authentic molasses-cookie-making experience; grandma spent years suffering dry skin and dishpan hands without a dishwasher, too. Only she was making a hundred plus cookies at a go.6. Once the dishes are washed, counters cleaned up and dough properly chilled, roll it out between two sheets of wax paper (but "not too thin," grandma warns).
7. Don't worry if you don't have a round cookie cutter. A cocktail tumbler dipped in powdered sugar works just as well.
8. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 to 12 minutes. (I lined the cookie sheets with parchment paper because I was out of Pam.)
9. After the cookies have cooled slightly, frost them with a powdered sugar glaze -- powdered sugar, a little lemon juice, a little milk and a little white (corn) syrup. (I know it gets a bad rap, but I don't blame it for any extra pounds I may have carried around, and while there are a lot of areas in the Great Plains where common sense suggests wheat or pasture, I know a lot of farmers who grow their No. 2 yellow corn along with the requisite refuge acres without irrigation, in a proper rotation, using no-till or minimum-till practices. And I support them and any corn syrup they produce. So does grandma.)
10. Then, once the frosting has hardened, you can stack them.
11. Or tie them with a bow.
12. And stack them again.
13. But don't forget to eat one. Or two. Or three. Or, well, you get the point. And if you have enough, you can share, but only if you want to.When I got my Valentine's Day care package from the church ladies at Zion Mennonite during my days at NWC, I would fish these out and hoard them for myself. I shared the rest or threw them out, depending on who made them and believe me you could tell. But these. These are everything a cookie should be.
All the college kids from church got these care packages. One year Paul's was stolen -- only it turned up later in the mail room of his apartment complex, or some such place, where it had been all along. But in the interim, there were a lot of incensed church ladies as well as talk of mail fraud and revenge.
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