The Eskimo Igloo Cake
Sara Etgen-Baker
©
Copyright 2022 by Sara Etgen-Baker
|
Photo property of Sara. |
Mother’s
rectangular-shaped kitchen was tiny—no more than 7 feet long
and 5 feet wide. Although equipped with a moderate-sized
refrigerator and a full-size gas range, it was cramped; had no
pantry; and little storage space. Storage was so sparse that Mother
kept her pots and pans in the oven overnight and removed them the
next morning when she prepared breakfast.
I
learned to cook standing alongside her often complaining about her
tiny kitchen. “I hate cooking in here! There’s no room
for anything! It’s ALWAYS
hot in here. I can’t breathe!” I’d open the
kitchen window and
dramatically fan myself. “You know, clean up would be easier
if you just had a dishwasher and disposal.”
“Listen,
Missy,” Mother turned to me scowling, “When I was a young
girl during the Depression, I helped my mother cook on a wood stove
that was so old it had holes in it.” Then Mother stopped what
she was doing and grabbed her wet dish towel. “Look around. My
kitchen has a stove, a refrigerator, pots, pans, and cooking
utensils; everything else is optional.” Then she whipped her
dish towel between her thumb and forefingers and snapped it on my
buttocks. “Don’t be so fussy! Be grateful for what you
have. Now finish washing and drying them dishes.”
I
stood at the sink, sulking while hand-washing and drying the dishes
watching her, my grandmother, and my aunt huddle around the kitchen
table where they dumped all their S&H Green stamps onto the
table
where they sorted them by denomination; licked them; and stuck them
onto the grid pages of the booklets that the supermarket gave away.
Women
in Mother’s generation didn’t work outside the home and
didn’t have their own income. So, collecting and redeeming
those Green Stamps gave them a means of obtaining items they wanted
or needed. Mother saved for two years before having enough stamps to
redeem for an electric waffle maker and mixer. And on the day Mother
redeemed her stamps, I went with her to the Redemption Center. While
we waited for the stockroom clerk to retrieve her purchase, I browsed
through the store.
Then
I saw it—The
Betty Crocker Cookbook for Boys and Girls.
I opened it; slid my fingers across its pages; and glanced through
the recipes, drawings, and photographs and knew that I simply must
have that cookbook. Although the cookbook cost only half a book of
stamps, I knew better than to out-and-out ask Mother to give me any
of her prized stamps. So, I formulated what I thought was a pretty
foolproof plan.
“Mama,”
I guided her toward the cookbook display, “have you seen this
cookbook?” I opened the book’s pages. “It’s
just perfect for me, and…..”
“Hmmmm…”
Mother skimmed through the pages. “I don’t know. Half a
book of stamps is…”
“…an
awful lot. I know, Mother, but…” I interrupted her
hoping to stop her objection dead in its tracks. “…I’ll
do extra chores to earn enough stamps to buy it. Please, Mama,
pleeeese!”
“Well,
uh, I s’ppose so. But you’re responsible for your own
stamps and putting them in the booklets. But once school starts, you
won’t be able to do as many extra chores. School comes first,
you hear me!”
“Yes,
Mama, I do!” I skipped out the door and raced to the car.
I
spent the entire summer doing extra chores—ironing Dad’s
shirts, folding clothes, vacuuming, and dusting. Even the neighbor
ladies helped giving me Green Stamps for polishing their shoes;
ironing their clothes; washing their dishes; and running their
errands. But by summer’s end, I was two pages shy of having the
half book of stamps I needed.
When
school started, I did as I promised dedicating myself to my school
work. Fall gave way to winter; by Christmas I still didn’t have
enough stamps to buy my cookbook. Then while sipping on his coffee
one December evening, Dad asked, “How many more stamps do you
need for your cookbook?”
“Just
two more pages, Daddy. Why did you ask? Do you have an errand or
chore for me?”
“As
a matter of fact, yes, I do. Grab your coat and stamps and hop in my
pickup.”
I
followed him to his pickup; hoisted myself onto the seat; and noticed
an envelope with my name on it.
“What’s
this, Daddy?”
“Go
ahead, open it.” He flashed me an impish grin.
When
I did, Green Stamps poured out onto the seat. “Are ALL
these for me?”
“Yes,
Sweetie Pie!” he said.
“But
how, Daddy?”
“My
gas station started giving Green Stamps; so every time I bought gas,
I put the stamps aside and saved them for you as part of your
Christmas present. Merry Christmas!”
“I
can’t believe it, Daddy!” I squealed.
“Let’s
go get that cookbook!” I clutched the envelope of stamps in
one hand and pressed my face to the window watching snow swirling
around us like white confetti making me feel
like we
were driving through a tipped-over Christmas snow globe. It was a
magical Christmas moment when the redemption clerk placed the
cookbook in my hands. Before leaving the store, Dad
inscribed these words on the inside cover: “May this, your
first cookbook, help you to learn to love cooking.” Daddy,
Christmas 1961.
“Pick
a recipe, Daddy, and I’ll make it for you,” I said when
we got home.
“How
‘bout this Eskimo Igloo Cake?”
“Splendid
choice!”
On
that Christmas and many Christmases thereafter, I made the Eskimo
Igloo Cake just for Dad—our very own father-daughter Christmas
tradition—a tradition I kept alive with my own family. Each
Christmas, I open the cookbook, magically transporting myself back in
time to Mother’s tiny kitchen where I’m cooking alongside
her and sitting down at the kitchen table with Dad enjoying a slice
of Eskimo Igloo cake with him. I’m reminded Christmas is truly
a magical time of year filled with the cheer and joy that comes with
the remembrance of precious family members, our memories, and our
holiday traditions.
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