Post #36 – Women’s Memoirs, ScrapMoir – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
Aunt Mae skitters about the kitchen as Connie Francis sings mournful songs from the phonograph in the living room. Uncle Sam is out on the patio listening to birdsong and relaxing with his Collie, safely tucked away from the concentrated activity going on in the kitchen above him. I am twelve years old, perched on the step stool in the corner of the kitchen. I am quiet and still and out of the way. I wait patiently for the show that Aunt Mae is about to perform.
On the shelf above the counter, is a pale pink piggy bank with the words “FOR MY MINK” emblazoned on its chest. The ceramic pig has overseen every delicious dish ever prepared for as long as I can remember. On the window sills there are candy dishes, china tea cups and even an actual flower pot, that hold a variety of house plants whose shiny green leaves drape down the wall. My Aunt Mae would plant some philo or fern in any available empty object in her house. I was afraid to take off my shoes for fear they too would become planters.
Aunt Mae, Queen of Brooklyn Blintzes
“Not cottage cheese!” she admonished one day. “I said pot cheese. This is too wet.” And she didn’t send me shopping for her again until I was in college. And even then she gave explicit instructions.
She ceremoniously snaps a linen table cloth, white and starched smooth, into the air above the long Formica table. I watch it billow and ripple down and then Aunt Mae’s small and graceful hands smooth it into place.
As the process begins the Blintz Queen of Brooklyn demands a reverent silence. I don’t move a muscle for fear of being banished from the room and not being able to witness this near religious act of creation.
The long handled wooden spoon clatters dully against the Pyrex bowl as eggs, milk and flour are beaten to the consistency of liquid silk. Pure white butter is put in the skillet to melt and somehow Aunt Mae knows just when the heat is precisely right. The exact amount of egg mixture is ladled into the steaming pan and I watch the perfectly shaped crepe turn golden yellow-brown. Then Aunt Mae carries the pan to the table, flips the pan over and the crepe lands feather light onto the white linen cloth. These actions continue in syncopated rhythms so smooth this woman appears to have wheels under her slippered feet. She seems to roll back and forth between table and stove until the bowl is
empty and the table is filled with round golden circles lined up like the holes in the cyclone fence that borders the backyard.
After she rinses the bowl she moves at hummingbird speed laying spoonfuls of cheese mixture onto the center of each crepe. Then she rolls each one and places them evenly on a tray lined with waxed paper. She is like a ballerina, each movement precise, graceful, and choreographed over the years by a master cook.
When she finishes she turns to me. Beads of perspiration glisten on her upper lip and her silver white hair curls around her hairline. “That’s that,” she says.
After a quick and methodical clean up Aunt Mae wraps the blintzes and places them delicately into her freezer, except of course for the ones she fries and serves for lunch. The sweet aromas of cheese, butter and sugar lure Uncle Sam from the patio. The warm cheese, in its bunting of dough, contrasts with the cool sour cream that is spooned on top. The taste is nearly as perfect as the love that surrounds the table.
Years later, when Aunt Mae and Uncle Sam move to Florida, I looked forward to their annual visit. Not only because I love her dearly and enjoy our “girl talks” but also for the batches of golden blintzes she will whip up before she leaves. As she ages and becomes tired and less agile, my mother warns my brother and me not to ask her to make blintzes when she stays with us. We are good children, we don’t ask her, we beg. While Mom is at work Aunt Mae sends me to the store for the necessary tools and ingredients (pot cheese; not cottage cheese.) Then she secretly creates the regal ceremony of preparing blintzes. I sit on the chair in the corner of the kitchen as much in awe of her movements as I was as a child. Her motions are still smooth and hummingbird quick. Uncle Sam still escapes to the living room to listen to Benny Goodman or Tommy Dorsey on the radio as he waits quietly for Aunt Mae to complete her reverent task.
AUNT MAE’S CHEESE BLINTZES
Batter:
1 cup all-purpose flour
3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup water or soda water
3 eggs
3 tablespoons oil or melted butter
1/2 teaspoon salt
Filling:
1 pound pot cheese
2 egg yolks
3-4 tablespoons sugar
1 tablespoon grated lemon peel
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
vegetable oil for frying
1) Mix batter ingredients until smooth and creamy.
2) Lightly coat a 6″ or 8″ frying pan (preferably non-stick) with oil. Heat.
3) Pour a small amount of batter (about 2 tablespoons) into pan. Swirl around until even.
4) When sides begin to curl away, turn over and lightly fry blintz on other side for a few seconds only. Lay on a cotton tablecloth laid on dining table.
5) Repeat until all batter is used up.
6) Mix filling ingredients together. Put 2-3 teaspoons in each blintz (depending upon size), turn in sides and roll up like an envelope.
7) Before serving: Fry prepared blintzes in butter till golden brown.
Serve with sour cream
If you would like to read stories by Renee Cassese about growing up in Levittown, please visit her website: http://www.levittownstories.blogspot.com/
memoir writing
memoir vignette
memoir scrapbooking
