Spring Peas, Spudnuts, and my Beautiful Mother

My mother will be 96 years old in July. She lives with my husband and me and is still incredibly young. She is a petite beauty who reads large-print books, writes letters, walks around the house for exercise, goes to the hair salon every week, and amazes her doctors. She is my hero.

One of my favorite culinary memories is watching my Mom shell peas on our porch steps one spring evening when I was 11. My Daddy worked until 9:00 at night in our small town pharmacy, my oldest brother was married, and my teenage brother was probably on a date. Consequently Mom & I were alone many evenings.

She had planted a tiny garden and had a nice little "mess" of spring peas gathered in a bowl. As we sat outside in the growing dusk, she showed me how to shell peas and we quietly talked. When the peas were all ready, we went inside and I watched while she made creamed peas. I'll never forget the taste of those peas--little bursts of sweet starchiness in buttery, creamy sauce. On that spring evening, between the shared sunset, the shared task of shelling, and the shared plate of fresh, simple food, a cherished memory was born.

Another culinary memory is one of her making Spudnuts, which are doughnuts made with potatoes or potato flour; Spudnuts were the Krispy Kremes of the 1960s. My brother was home from college one weekend and requested that Mom make doughnuts, specifically Spudnuts. Although Mom didn't have internet access and had very few cookbooks in her kitchen, she somehow managed to come up with a "copy-cat" recipe made with mashed potato-infused sweet yeast dough. She rolled the dough on her tiny countertop, used a little red doughnut cutter (wish I still had it!) to cut doughnuts, and let them rise on top of the oven. Then she fried them one by one in melted shortening in a deep saucepan and immediately dipped them in powdered sugar glaze. Those doughnuts were better than any we had ever had or that I have had since--I still remember biting into that light, crisp, sweet tenderness with the still-warm icing.

Mom doesn't think she was an inspiration to me in the kitchen. She refers to my grandmothers as the cooks in the family and talks about their incredible cinnamon rolls, sugar cookies, and pies. And although replicating their recipes has been my goal for many years, watching Mom in the kitchen is what I remember; by observing her, I learned basic skills, good habits, and the desire to please. Now I remember those days with longing and a touch of sadness, wishing I had paid more attention to what she was doing, wishing I had offered to help her (or even to wash the dishes), and wishing I had told her what a great cook and a wonderful Mother she was.

So on this Mother's Day 2008, I honor my little Mommy, Ruby, and thank her for being my inspiration and for encouraging my passion for baking and my joy in the kitchen. I love you, Mom.