Betty Crocker and My Grandmother Mammy

Weird as it might sound, Betty Crocker and my grandmother Mammy (MayMe) are inextricably connected.

And I would go so far as to say that Betty Crocker taught my English-illiterate grandmother how to read.

Whenever I pull out my Betty Crocker Cookbook (like today) or bake a Betty Crocker brownie or cake mix, I’m reminded of Mammy. Maybe it’s because, in my mind’s eye, Mammy was the quintessential Betty Crocker.

Let me try to connect the Betty/Mammy dots for you.

On October 21st, 1921, a cooking icon was born, conjured up by Samuel Gale, the head of the advertising department at Washburn-Crosby, and the company that owned Gold Medal Flour.

Mr. Gale and his all-male advertising and marketing staff were responsible for handling incoming mail from women seeking cooking guidance. Mr. Gale never signed his name to any advice he dispensed, knowing full well that no woman would ever trust a man’s cooking tips. Someone needed to sign the letters, so who could it be?

Gale’s recommendation to the higher-ups (all men), based on feedback from the lower-level kitchen staff working at Washburn-Crosby (all women), was to invent a female advice expert.

The last name given to this fictitious cooking expert was in honor of a retired and revered marketing director, William Crocker.

Betty, in all likelihood, was chosen because it was a wholesome, fashionable, all-American name and was one of the most popular names given to female babies at the time.

Gale then asked the company’s female employees to submit signatures they thought befitting of Betty. A secretary by the name of Florence Lindberg won the winning signature — and Gale added it to the closing of every letter that ever went out.

In 1924, when Washburn-Crosby began airing a cooking radio show out of Minneapolis, Minnesota, they needed a voice for Betty. They ultimately chose a Washburn-Crosby staffer Marjorie Child Husted, a field representative in their home economics division, who became the writer and host of the local WCCO radio show. The show became one of the longest-running radio shows in history.

In 1936 a portrait of Betty Crocker was painted by a successful female illustrator and portrait painter Neysa McMein and was used to depict her persona for over twenty years.

In 1941, Betty Crocker’s first grocery item — noodle soup mix — landed on store shelves across America.

It wasn’t until 1945 that fake Betty was outed.

That year, Fortune magazine named Betty Crocker the second most famous woman in America, followed by Eleanor Roosevelt. The Fortune article also exposed Betty as an invention conjured up by advertising men looking to sell flour.

But by that time, her cooking advice was invaluable to millions of women across America, so nobody cared that Betty was a fraud.

In 1947, her first cake mix — the Ginger cake — debuted in almost every supermarket in the United States, followed by the bestselling Betty Crocker’s Picture Cookbook, published in 1950.

My first memory of cooking with Mammy was in the 50s, and I can vividly recall her struggling through the pages of her treasured Betty Crocker cookbook. Mammy couldn’t read or write English, so following a written recipe was difficult for her.

I would watch in fascination as she would match the words on the pages to the names of the packaged ingredients, like flour, butter, milk, and sugar, and then figure out the measurements by comparing the numbers on her measuring devices to those in her tattered cookbook.

As I got older and able to read the recipes for myself, I once corrected her use of applesauce (homemade, of course) instead of sugar, only for her to wag her finger at me and say, “trop sucré” (too sweet). That’s when I first learned the art of healthy cooking substitutions.

And because Mammy was English illiterate, if the list of ingredients were too long, she passed on the recipe. To this day, if there are more than ten ingredients in a recipe, my eyes tend to glaze over, and more often than not, I search for a simpler alternative.

In 1973, when I moved into my first apartment, Mammy bought me my very own Betty Crocker cookbook — the edition with a pie divided into six equal triangles of yummy-looking food photos in the middle of a red cover.

Mammy’s 49-year-old housewarming gift is still my go-to cookbook, albeit coverless and chock full of food stains.

High School Reunion #51

How to memorialize

Staples Reunion # 51?

A blog post is overly

telling and excessively

revealing.

A poem, yes,

a poem is illusory

and concealing,

concealing like gray hair,

hidden under highlights

and lowlights.

And skin lotions and miracle

potions slathered

on wrinkled, sagging skin.

There were the dearest

of old friends and a spattering

of new, and others I no longer

imagine sharing a park bench

with, like bookends.

Yes, Paul,

♪ how terribly

strange to

be seventy ♪.

Missed chances at possible

true love and what-if

sliding doors.

A drive-by this house

and that house,

and this school,

and that school,

and waiting in a parking lot

for church bells that never rang.

The barrel-chested seagulls,

who screeched and fought us

for French fries and clam bellies

at Overton’s, and a disappointing

Main Street that was unremarkable

without the legendary pink house,

Sally’s Place, and Oscar’s, and all the other

places long gone like our youth.

Some clicks pleasantly surprised,

while other cliques were still in

social play, a reminder that some

things never change.

We dressed for the 70s at almost 70,

which wigged some of us out.

And then came a devastating

and unapologetic confession,

54 years too late, about a jock-joining

sexually deviant quartet. His words

still chill me to the bone. The exceptionally

talented band concluded with Forever Young;

if only it were so. And in the end, the goodbye hugs

were tighter and longer, just in case.

But there was no hug for him.

The sicko confession teller;

the one who burst my High School

Reunion bubble.

My Stolen Diaries – Chapter 11: Mem’s Boss at Remington Arms

CHAPTER 11

MEM’S BOSS AT REMINGTON ARMS

February 1963

Mem has been desperately trying to get off the 3-11 pm shift at Remington Arms. Mem’s boss Adam has been trying to switch her to the 7 am to 3 pm shift for over six months, but so far, he hasn’t been able to pull it off.

Both Mem and Mom are saving every penny they can, working five jobs between them so they can get us a better place to live and move Mere Germaine back in.

Mem says that Adam has been awfully good to her and gives her extra shifts whenever possible. He also taught Mem the value of money and helped her to open her first bank account many years ago.

Adam appreciates how hard Mem works, and according to Mem, he agrees with her that we need to move off White Street because it’s getting more dangerous by the day. Mem says that’s why Adam gives her so many extra shifts.  Mom says it’s because Adam has a crush on Mem.

Last month Adam called Mem and asked her to stop by his office the next day after church. Mom raised an eyebrow at that. Mem was up the whole night, tossing and turning, convinced that Adam was going to fire her. Mom was convinced Adam was going to ask her out on a date because he found out about her butcher boyfriend.

The Sunday after Adam’s call to Mem and after church services, I walked home with Mom and Mere Germaine while Mem hurried over to the factory.

Mem came home crying, which was a big deal because Mem never cries. I was praying she didn’t lose her job. Mem said that when she walked into Adam’s office, he told her he had good news and bad news.

The good news was that Adam pulled some strings and got Mem the 7 am to 3 pm shift, which was the shift she’s been wanting for years, so I wondered why she was crying.

The bad news—the horrible news—was that Adam was leaving Remington Arms. He had bad lungs, he told her—from working with all the gunpowder at the factory, and the doctor told him he didn’t have long to live.

Through her tears, Mem told us that Adam’s parents are both dead, and since he was never married, he’s all alone, and she’s worried about who is going to take care of him when things get bad. Mom told Mem that Adam shouldn’t be her concern, but Mem replied that all of God’s souls should be our concern.

Soon after Mem started working the day shift, Adam left Remington Arms. His house is on Barnum Avenue, right across the street from the factory, so with Mem’s new work schedule, she was stopping by during her lunch break to keep him company and make him something to eat.

He’s been getting weaker by the day, so in addition to going there for lunch, she’s also been going back to Adam’s house after her shift is over at 3 pm to clean his house and make dinner.

Last week, Adam insisted on paying Mem a very generous salary, even though she told him she would be happy to do it for free. Mem told me that she reminded Adam if it wasn’t for him, she would have never gotten the factory job in the first place or the extra shifts.

The salary Adam is giving her is so generous that Mem will be able to quit her waitress job at Woolworths in a few weeks. The only thing I like about Mem working at Woolworths is that she gets a discount and has been buying me the Nancy Drew mysteries—one book a week. I have 1-36, so I hope before Mem quits Woolworths, I get the 37-40 that Carolyn Keene has written so far.

The best part about the books is that I have been reading them to Mere Germaine and Mem. Mere Germaine is a lost cause and barely understands what I’m reading, but I’ve been pointing out the easy words to Mem, and she’s been trying to read them along with me. Since Mem can’t read or write English, the books are helping Mem to learn how to read, although I don’t think Mem will ever be able to write more than her name and address and maybe a few words and phrases.

Until last week, I was still hanging out at Steve’s Market with Rib and Yolanda every day after school, and it was obvious to me that Steve was not happy about Mem working for Adam.

“Adam, Adam, Adam. Your grandmother is always talking about Adam.” I wanted to remind Steve that Adam was half dead, but I decided to keep my mouth shut.

Adam is getting sicker and weaker, so now every day after school, I walk home, pick up Rib, and then walk to Adam’s house, where I meet Mem after her shift is over. Adam helps me with my homework while Mem cooks and cleans, and then helps him with his bath.

Steve is very upset that I’m not coming by his store after school anymore and told Mem the same. Mem got all nerved up by Steve’s stupid behavior, and she warned him not to boss her around—or else.  I feel bad about Steve, but I also like spending time with Adam, so I don’t feel that bad. But Mem telling Steve “or else” makes me nervous because Steve means a lot to me; plus, we’ve never eaten better.

Even though Mem warned Steve, he’s still upset about Mem working for Adam, so yesterday, when Steve surprised Mem with a stereo console radio and record player, she was suspicious. I think Mem loved it, but she warned Steve if his gift had anything to do with Adam, she didn’t want any part of it.

♪ It was an itsy-bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini ♪ was blaring on the radio, and Mem kept yelling at Mom to lower the sound. But Mom ignored her and grabbed Mere Germaine and me off the couch to dance with her, so Mem let us have our fun until supper time.

Jack Kennedy is President, and while we were eating, Mem told Steve that Kennedy is a sign from God, “him being an Irish Catholic and all.”  But then Mere Germaine reminded Mem that Pere Germaine’s accident was all because of Kennedy’s bootlegging father. I wanted to ask what a bootleg was and also get the details of my great-grandfather’s accident, but the sadness on Mere’s face kept me quiet.

After supper, Steve showed Mem an ad for a GE Daylight Blue Television set. He was telling Mem how he wanted to buy her one for Christmas. Mem scolded Steve, saying, “You can’t afford no television, so don’t put crazy thoughts in the girls’ heads.”

Plus, Christmas is ten months away, and Mem says that the expensive gift Steve is promising us is because of Adam. Mem doesn’t think Adam will make it to Christmas, and once Adam is dead, she says Steve won’t have to buy us a television because that’s the way men are. Mem sure has a lot of bad things to say about men, but never Adam.

I’m going to pray to God tonight that Adam lasts way past Christmas because I don’t want him to die. I’m also going to pray that Steve isn’t like other men because I really want a television set.

Click here for Chapter 12: JFK’s Assassination

The Legend of Us

You and I

have history.

Are we a legend,

or did we merely

live out a

predetermined

sequence of events,

that resulted in

the sad story of us?

We’ve both had

our fair share

of slips

and

poor decisions.

Perhaps we will reunite

somewhere out there,

somewhere other than

this bitter-sweet earth.

But probably not.

When we danced

in that crummy kitchen,

it was transcendent.

Yes, transcendent

because

beautiful you

pulled me in so close.

So close, I was able to

breathe in all of you.

If I knew our

best moments

and random triumphs

were fleeting,

I would have cherished

them more than I did.

There were moments

I wish we could relive,

moments I wanted to

last forever.

And then there were others

I’ve spent a lifetime

wishing away.

I couldn’t keep quiet,

because the telling

kept me sane.

And yet the truth

did not

set me free.

Instead, it set

in motion

a roller coaster

of cruel denials.

Set in motion by not

one,

not two,

but three of you.

I cared not for

two and three.

Just the one.

I’m sorry,

I couldn’t change

the moments

that destroyed us.

As you know,

those moments

were in someone

else’s hands.

We crisscrossed

in and out

of each other’s lives,

a few times.

In all but one of those times,

something always told me

we would see each other again.

But not the last time.

In dance,

you chose me.

But in life, I know

you did not choose me.

What I don’t know

and what I never asked

is if you wanted me.

I imagined over the years

that you did not.

I wonder now,

If you regret me,

and I wouldn’t blame you

if you did.

Because we both

got tangled up

in all of it.

And you know what

it is.

Because it

happened to

you too.

We are more alike

than you or I

care to

admit.

So many times,

out of anger

you did not choose

your words wisely.

If it wasn’t for you…

You probably didn’t know,

but those five words stung.

The stinging was real

and as painful

as getting a tattoo,

although I never got one.

Or maybe I did.

A tattoo of us,

etched forever

on my broken heart.