I’ve never taken a cooking class, but I took home-ec in junior high. One of our assignments was to create our own from-scratch recipe. That has always been pretty much the only way I cook. My excitement flared. I knew I’d ace this one.

I decided to create an almond cake. As the recipe progressed I’d taste the batter. Each time it seemed short of perfect, so I’d add something. Soon the batter was a light mint green (probably from the ground sweet basil; what?!?). I still wasn’t satisfied but figured I’d better bake it while I was ahead. The interesting green color might garner a few extra points.

When I took the layers out of the oven they no longer looked interesting. They were olive drab. The cake was crumbly and dry. It could have passed for moldy cornbread. I sampled a piece that had stuck to the bottom of a pan. It didn’t taste like moldy cornbread. I wasn’t sure what it tasted like, but it wasn’t good. I patched and covered it with bright green icing. Only one person had a piece, my teacher. She steered everyone else clear.

One of my sisters loves apple pie. I hate it. I like raw apples. Baked apples. Not apple pie. One day, I feared, I might be asked to bake an apple pie for her and be expected to eat a slice. The solution was, create an apple pie I would like.

Simple, I reasoned, use my favorite things. Granny Smith apples, unpeeled. Mmm. Brown sugar. Raisins. Walnuts. Christmas spices. Mmm, mmm, mmm. I piled everything into a graham cracker crust, another favorite. Threw it in the oven. Set the timer for pie time.

When the timer rang, the pie clearly wasn’t done. It was bubbling over with watery sugar juice that was burning onto the floor of the oven. I forgot to add thickener, I realized. Quickly, I sprinkled some cornstarch milk into it and reset the timer. And reset it again. Finally I stopped the baking process cold and pulled the damned pie out of the oven. It had turned into graham cracker mush, generously laced with bright green strips of apple peel. I have no idea how it tasted. I couldn’t bring myself to try it.

I was fired from a job in Pinetop, Arizona, many years ago. I took the company to court and won, but not before I was forced back to the flatlands. Getting fired in small rural communities is a challenge. Being blacklisted by your former employer turns it into a sentence. I loved my life there, though, and persevered as long as I could.

I was too proud to ask for help. Two of my neighbors with families were enduring lay-offs and were more sophisticated about unemployment. They requested a food box for me through a local charity. It was close to Christmas and all of us received bountiful boxes. We reveled in the abundance through the holidays.

After New Years we were still out of work and pickings got slim. I had frozen turkey and powdered milk. One neighbor had cheese and a few potatoes. The third had canned spinach, lots of it, and some eggs. We all had salt and pepper. Everyone knew I was a good cook so we decided to pool our food and I would make something delicious. Turkey, spinach, potatoes, cheese, powdered milk, eggs, why not a Turkey Surprise Quiche, I suggested. We all began to salivate.

What a surprise. The spinach had turned the concoction into what looked like creamed jungle fatigues. A curious flavor overwhelmed the dish. It smelled edible but tasted like baked dirt. I had used everything and made a huge batch to guarantee leftovers. That was all we had to eat for three days. I was lucky my neighbors were friends, and forgiving.

I’m not always a great cook. When I play, I don’t always win. Especially if the color green is involved.

Text, Recipes & Graphics ©1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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