Merry Mushroom Memories
The search began with me in the dining room on hands and knees. I had forgotten how tightly mother packed the china cabinet. How items that once had a specific place behind the cherry wood doors—including tablecloths, essential kitchen items dating back to mother’s wedding day, plus a case of MREs from the Y2K scare (just to be safe)—had become a rat-pack, chocked-full cabinet of memories I would need to sift through while searching for something else.
In the ‘80s, Mother graciously allowed me to use a tiny portion of the bottom section of her china cabinet to store items for my “hope chest,” as Mother insisted I begin accumulating items for my future husband.
I now realize the timing of my teenage acquisitions coincided with a dishware display at the grocery store, the arrival of a new Sears and Roebuck catalog, and a coupon printed in the local newspaper. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t any hope of a boyfriend, because my parents forbid dating until I was a hundred years old. There were necessary housekeeping items they felt I needed for when I finally received their permission to leave the nest. Mother had taken a liking to said items and therefore they needed procuring … for me and my future husband, of course. Forty years later, said items still reside in her cherry cabinet.
Wedged up against the cabinet door, linens were packed so tight it took a butter knife to dislodge them. As soon as I did, a mountain of fabric tumbled at my feet, including hideous placemats that had never been used and two tablecloths I hand-stitched 20 years ago for Thanksgiving and Christmas.
“Some of these things need to go,” I grumbled. I moved to a seated position on the linoleum. “No wonder I can’t find anything around here.”
My French publisher, Marie, had sent me on this mission into the land of cluttered cabinets. Marie suggested I pen a “cooking book” as a companion recipe booklet to my novel, Outbound Train. She asked for recipes the Parker women would enjoy, with a particular interest in the pound cakes mentioned in the novel.
When someone in France asks you to pen a recipe book, you move heaven, earth, and 40 pounds of antiquated table linens to fulfill the request.
Then she asked in a hopeful tone, “Do you have a photograph of the recipes?”
Marie didn’t know how Appalachians record recipes. Or should I say, how we don’t record recipes.
Mother didn’t exactly write down how to bake cakes. She just listed the ingredients in no particular order.
“I’ll try to find something you can use,” I said. I wasn’t optimistic.
I began sorting the linens in stacks: keep, donate, throw away. Ten minutes into the purging I located my hope chest dishes, individually wrapped in linen napkins. Then I found the MREs.
“What in the world is going on?” Dad said, upon entering the room.
I held up the MREs.
“Those have got to go,” he said.
I pressed my cheek against the cabinet and blindly reached deep inside. “I’m looking for Momma’s recipe box. It used to be in here.” My fingertips wrapped around a bottle. “What in the world?”
Dad knew what I had unearthed. “Found your mother’s bottle of Rock-in-Rye medicine, didn’t you?” he said with a smile.
I inspected the bottle. It had a thick layer of wrinkled raisins clinging to the bottom.
“For her arthritis,” he explained.
I returned the bottle without a word.
I need the recipe box and pronto. “France wants me to write a booklet of Appalachian recipes, and they want photos of the recipes Momma used.”
“Oh, Lord.” Dad turned from me. “Let’s look under the kitchen cabinets.
I tossed the MREs into the trash and crammed the linens back into the cabinet just as messily as I’d found them.
Dad pointed to the way back corner of the cabinet, past the electric knife used for turkey carving and the handheld mixer they’d received as a wedding gift that still works like a charm. “Start there.” He stood beside me as I leaned into the cabinet.
I handed him a stack of cookbooks including the one my typing class worked on for Swain High School. Dad took the books. “Keep digging,” he said.
A smile crossed my face when my fingers grazed the sharp corners of the metal box.
The cheery recipe box was exactly as I remembered.
Between 1970 and 1987, Sears developed and released a “Merry Mushroom” line of kitchen coordinates in what is inarguably the cutest line of kitchenware ever to grace the harvest gold countertops of America.
Suddenly, images of the enamel cookware pressed hard in my mind. I could see steam rising from the mushroom-adorned pot as mother cut wedges of potatoes that would be mashed into a fluff.
Tears pricked my eyes. What I wouldn’t give to have some of those merry mushroom pots now.
I became overcome with longing for my mother and a severe case of imposter syndrome. I am a simple girl from Appalachia. What right do I have to share a single recipe; much less send a collection to France?
The box is rusty in places and the lid hasn’t closed properly in years. I carried it to the living room and sat with dad as we rifled through the contents looking for something appropriate to share. Divider cards were wedged in the back, as if the categories were bothersome. Mother knew what she wanted to make. Those recipes were front and center for easy access.
Parker House rolls and broccoli casserole gave way to magazine clippings of foods we’d never eaten. I recognized my handwriting for chocolate chip cookies, none of these would satisfy Marie’s request.
Stuck between the recipe for kraut and chicken pot pie, I found what I needed. The card is yellowed with age and riddled with watermarks. The directions aren’t clear, but the recipe card encapsulates every single cake my mother made for my family and others. Hundreds of cakes during her lifetime.
I sent the image to Marie. She loves it. Fingers crossed her readers do, as well.
