
I'm very happy to report that my essay Ingredients appeared in the November issue of Underwired Magazine! This Louisville based publication is beautifully designed and a wonderful read.
Ingredients
In my tiny Manhattan kitchen, I laid out the ingredients for Kentucky batter bread using a recipe from The Blue Grass Cook Book compiled by Minnie Fox. Originally published in 1904, it is a tribute of sorts to the black women who worked in the kitchens of Kentucky households as both slaves and domestics. Among the recipes are chestnut soup, chicken croquettes, roasted venison, fried frog legs, string beans, sweetbreads, and strawberry preserves. My decision to cook a traditional Kentucky meal was brought on by memories of my Kentucky-born father speaking fondly of the food of his childhood and my recent introduction to my maternal grandmother’s enslaved ancestors who lived on a homestead outside of Mount Sterling. The news of the restoration of a small, overgrown family cemetery that included an area for slaves populated by these same family members pushed me over the edge. I decided it was time to seek out the Kentucky roots on both sides of my family.
I decided to start with the Kentucky batter bread recipe because it was the most familiar. The recipe also appeared to be somewhat simple for an entry-level cook, though a lot of legwork was involved. For example, after doing some research I learned that sweet milk was an early term for today’s whole milk. Also, exact measurements were lacking throughout of the recipe so I had to do a balancing act with many of the ingredients and the oven temperature I originally set to 450 degrees. As I clumsily moved along, my mind often wandered. I thought of the of strong, yet overworked hands of an ancestor confidently adding the cornmeal, salt, melted butter, and sweet milk into a bowl without the need to measure, then expertly cracking three eggs before working the ingredients into a thin batter.
I was discouraged from all things related to homemaking at an early age, so my skills on the domestic front are pretty weak. My parents thought it was best that I learn things that would better my chances in the job market rather than at home and I followed them with that line of thinking. While most of my friends took the home economics class offered as an elective in junior high, my parents enrolled me in a typing class because it involved computers and was the lesser of two evils. In college I took an interest in feminist theory and majored in political science. After moving to New York a year after graduation I found it disappointing that so many of my peers who worked as professionals were also skilled knitters.
It wasn't until I reached my early thirties that my negative opinions on domesticity began to melt away. As I read between the lines of the Antebellum-era documents I had collected, I began to get a clearer picture of who my enslaved ancestors were as people. The wills and estate inventories meticulously listing their slaveholders possessions also caused my imagination to run wild with probable scenarios for how the items were used by my relatives: a pitcher filled with fresh water, most likely from a nearby well, was carefully placed beside the matching wash bowl for the mistress of the house; the handsome bedding and blankets that were not theirs to sleep on were scrubbed and boiled in hot water; six silver cups and three silver tumblers were polished twice a year; two bread pans baked in the overheated kitchen; a silver ladle cautiously poured oyster soup into bowls during dinner; the bookcase they dusted was also where they stole a few moments when the house was empty.
As the women spent the majority of their days moving from room to room keeping someone else’s household in order, their children fed the spotted cow that was regularly called on for its milk, in addition to the 100 shoats and three sows that would eventually be slaughtered for their meat. They gathered fruit from the orchard, pulled weeds from the garden, and fetched water for the house that sat on property that once totalled 500 acres. Their husbands harnessed oxen to a wagon so supplies could be carried back from a trip to Cincinnati, while their brothers labored in the wheat fields with shovel plows until sunset before retiring to single-roomed cabins shared with their family. My great-great-great-grandfather would have been among them before being freed in 1856.
This is how I understood my ancestors lives to be as I read through Kentucky courthouse records.
The smell of the baking bread filled every corner of the apartment. When I opened the oven door and noticed it was a few shades darker than it was suppose to be, my heart sunk. As I place the pan on the counter to cool, I held my newfound family in my thoughts. I was not just preparing this meal to enjoy with my dinner, but I was also seeking a connection to them. I felt I was somehow standing in for my long-deceased ancestors, giving them some relief from hours of work. My newly prepared, yet overdone dish was my very small, but sincere contribution. Though the baking didn’t go quite as planned, I am sure they would still be proud.