Cookies, Christmas & Betty Crocker: Remembering My Mom

Today is the fifth anniversary of the day my mom died. Those years have passed in a flash and there are times when the loss still feels raw and fresh. At Christmas time, especially, I feel my mother's absence. There are certain things that bring her memory especially close and create that poignant feeling of bittersweet. Cooking from her Betty Crocker's Picture Cookbook is one of those things.

The cookbook, which doesn't have a copyright date but was published sometime in the 1940s, is just about in shreds. It is a loose leaf notebook, with many additional recipes that my mom pasted in here and there. When I open it to the Russian Teacake recipe on page 206 I see her penciled note that these cookies are "Aunt Sue's favorite." I remember making these at Christmas time for Aunt Sue—a dear family friend—when I was a child. After my mother died, I started to make them again, carefully packing them in a holiday tin and shipping them off to Aunt Sue's condominium in Florida. This renewed tradition has become one of my favorite parts of Christmas.

I made a batch last night, using my mom's little glass nut chopper to chop the walnuts. I mixed the dough in the lovely Hall Royal Rose bowl that she grabbed for me at a church rummage sale many years ago. (My mother told me that when she spied the set of three matching bowls, she reached in front of the crowd to claim them saying "These are for my daughter.")

I never look at these things—the bowls, the nut chopper, the dear frail Betty Crocker cookbook—without thinking of my mom. Using them to make a batch of cookies for one of her dearest friends is a wonderful way to honor her memory—and to reclaim a little piece of Christmas past.

Russian Tea Cakes

1 cup vegan margarine, softened
1/2 cup sifted confectioner's sugar
1 tsp vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups sifted white flour
1/4 tsp salt
3/4 cups finely chopped nuts
More confectioner's sugar for rolling

Preheat oven to 400 degrees.

Cream together the margarine, confectioner's sugar and vanilla. Stir the salt into the flour and blend into the margarine mixture. (I find that it helps to use a pastry blender.) Mix in the walnuts.

Roll into balls about the size of walnuts and place on an ungreased cookie sheet. (I line it with parchment paper since these tend to burn easily.) Bake 10 to 12 minutes until set but not browned (although they will be a little bit brown on the bottom). While still warm, roll in confectioner's sugar. Cool. Roll in the sugar again.

Pack them up carefully, and mail to someone you love.

Confessions of a Vintage Textile Collector (or How I Came to Own 100 Tablecloths).

I'm not especially materialistic or extravagant. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing designer fashions (unless I find them at Goodwill) or driving a fancy car or eating at trendy restaurants. Whatever acquisitive genes I might have, they seem to be programmed to desire old-fashioned, imperfect, history-steeped things.

It all started when I moved into a cute cottage that was built in 1936. It's not a luxurious house and not even especially convenient (the bathrooms are too small, the sinks scratched and rusty, and the staircase is perilously narrow and steep). But there are wonderful coved ceilings, arches, nooks, crannies and cubbyholes. It's a house that wraps itself around you and lets you know you are home.

Such a house needed a few circa-1930s-40s tablecloths I figured. So I ventured onto ebay and plugged in the keywords "vintage tablecloth." Wow! There were many of them, one prettier than the next. I didn't know where to begin.

So I emailed my delightful friend Deb who knows about all things old, and she, it turned out, had been collecting vintage tablecloths for years. She gave me some pointers and I dug in and started bidding.

It didn't take me long to find my dream tablecloth. Printed with red, pink and teal geraniums, it was adorable and absolutely perfect for my kitchen. As a seasoned collector, I now know that this particular cloth was made by Springmaid and it appeared in the 1947 Sears catalog. I also know that, as sweet as this cloth is, on the tablecloth collecting circuit it is common as dirt. But of course, I didn't realize that at the time. I had to have it.

I bid lavishly and won. And then I waited to receive an invoice or email or some piece of information about what I was supposed to do next. As an ebay newbie, I needed some guidance from my seller. I started to panic as days went by without any word from her.

Just as I was giving up hope, I was stunned and delighted to stumble across the exact same tablecloth, listed by a completely different ebay seller. This should have been my first clue that this was a less-than-rare tablecloth. To me, it was simply a miracle. I bid again and won. The nice seller contacted me, and she told me that she happened to have two of these tablecloths and was sending both to me. In the meantime, seller number one resurfaced and, by the end of the week, I owned three vintage tablecloths—and they were all exactly the same.

It was an auspicious beginning. I started out with a respectable little stack of textiles on a kitchen shelf; now they are everywhere.

And why not? Vintage tablecloths are recycled goods, and they are very affordable pieces of art and history. I love the fabulously creative designs, the gorgeous colors, and the friendly charm of these beautiful textiles. I don't hoard and am not a packrat. My tablecloths are all out and about, stacked on shelves, draped over the backs of chairs or—a novel idea—spread atop tables.

Much of what is in my house is just passing through—spending a little time basking in the glow of my admiration before being sold through my antique booth at the mall or on ebay. A little piece of cozy history, enjoyed, admired, and then passed on.

Vegan Knitting With Bamboo, Soy, and Hemp

I haven't knitted since I was a teenager. We used to sit in front of the fireplace at Sunset Lodge in Maine and knit scarves. It's a soothing and cozy pastime and I've wanted to do it again for years. But I didn't want to work with wool.

I don't like wool for two reasons. First, it's itchy. And second, wool production is horribly cruel to animals. I can't see adopting a hobby that promotes animal suffering.

But I've recently discovered that there is a big population of vegan knitters. They are using fibers made from soy, bamboo, and hemp—as well as the more common cotton and linen, and of course, synthetics.

I love the idea of soy and bamboo, especially. Soy yarn is a byproduct of tofu-production, and bamboo is a fast-growing renewable resource. And the yarns are absolutely delightful—very soft and silky.

Although they are new to me, it seems that everyone else in the world already knew about these yarns, because they are remarkably easy to find. My local yarn shop had a supply of them, and a number of online yarn shops sell them, too. They are pretty expensive compared to wool so I'm starting to look for them on ebay, and have found some good deals.

My favorite website for information about vegan knitting and yarns is: Fake Sheep.

And I brushed up on my knitting skills—which had been dormant for some 35 years—by watching videos on this excellent website: Knitting Help. I struggled for just a few minutes, and then my hands "remembered" exactly what to do.

I still need some practice to get my stitches looking even and nice—and about the only thing I can make is a straightforward scarf at this point. But knitting is fun! And I'm thrilled to be able to do it again with a clear conscience.

My Cozy Cottage Office

I pen this little blog from a cozy 1930s cottage in Port Townsend, WA. My house isn't exactly underneath the lilacs—it's sort of amid them. UnderTheLilacs is my ebay id, and a nod to one of my passions, which is children's literature.

I love working from home and love my office! It is tucked into a front corner of the house, off a hallway that also gives access to the kitchen and living room. I used to work from a room on the second floor that seemed ideal—it had both a view of the water and charming sloped ceilings. But it was also the worst climate zone of the house—unbearably hot in summer and the radiator never seemed to work in the winter. And the ceilings sloped in such a way that I couldn't arrange my desk for the water view. And I never knew what the cats were up to.

So my husband Mark and a few friends made the treacherous journey down our very quaint and narrow and steep staircase with bookcases and computer equipment (we actually left the desk up there, as it doesn't look possible to get it down the stairs—How did we ever get it up there, I wonder?)

Now I can watch the action in the garden and among the cats, who are back and forth all day. I know when the deer are here looking for an apple or the neighbor's dog looking for a cookie. I can run outside and move the hose from the mountain ash to the katsura without missing a beat.

My office is packed with the things that let me attend to my work and also give me daily comfort. I have my mom's wonderful old 1940s bureau against one wall, and it is stacked with vintage linens that I am currently researching. The bookcases are crammed with books on vegetarian nutrition. My desk is piled with collectors' guides on vintage linens, my gardening notebook, my animal shelter journal, and usually one or two snoozing cats. (Somewhere beneath all this there are manuscripts to work on and bills to pay.) I'm smitten with anything that evokes warm memories of childhood and, tucked in among the books on my bookshelves are stuffed animals and trolls, my mom's recipe box, a rolled up beach towel from family vacations at the beach, Christmas cards and birthday cards and little tins containing the ashes of cats that have gone to Rainbow Bridge.

This is a blog devoted to the things that give me daily comfort. My animals and the animals that visit my garden and the animals that live at our local shelter. My garden, vintage collectibles—especially printed linens for which I have a particular passion—and most importantly books, which have been a comfort and a joy for as long as I can remember.