CAPTIONS: Donna holds the page with Katherine Sherwood's Date Swirls recipe and Pat Buell with her mother's Date Swirl Cookies. Katherine made the cookies for six decades. Lower left, the McClellan women's vegetable soup, and bottom right, old-fashioned macaroni salad. All these recipes are in That Sweet Place: At Home in the Heartland.
There is a trend among certain fictional novelists to mention homemade food within story lines, followed by those recipes at the end of the chapters or books. I enjoy this approach because it adds another dimension to a story. The reader gets a taste, as well as is able to physically become a part of the action, by preparing and enjoying those recipes. While writing Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast, it wasn’t long before I knew I would “season” my tale with special recipes. It was a natural fit for a book about a bed-and-breakfast. But what to include? The three signature dishes in that book came from my mother and two of my best friends. My mom’s spice cake is probably a 150-year-old recipe, an old-fashioned eggless, milkless and butterless treat also known as a "Depression Cake" that hailed from her mother. The cake was part of every special occasion during all the years my mother baked. Growing up, when I woke up on a Saturday to the distinctive scent of that cake baking, I knew that a special event or holiday was unfolding. The granola recipe was adapted from The Best granola I have ever eaten, which came from friend Gay Kirkton, and to Gay from her mother Betty Greenwood, and from Betty’s friend to her. That’s how recipes go, and they tend to evolve from person-to-person. The funny thing is that granola is a favorite of a particular group of my friends who think of it as Donna’s granola and it is that too because I put my own twist on it. I was delighted to get both Betty’s and Gay’s permission to reprint the recipe and add my twist. The sugar cookies, which were mentioned numerous times in the first book as Sweetland’s signature sweet, came from my friend Patti Broshar-Foust, who treasures that recipe from her Aunt Martha. Those cookies have been a big topic inside our friendship and were even baked by Patti and decorated by me for son and daughter-in-law Sam and Allison’s bridal shower. So, having fictionally used three terrific recipes in the first book, the time came to decide what to serve up in That Sweet Place: At Home in the Heartland. In a previous blog, we unpacked in detail food writer (as well as upcoming cookbook author) Blaise Doubman’s delicious Hoosier Sugar Cream Pie. I also knew I wanted to use the recipe given to me by Brian’s Aunt Wilma for the vegetable-beef soup that all the McClellan women, including my late mother-in-law, made and I still enjoy serving in cold weather. Included is my own Simple Chicken Salad – which people seem to like for its, well, simplicity, but would be easy to embellish with veggies and or grapes to suit more complex taste buds. I also included my mother’s macaroni salad, which I have always thought was the best of its kind. Sure enough, at a book club discussion, where the food of book two was served, one of the readers made this dish and said her husband declared it the same. But there was one more recipe that I really wanted to include. It was for a type of cookie that I have thought about my entire life, but, ironically, seldom actually tasted. It was for the date-nut swirl cookies I remembered from my childhood. The cookies came into my life from farm wife, family friend and neighbor Katherine Sherwood. I can still picture that sweet woman standing at the top of her long country lane handing off a plate of the goodies as a Christmas treat for my dad, who was a farmer-school bus driver. They were delicious. All these years later, eve my brother, Tim, remembers them as tasty besides. So does everyone who knew Katherine. As with my mother and her spice cake, with Patti and her Aunt Martha’s Sugar Cookies, and with Gay and Betty’s granola, the date-nut swirls were Katherine’s specialties. I spotted the recipe in an old Brownsville cookbook and with Katherine having passed on, I contacted her daughter Pat, who is still active in the church and community. SURE, she told me. Not only could I use the recipe but she said her mother would have been thrilled. I was elated. The recipe is in the book, along with a “must-do” tip. Pat said no matter what, be sure to use black walnuts in the recipe. She recalled how her mother hand-gathered and hulled walnuts from their rural Indiana woods for the precious nut meats. To use English walnuts in this recipe would be a sacrilege, Pat explained. She said these cookies have been all over the world as they made their way by mail from Katherine to servicemen abroad. Fast forward to last Sunday. The Brownsville UMC invited me to give a little talk following a pitch-in lunch. I brought Blaise’s sugar cream pie (which is fabulous, I might add) and meatloaf the way mom made it (simply ground beef with oats, onion, eggs and ketchup). I hoped that Pat would do the very thing she did: bring the famous cookies. It was only the second time she had made them as she said there was no way they could be as good as her mother’s. They went like hotcakes. Pat made them with candied cherries, which she recalls her mom adding for the holidays. Others at church Sunday commented that they didn’t remember them with the candied fruit. I don’t either. But one thing I know for sure. These cookies taste exactly as I remember. They are fantastic. So if you make them, remember that tip to use the black walnuts. Those give them their distinctive flavor. The cookies are soft and chewy on the insight with a crispy crunch on the outside. It’s fun to share these truly hometown, tried-and-true recipes with readers-- in a novel way, of course. Both of my novels are available directly, signed if you want, by contacting me at newsgirl.1958@gmail.com. They are also on Amazon in print and Kindle versions. Better yet, book me for your club or gathering and along with giving a program I'll bring stacks to sell and sign. And we'll have a good time!
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Here comes a universal truth. Even though there are people from all eras of our lives that we would dearly love to see again, and there are old haunts we’d love to visit, we usually don’t.
We don’t want to bother people. We wonder if there would be anything to talk about, and we’d all end up disappointed. We shudder at the thought of being awkward or worse, unwelcome. So we say things like, “Who has the time? Maybe someday...” One glorious thing my books do is give me a legit reason to see those people and visit those places. Sunday was one of those times. I was invited to the church that I grew up in, the Brownsville United Methodist Church in Union County. We attended Sunday’s service, then the pitch-in, and then I gave a little program and sold some books. I wasn’t even born the first time I was inside that church. And after that, my mother was visibly pregnant with me when my brother David got married there. I was probably all of two weeks old the first time I was hand-carried into the building. The thing I can’t get over is that quite a few of the women who were there then are there now such as Geneva, Barb, Charlotte and Pat. (More about Pat coming in my weekend post.) There in that church I grew up, voted in my first presidential election at age 18, got married at 20. There I stood beside that church during my parents’ and my brother David’s and other loved ones’ graveside services. People who share my DNA and so much more are at rest on both sides of that building. That church is home. I could have spent all of Sunday there, alone, taking in the view from where my mother always sat, thinking, remembering, praying. Examining each panel of the gorgeous stained-glass windows. Peeking behind the curtain in the storage room where they kept (maybe even still keep) the beautiful angel costumes I couldn’t wait to become old enough to wear in the Christmas pageants. So they were made of white sheets and the halos of sparkly silver tinsel. That is the stuff of real angel attire, right? I wanted to see if the little, round children’s table was still there and of course it was, in the former nursery, right where I sat when I was 2 or 3 or 4. The vintage Jesus pictures were still where they were supposed to be. Good. Charlotte Telker was still seated at the organ that Luva Cain bought for the church so many years ago. Yes. Charlotte told me that she loved to hear my grandmother play the piano. That would have been before I was born when she was the church pianist. I don’t run into anyone who remembers my grandmother. What a treat to hear from someone who does. I wanted to take in everything there in close-up, slow-motion detail, but instead, I got an overview. The Methodist hymnals were still in their places on back of every pew. I listen to contemporary Christian music daily and I love my wonderful current church’s praise team and rocked-out tunes. But oh how I treasure those old hymns, besides. The Old Rugged Cross. What a Friend We Have in Jesus. Blessed Assurance. It is Well with My Soul and a thousand more. (Speaking of thousand, O for a Thousand Tongues is a good one.) Last night I went online and ordered myself a Methodist hymnal. I’m going to tuck it in the side pocket of my car and I’m going to use it every chance I get. If you see a random woman with the windows rolled up in a random parking lot belting out I Love to Tell the Story or Holy, Holy, Holy or A Mighty Fortress is Our God, think nothing of it. It’s just me, returning to my roots. Yes, I am grateful for a reason to go back home Sunday, and I thank Pastor Shelley and the rest of those beautiful people from the bottom of my heart for inviting me, making me feel welcome, loved--for making me feel at home. Because I was home. And I miss it already. No spot is so dear. During all of my childhood, Lisa Charles was a pleasant, curly-headed girl, two years my junior, who lived back a long lane in a big, pretty farmhouse. Lisa’s mom, Mary, was my mother’s hairdresser and I’m pretty sure she gave me my first professional perm – something other than the Toni ones out of a box at home.
At Lisa’s farm, just a couple of properties away from ours at Route 1, Brownsville (before they did away with rural route numbers), we had 4-H meetings. But of course Lisa and I grew up and lost touch. I saw her for the first time in nearly 40 years two years ago at The Liberty Festival and learned that she and her husband bought her folks’ place and of all things – they have turned it into a Maple syrup farm! On well over 100 acres of woodlands, they tap the maple trees (not with buckets, we’re talking modern technology these days, folks, and lots of cool equipment and tubes that drain the sap back at their central production area). They sell their pure Indiana Maple Syrup and related products at some of the best farmers’ markets in the state. Pretty sweet. So this weekend, today and tomorrow, Maplewood Farms are on tour and along with watching production and Lisa explaining how it’s done, you can purchase the delicious products too. Right there at Route 1 Brownsville, on the Charles farm. Only now it’s 3737 N. Philomath Rd. Brownsville, Indiana 47325. And it’s the Hart place. You can email Lisa at lhart3737@gmail.com. I loved going down Lisa’s lane. I thought of it as Memory Lane. Since the 2015 holidays, it had been a dry spell. After two years of calls and emails regularly asking if I could give a program to this club or that banquet, things had fallen quiet, like winter snow. It’s to be expected, I told myself, realizing that Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast has been out for two years already. It’s a matter of shelf life. Then one January day, the inbox offered an email with this subject line: Program. And sure enough, a Union County Public Library librarian offered up the magic words: Would I be available to speak to the senior REMINISCE program on Feb. 23? Something new for the calendar! And not just something new but something more: a reason to go home; an opportunity to tailor a talk around some favorite old stories of growing up a farmer’s daughter, of the life and times of being a Union County kid. Just my cup of tea. Today was the day and once again, going home did that thing to me that it always does. It made me homesick. If it weren’t for two major factors, Brian and I would put the house on the market as soon as we could manage, load up the truck and move to Bev-er-ly ... well, to Lib-er-ty. The two major factors, however, are major: 1. The kids live in Indy where we can see them often (can you put a price tag on that)? 2. Our church / my life-group-turned-life friends, the Midlife Moms. I’m also not done with newspaper work quite yet. But make no mistake: there is that pull of home, and part of me asks myself often: so why is it again that we aren't living there now? Today in Liberty, I’m met by my friend since school days, Beth McCoy, and her mom, Shirley. Shirley is one of my most enthusiastic supporters. Beth asks that question: when are we moving home? I set up my dog-and-pony-show table with books and poster, and before I can get it done, despite arriving way early, folks start arriving. This is something I have learned over two years and dozens of programs: get there early. Others will. Among them there today: a lady who rode not only my dad’s school bus but my grandfather’s; the son and daughter-in-law of my husband’s splendid Liberty landlady, Mary Snyder; two mothers of school chums; businessmen from around town, one of which booked me on the spot for a November banquet; several ladies from my childhood Brownsville United Methodist Church; my brother, Tim; the organist at our wedding; several other dear ones, besides. Home folks. They listen well to the stories that range from reflective to historical to silly; they ask questions, they laugh in the right places, and then they reminisce informally over the library’s luncheon of homemade shepherd’s pie, fresh fruit, rolls and cherry-chocolate cake. And over the meal, I talk with a couple. She had been a Brownsville farm girl. He went to school in Dunlapsville and Alquina. His career was an air traffic controller at the Indianapolis International Airport. But they are home now, home in Liberty. And in April, they are taking another trip abroad, this time to Belgium. So many stories like this: small-town people who have led and still lead interesting lives doing important and “who-knew” type things. Boy do I get mad when someone from somewhere else insinuates that small-town or rural folk are dull. Just who is the uninformed, narrow-minded one there? One of our deepest yearnings is to know God and be known by Him. We also want, deeply, to know others and be known by them. I feel these things acutely when I’m in my hometown. The folks there today wanted to hear about the next book. I told them a bit about it, a teaser for the plot, a word or two about a pair of new characters. And I wonder: when is it too soon to say much more than that? In March I’ll start the actual publishing process and this summer, we should have books. And I hope I get to do all this again. The home folks asked if I’ll be back. I sure hope so. In fact, I’d love nothing better. I have a stack of old postcards that date from around 1900 to 1910. They are in about perfect condition, as though mailed yesterday, and they are all addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Robert McDougal, R.R. # 6, Box 55, Liberty, Ind., or sometimes, curiously, just to them at Brownsville, Ind. I think they lived between the two towns and I suppose postal staff at either town made sure they got their mail. The McDougals were my great-great-grandparents on my father’s side. Donna McDougal was their daughter and became Donna Jobe – the mother of my grandfather. I was named for her. The McDougals were entombed in an above-ground vault "up on the hill” in Brownsville. My brother, Tim, even has the key to the vault but found that the key only opens the exterior gate. The cards were written by Donna’s sister, Grace. From what I gather from reading the cards, Grace lived in Indianapolis during the early 1900s and sent this flurry of cards to her family back home in Union County during over the course of a decade. There are seasonal cards, birthday cards, cards for holidays and my favorite ones – scenes from Indianapolis. There's one picturing the U.S. President from Ohio, William Howard Taft, one of people boating in Glen Miller Park, and one from 1909 of BOnd's Department Store in Liberty. There are cards with flowers and pastures and two featuring herds of sheep from Melbourne, Australia. The McDougals came to Union County in the 1830s from Scotland. I wonder if some of their kin settled in Australia. Just a guess. There are several cards featuring sites from inside Indianapolis. I wonder if these points of interest still exist. Obviously, Union Station and the Soldiers and Sailors Monument do, but what about some of the other parks and landmarks? Have a look. Who knows? Some of the sites may resonate with you and if they do, please leave a comment. This is it in the blogosphere for 2015. But I’ll be back at it in 2016 as I share random thoughts on the writing life – and life in general – with you. Please join me then. So make a resolution or two – or not. Have a toast – or not. Stay up until midnight – or go to bed early and get an early start on New Year’s morning. However you choose to see in 2016, be safe and see you next year. A few months ago, Sharon Lindsey of Liberty was assigned the task of contacting me about giving the program at the Union County Extension Homemakers’ Jamboree. We didn’t know each other at all, but we found that we had something unexpected in common: We had traded places. What resulted is a pen-pal relationship since then, due largely to that unique fact. To her, home is Pendleton but she lives, happily, in Liberty. To me, home is Liberty, but I live, happily, in Pendleton. We are both interested in the people, events and milestones of one another's hometowns because they are our hometowns too--either in the original or transplanted senses. Sharon gets her hair done by, and is friends with, my childhood friend, Angie. Some of the names on my Facebook friends roster ring a bell with Sharon from her days growing up in Pendleton. So when Jamboree evening came, and I pulled into the 4-H building complex, there was one car in the parking lot awaiting my arrival: Sharon’s. We recognized each other right away (not so difficult when mine is the next car that arrives and we’re both smiling from ear to ear). We both got out of our cars and offered each other a hug. “You look like Pendleton! You smell like Pendleton!” Sharon told me. She meant it in the best of ways. We chatted and she told me about the table they had awaiting me, all set up with a beautiful white mum for decoration and plenty of space for my books in the room’s prime location. “Do you remember where the fireplace is?” Sharon asked. “Of course I do!” I enjoyed my evening with the Union County Extension Homemakers so much. I think I had goosebumps the whole time, reflecting on old stories that happened in the county, town and even right there in that 4-H building. The ladies were receptive in listening to my tales and kind in purchasing books. The only problem was that, like all good things, it was over far too quickly. I look forward to seeing them in November 2016 at their fantastic annual bazaar, always the Saturday before Thanksgiving—with copies of my sequel in hand. And until then, I’ll keep up with them through my new friend, Sharon. I saw a Facebook poster on someone’s page that read something about how everything and everyone in your life are temporary, so don’t get attached. You’ll never see that on my page. I attach. On Wednesday, I had the privilege of speaking to the Union County Extension Homemakers in the 4-H building. During the back-roads drive from Centerville to Liberty, I passed my maternal grandfather’s childhood home, my childhood home, my maternal grandmother’s home, my hometown church, my brother’s home, my elementary, junior high and high school. I loved seeing each and every one of my personal historic sites, and would drive by each of them, slowly, once a week, if my life allowed it. Next to home, church and schools, the 4-H building was the top landmark of my youth. To have the opportunity to stand behind a lectern and talk about this real Sweet Land of Liberty, as well as my book, Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast, was an honor. I chose some columns I had written through the years to share with the hometown ladies. Joy. I got to Liberty early so I could visit with my brother and sister-in-law. But I was still early (early is often my signature) to arrive at the fairgrounds. So I drove over to Liberty Elementary, parked, and went to the door and stared in like a stalker. An employee spotted me and immediately came to the door and asked what I wanted. I explained that I only wanted to look inside because I went to school there 50 years ago. She asked my maiden name. “I remember you,” she said, and with those magic words, she invited me to follow her around for a tour. I hadn’t expected that, but I wasn’t about to say no. We toured the kindergarten, first- and second-grade wings, passing the rooms of long-ago teachers Miss Goble and Mrs. Myers. The green chalkboards and paler green plastic cabinetry were still in place, so surprisingly familiar after so many decades. “Does the office lobby still have those tile murals?” I asked. “Sure does,” the employee said, showing me. They looked new, like no one had touched them in a half century. Amazing. I explained where the old music and art rooms were. I could have found them in the dark, but they are no longer used for those purposes. We went into the lunchroom / gym. It looked the same, except for the wall paint. I shared memories such as the thrill it was in fifth grade when you were chosen as a lunch helper. “Not anymore,” the employee told me. “It would be considered punishment today.” I would have loved to have progressed on down the other hallways, passing Mrs. Orr’s room across from the girls’ restroom; Mrs. Huntington’s room on the corner, then Mrs. Sipahigil’s, and Mrs. Davisson’s. Oh, I know, those teachers are all either retired or passed away now, but forever, they will be teaching in those classrooms in my mind. I remembered that I had left my car window rolled down, car unlocked, purse and cell phone on the seat. As much as I wanted to continue the tour, I felt compelled to be responsible and return to the car. Besides, it was time to meet up with the Extension Homemakers for the program. It was an unexpected trip down memory lane. In fact, Wednesday was filled with an assortment of memory lanes. As soon as I saw the Union County Line Road sign south of Abington, I couldn’t wait to cross over into the promised land. Don’t get attached? Impossible. In one of the programs I give relating to my novel, Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast, the focus is on women’s bucket lists. At a recent program, the hostess cautioned that I might have trouble getting the ladies to share what’s on their lists. In fact, she didn’t think any of them would open up. It was a group of a dozen and we were in a living room. So I said we would go around the room and casually share. “If anyone doesn’t want to, just wave yourself off and we’ll go on to the next. No big deal.” Sure enough, the first lady said she didn’t really have anything to offer. Great, I thought. What if the hostess was right? But in a setting like that, you just have to keep moving. If things went badly, and the discussion was poor, well, I’d be home before dark. But then, an interesting thing happened. The next woman up said that she’s always wanted to take a trip to Europe but she doesn’t have anyone to go with. No one in her life wanted to join her. “I’ll go with you,” the hostess piped up. “I’d like to go too,” came a voice from the other side of the room. The three of them took a moment to briefly discuss it before we moved on. There were more hopes and wishes shared as the activity continued, but I couldn’t quit thinking about what had just happened. At least three women there wanted the same big thing and they could make it happen. Before that evening, apparently none of them knew that the others had this same heart’s desire. The evening progressed and as I signed some books following the program, I heard the women chatting. It sounded for all the world like they were in the beginning stages of making trip plans. To Europe. As I left the house, they were still talking about this. I hope someday to hear that they really did make the trip. Hopes and dreams take many forms in life. In 2014, I had two unusual dreams take shape and come true. I published a book. I went to Israel. I still think daily about both and praise God for these unique opportunities. Now, my bucket list’s target is publishing a sequel in 2016. Things are progressing but it’s still far enough away that I don’t want to get too deep into that topic on this blog just yet. I’ll certainly be unpacking it in detail next year. This year, the old bucket list’s focus has been the joy of seeing Brian reach that milestone of retirement and finding a happier, more relaxed husband where I used to see a man out the door at 5:30 a.m. and grading papers until bedtime. It’s also been the year of finishing my sequel and ushering it into the hands of three trusted people who either have or are currently editing it. I don’t have a list to check off for my own pending retirement in a few years. I have some ideas, though, and a belief that at the right time, more ideas will take shape. One thing I’ve wanted to do since I was 19—my first summer out of 4-H when I found myself missing it, is to one day be a 4-H judge. I’d like to take the class required to one day do this. I would also be honored to serve as a Bible Study Fellowship discussion-group leader. But while I’m still knee-deep in my day job, I can’t take on either of those. Someday. Recently, I was asked, quite out of the blue, to judge a festival parade in Shirley and the other day, the phone rang and I was invited to judge the baked goods at the Mooreland Free Fair. For years I watched as judges evaluated foods in the annual Courier-Times recipe contest. I coordinated it, not judged it. One year I judged the Knightstown Jubilee Days’ Queen Contest but that was by default when Janet Helms (their first choice) couldn’t make it. I once judged a hospital Christmas decoration door contest and another year the Christmas trees at the Wilbur Wright Birthplace. The Supreme Court isn’t going to come calling, but I’m pleased and honored to be asked! I love small towns and simple, small-town activities. If your women’s group ever needs a program, hit me up. I make house calls. Just like the Tupperware lady only with books and a door prize. Who knows? Maybe you’ll connect the dots toward your own dream. As much as I love contemporary Christian music both in church and on the radio, I cherish the old hymns. I miss hearing them regularly. One of dozens that resonate is The Church in the Wildwood. Even though my childhood church was not brown, it was in the vale, nestled along the east fork of the Whitewater River between steep hills to both the east and west of town. From the cemetery on the grounds, you look to the west and see a good stand of wildwood.
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