for Ilse

This month’s column is dedicated to my friend Ilse. A young working mother, Ilse is currently navigating life with a toddler and a baby, two deceptively angelic-looking little girls.

I recently came across this account from a day in my life over thirty years ago when my son was 22-months-old. It reminded me of the challenges of cooking (or accomplishing anything) with little ones around.

April 8, 1976

This morning my day began when David awakened me shortly after six to tell me that vandals had thrown a brick through the back window of his car last night while he worked late at the office. He’s on his way out of town and he’ll have to take my car. As he will be away the rest of the week, he told me to rent a car from H.D.’s Car Rental or Hertz.

We breakfast and bid each other good-bye. The baby is still asleep.

This is the day for my housekeeper to come and a good thing, too, for I have a host of errands, among them grocery shopping, taking a gift to the new baby of one of David’s secretaries, and an appointment for a haircut. I also plan to make soup, Parmesan bread, and ice cream that I will take to my friend Mary Ann. Her 6-year-old daughter is having a tonsillectomy early this morning, and I want to give little Susan the traditional post-tonsillectomy ice cream treat as well as provide a meal her whole family can enjoy when she returns home from the hospital this evening.

I decide to settle the car situation before the baby wakens. I call H. D.‘s rental agency. They are out of cars. Before I can call Hertz, the housekeeper rings. She can’t come today. My heart sinks. The house is a shambles and all those errands!

Geoffrey awakens and I dress him. Since the baby seems happy enough toddling around, I run to my dressing room to complete my own grooming before we go downstairs. While combing my hair, I hear an ominous sound from the bathroom. I go to check and find that Geoffrey has emptied a large sack of bird seed onto the carpet.

I take several deep breaths. The damage is done; he can’t do any more harm so I return to the dressing room, leaving him patting the pile of seed.

I quickly finish putting myself together and return to the bathroom to get the baby. He has not been idle. He has poured birdseed down the sink and tub drains and they are clogged. He has taken water from the commode and added it to the bird seed and painted the walls with gritty mix.

No time to clear up. I brush the seed off him, wash his hands, take him downstairs and put him in his high chair.

Handing him cereal and milk, I put an egg on to cook and call Mother, explain the situation and ask if she will keep Geoffrey for an hour or two so I can run errands. She agrees. I tell her I will have Hertz deliver a car to me before then so I can bring him to her house. I hang up. The egg has burned.

I call Hertz. Hertz has no cars available. I call the Chevrolet dealership. They do not rent cars.

I take Geoffrey out of the high chair; clean him up, give him a banana, sit him in his chair, and turn on Sesame Street.

Back at the phone, I see the hospital phone number and call to check on Susan. Mary Ann reports that she is out of surgery and doing fine. Mary Ann is relieved and ready to chat. I recount my morning’s adventures. Mary Ann says she has the solution. Her husband Jay is at the hospital with her and his car is in their driveway, keys in the ignition. “Go get it and keep it the rest of the day,” she says.

Great! I call H.D. who felt bad he didn’t have a car for me and has offered to help anyway he can. Would he be able to come get me and take me to pick up Jay’s car? Yes! I rush upstairs, make a pass at cleaning up the bird seed, rush down, start the dishwasher, and put a load of clothes in the washing machine. I pack Geoffrey’s lunch and diapers.

H.D. arrives. I pick up Geoffrey and his parcels, my purse, and we’re on our way. I’m grateful to have the use of Jay’s car, but it doesn’t have a car seat, and the baby, who is used to riding in one, rolls around like a ball bearing. Enjoying this unaccustomed freedom, he grabs his lunch and amuses himself throwing lima beans.

I deliver him and what’s left of his lunch to Mother.

I go to the hair dresser (I needed that!), then to the grocery store. I take the groceries home then pick up the baby. He’s sleepy, thank goodness. I take him home, chat with him a minute, then put him to bed for a nap.

Downstairs I scald the milk and beat the eggs for the custard that will form Susan’s ice cream. While the milk cools, I open the bags of ice for the ice cream freezer and find that though I specified crushed ice, the bagger at the grocery store loaded my car with sacks of ice cubes—which won’t work in my ice cream freezer.

While I’m trying to figure out the most efficient manner to crush the cubes, someone knocks at the door. I open it to a smiling but nervous young man who informs me that while driving along looking at my house, he ran into my mail box, knocked it down and then ran over it.

Resisting the impulse to slam the door (it might wake the baby) I march out to survey the damage. The mail box and its post lie twisted like an avant-garde sculpture of a tormented soul. Magazines, advertisements, letters and bills are strewn across the lawn and flutter gently in a light breeze. My incipient anger flutters, too, then floats away. My heart goes out to the shabby-looking man standing beside me. His dented old car holds a bedraggled wife and an assortment of pallid children. He didn’t have to stop, confess his deed, and notify me that my mail was in danger of blowing away. I thank him for that, and reassuring him that no real harm has been done, send him on his way with a smile and a wave.

Gathering up the mail, I return to the house. The kitchen clock reveals it is not yet 1:30, and it becomes suddenly clear to me that the remainder of the baby’s nap time could best be spent with a quiet cup of tea.

I resist that inner voice suggesting a slug of scotch might be a better choice.

For present day frazzled mothers as well as anyone else interested in a quick and easy yeast bread, here’s the recipe for the Parmesan bread I mention above. It’s a no-knead casserole bread that is my variation on a recipe from a very old Better Homes and Gardens Bread Cook Book. These days I make this in the food processor. Just give the dough a whir whenever the recipe says to beat or stir.

Parmesan Bread

Soften 1 pkg dry yeast in ¼ C lukewarm water.

Scald ¼ C milk; cool to lukewarm.

Mix 1 ½ C flour (part of which may be whole wheat), 1 T sugar and ½ t. salt. Cut in ⅓ C butter.

Add a beaten egg, the yeast and milk; beat well.

Stir in ¾ C grated Parmesan or other cheese such as Havarti or cheddar. Combinations are particularly good.

Turn into an 8 inch round pan greased generously with melted butter. Cover with damp cloth and let rise until double, about 40 minutes. Sprinkle the top liberally with additional cheese.

Bake at 375º for 20 to 25 minutes.

A final note to readers. Protective car seats of the type mandatory today had not yet been invented in the 1970s so don’t send messages taking me to task for not strapping my baby into a car seat. The “baby” is now a six foot four inch adult who somehow managed to survive these and other unsanitary and freewheeling adventures—fortified no doubt by my cooking.