ARTISTS AND FOOD: MY FATHER

Aldren A. Watson is an author and artist.  Among other accomplishments, he has published  175 books.  In addition to illustrating many books for other authors, he collaborated with my mother, author Nancy Dingman Watson, as the illustrator for the list of distinguished children's books  they created together.  He also wrote and illustrated several children's books himself.  And he is the author and illustrator of a group of adult non-fiction titles that are still in print, many years after their publication.  Now 94 years old, he is looking forward to the publication of his 176th title.  David R. Godine, Publisher (http://www.godine.com/) will be bringing out WATERFRONT NEW YORK: Images From the 1920s and 30s in the fall of 2012.   

My father has always been adept in the kitchen.  He can produce a good meal as well as the next cook---and does.  During my growing-up years, he was always the breakfast chef.  He called our orders into the cupboard where the short-order chef reigned---"Harry!  Adam and Eve on a raft!"  He then whipped up the order at the stove---two poached eggs on toast.  And lastly, he  served it to the designated recipient with a flourish---"Your breakfast, Miss!"

But I remember him most often as an aide and abettor to cooks.  He designed and built the cabinetwork in our kitchen, with customized areas for cookbooks; spices; implements.  He installed the marble slab that my mother wanted for candy and bread making.  Was a tool  broken?  Or did you crave a yet-to-be-invented implement?  He would mend or create it. 

At this time of year I think especially of the unique cookie cutters that my father---always the inspired food collaborator---made for my mother's holiday baking.  My brother Peter and I helped to bake and ice the cookies.  (Or at least I thought we were helping.)

Peter and I watched as my father decorated wooden sugar buckets.  My mother then filled the buckets with the homemade cookies (though hopefuly not with the ones Peter and I had licked) and they were distributed as gifts.  It was a true creative collaboration between my mother and father, whether the medium was books or food.

These memories are inspiring me to do some holiday baking of my own.  I get out my recipe box, the one my father made for me years and years ago, and retrieve the recipe that we always baked for Christmas tree cookies.

RICH ROLL COOKIES (from an old edition of The Joy of Cooking)

Cream 1 cup butter, 2/3 cup sugar.  Beat in 1 egg.  Combine and add 2 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 tsp salt, 1 tsp vanilla.  Chill dough at least 3 to 4 hours before rolling.   Preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Roll and cut out [this makes a tender dough---keep chilled, handle quickly].  Bake for about 8 to 10 minutes or until slightly colored.  Icing:  mix confectioner's sugar with milk and a little vanilla, then separate into small batches and color with food coloring. [Our modern flours are more refined than they were 50 or 100 years ago, when this recipe was first concocted. You may need to increase the amount of flour slightly to make a workable dough.]

Next I get out my own cookie cutters.  My father made a set for me over the years, just as he did for the rest of his children---a new cutter each Christmas.  I'll mix up my dough.  Roll it out.  Cut and bake the cookies. And ice them using my worn-out and thoroughly washed Winsor & Newton series 7 watercolor brushes.  The perfect melding of art and food.

ARTISTS AND FOOD: MY MOTHER

Artists and food always seem to go together.  An over-used phrase, perhaps, but a true one---and my family of artists is no exception.  My mother, Nancy Dingman Watson, was a writer.  She wrote a long string of distinguished children's books, illustrated by my father Aldren Auld Watson.  Later in her life she moved into adult poetry, and play-writing.  It is easy to find the roots of her love for words in her family heritage.  Professionally, the men were doctors.  The women were social workers, educators, diplomats.  But they were, as well, lovers of words.  Talking.  Reading.  Writing.  As a child, it seemed to me that those tall noisy relatives were always energetically discussing.  Always buried in books.  And writing---well, I have the example of the many literate and entertaining letters that my grandfather wrote to me.  Multiplying that by the number of grandchildren and other relatives with whom he corresponded---he must have been writing every day.

But my mother had another passion---cooking---that her family did not encourage.  She told stories of how she was not allowed, as a child, into the kitchen---that was the live-in cook's domain.  Stories of trying to concoct fudge on the tiny wood cookstove in her playhouse.  But always the yearning to cook.  When my parents married, bought a 100-acre farm in Vermont after WWII, and settled in, I imagine it might have been then that my mother was finally able to truly satisfy this desire.  She became a fabulous cook, with a reputation that must have pleased her enormously.

As we move into this holiday season, I have been thinking often about my mother's delight in cooking.  I remember her from my childhood, at this time of year, baking, baking, baking---scores of cookies, all kinds, all shapes and sizes.  My father decorated wooden sugar buckets for containers.  It was a collaborative activity, just as their books were.  The buckets were then filled with cookies and dispatched to appreciative friends and relatives, near and far.

After my mother died, this battered notebook was put into my hands.  As I held it, I was caught up in memories.  I had given my mother this notebook---new, blank, and pristine---17 years before.  I had written an inscription in the front of it. "To Mom, for Christmas 1984---Fill this full of good things!  Love, Wendy."  And I had fully expected that she would use it for a writing notebook.  After all, she, the writer, was the one who had given me the trick of keeping a notebook under my pillow for capturing those perfect midnight phrases.  She was the one who had given me a favorite writing exercise: "Write a piece that is 26 sentences long.  The first word of the first sentence begins with A.  The first word of the second sentence begins with B.  Etc.  Make one sentence 1 word long.  Make one sentence longer than 100 words."   

I opened the notebook.  On the flyleaf, under my inscription, my mother had written:  "Wendy--when I fill this full of good things I'll give it back!  The New Year, 1990.  Love, Mom." As I turned the pages, I realized---over a period of 11 years my mother HAD filled it with good things.  But the good things were not poems---they were recipes.  Her recipes.  On the very first page was her recipe for "Coffee Cake Wreath".  My mother was a purist---no making it ahead of time and putting it in the freezer.  No, during my childhood my mother got out of bed at 3 am on Christmas morning to start the coffee cake.  Tended it over the next few hours.   And took it out of the oven piping hot and delicious at 8 am, just in time for our Christmas breakfast.  


COFFEE CAKE WREATH
Dissolve 2 cakes yeast in 1 cup lukewarm milk or water (can substitute dry yeast).  Sift + stir in 1 cup all-purpose flour.  Cover this sponge and let rise in warm place till light, c. 1/2 hour.  Beat 1 cup soft butter.  Add gradually 1/2 cup sugar.  Blend until light + creamy.  Beat in, one at a time, 2 - 3 eggs.  Add 1 tsp salt, 2 tsps grated lemon rind.  Beat in the sponge. Sift and beat in gradually 3 1/2 cups flour.  Beat for 5 minutes.  Add 1/8 cup chopped citron, 1/4 cup raisins or chopped candied pineapple, 1 cup broken nut meats.  Cover bowl and let rise 2 hours or double.  Makes 2 wreaths 9" in diameter.  Roll 1/2 dough in 3 long strips.  Braid, shape; or just put dough in tube pans.  Let rise 1/2 hour, brush top with melted butter. Bake at 350.  [Note:  Our modern flours are more refined than they were 50 or 100 years ago, when this recipe was first concocted.  You may need to increase the amount of flour slightly to produce a manageable dough.]


I will be mixing up my own batch of "Coffee Cake Wreath" for Christmas---though I fear I am NOT a purist, Mother dear.  Instead, as is my wont, I will make it ahead and put it in the freezer...but I'll enjoy it as much as we all ever did, on December 25.