Ginger Cakes! Or Cookies! Or Balls!

This year, one of my son's many school projects was related to the Civil War unit he had for social studies.  He chose to do a recipe book.  That meant he (we) needed to make five or more recipes from that era.   We made Johnny cakes and cornbread and Mary Todd Lincoln's white almond cake and some orange cake favored by a General Oglethorpe.

Most of the recipes had already been adapted to fit today's ingredient availability and modern cookware.  Still, it was fun and I think we learned some interesting things about the food of the period.

It also got us back into the kitchen together.  I have always been big on baking together, but we go through periods where schedules and competing interests conspire against mother-son kitchen time. 

The most successful recipe we tackled were "ginger cakes."  We learned that ginger was a popular flavor in that era, and that women baked all kinds of cakes and breads and cookies flavored with ginger.  The "ginger cakes" we made were pretty much a traditional molasses cookie.  They were profoundly delicious.  And, according to my son, also a hit with his classmates.

We've since made that cookie several times; it's our new favorite, and really pretty easy.  I like to tell myself they are a "healthy" cookie due to the molasses.  Ha.

I made them again today, made up the dough at least.  I just attempted to bake up a dozen and they ended up round little balls of dough.  I don't know why they didn't spread.  I'm worried I made a mistake when I doubled the recipe in my head.  The other suspected culprit is the fact that I didn't have enough shortening and used some of the coconut oil I had on hand, from when we were doing more dairy-free baking.  I have to figure out how to fix these puppies.  My fallback, as ever, would be smashing them with the bottom of a glass before sliding them into the oven.  But I'd miss the pretty "crackle" finish.

Digging through musty old records

This weekend I attended a memorial service in St Louis, which is about 9 hours of driving each way.  I thought about taking the train, setting myself up for 18+ blissful hours of napping, reading, and watching movies on a DVD player.  But driving had a particular appeal:  it would take me through Indiana, where I have been meaning to do some genealogy research.

Dad got into genealogy about 10 years ago.  While I thought it was neat to find out that my great-great whatever was born in East Pudonk, Bohemia, I could not understand how anyone could make a hobby out of genealogy.  Who truly cares to know the exact date that some long-dead relative kicked off? People spend hours doing this?  Normal people?

Well, things change. My son had a family history project last year, and when you assign a nine-year-old boy a family history project it's a guarantee that his mom is going to have to tackle a lot of it.  I managed to work legos in somehow, but beyond that he wasn't engaged with it.  Certainly not regarding any of the relatives he didn't know personally.  To my surprise, I got hooked.  I finally got it, why people do this; why it's been so satisfying for my dad.  If you've been watching that series "Who Do You Think You Are," you have either gotten a glimpse of why people do this, or you're utterly perplexed.  I can't tell how that series would come off to someone who's not already obsessed.

Anyway, it turns out that my husband's family's Chicago roots also extend to Indiana.  I've been meaning to get to a little town named La Porte, IN to visit a cemetery and the local library, and finally was able to do that on Friday.

One of the things I found was the church record of the marriage of Peter Meier (my husband's great-grandfather) to Mathilda Miller (my husband's great-grandmother).  Most of what was written there was not news to me; it mostly confirmed what I knew.  But since it was tiny handwriting, written in fountain pen, using the handwriting style of the 1890s, and in German to boot, I decided I should take a photograph of the entry.  That way I wouldn't have to trust my own transcription.

This morning I looked at the photograph, trying to discern Peter Meier's mother's name, something I really don't know.  The minister's handwriting wasn't helping.  For the first time my eyes wandered to the entry above.  And realized that just a few weeks prior, the minister had married Louise Miller.  Parents were Ernst Miller & Dorothea Radtke, same as Mathilda.  Mathilda's sister!  I knew she had siblings but didn't know their first names (just their married names).  And I wasn't aware that any of her sisters had married a groom with the name I saw listed.  When their parents died 20 years later, that son-in-law was not named.  Probably a remarriage occurred, likely after Louise was widowed.  But when?  How?

So one mystery was solved, but another was created, and it all felt like serendipity.  I had such tunnel vision that I never looked at any other entries on that page.  And I would have missed it entirely had I not taken the photo.

Genealogy research is filled with things like that, where you run across something unexpected, and it turns out to be the missing piece of the puzzle you need.

My terrific, sane, capable sibling

Growing up, my image of myself in relation to my sister was that I was the tough one.  She always kept her feelings close to the surface.  She was quicker to cry, more open to expressing herself.  More concerned about pleasing my parents.  I was a lot more closed off.  My mom used to say that when Janet was a toddler, she could ask her not to touch something and Janny would see Mom's disapproving look and burst into tears.  When I came along, Mom could tell me not to touch something and I'd look right in her eyes as I defiantly touched it again.

As we grew up, she was the one who was reluctant to leave home.  She went to college in our hometown, and only lived in the dorm because my parents insisted.  Me?  Two days before my 18th birthday I boarded a plane for a college located 1300 miles away.   Now, she still lives in our hometown, about 10 minutes from my Dad.  I'm 14 hours away.

I have translated these kinds of stories into a myth that I was the stronger of the two of us.

I have spent most of my adult life realizing this is not the case.  My sister is tough and strong and practical and positive and so capable.  And I am, as my blogging moniker states, clinging by my fingernails most days.

While I don't enjoy the way life regularly reminds me that I don't have my act together, I do appreciate the admiration I feel for my sister.  Realigning my understanding of her and of myself, of how and who we are as people, has been kind of an emotional journey.  A really rewarding one.