What's the fuzz? Tell Me What's Happening ...

When I first started watching the process, I wasn't tall enough to see the counter top.  I just knew it all looked interesting and that I absolutely loved the outcome.  I could see flour being shaken, a white substance being scooped from a large can, and water being added slowly, and of course a little salt.   Then I would see the juicy fruit being added, the oven door being opened, and then a buzzer sounding about an hour later.  Then, it was mine.

As I got older I continued to watch the process, and then finally decided that I would learn the process ...

My mother gathered me at the kitchen counter, spread out her waxed paper, and it all began.  Some flour, of course, she didn't measure.  So, I decided before she added any other ingredients, I would scoop the flour she had sprinkled out into a measuring cup, so I would know the right proportion.  Then she scooped the Crisco from the large can. Again no measuring, so I was left with the scooping method again to get the accurate measurement.  Then came the iced water.  Yes, a glass filled with water and a few ice cubes.  I couldn't measure this, since there was no chance for scooping, so I had to use the "eyeball" method.  Then a sprinkling of salt.  I would ask, "how do you know it is all the right texture?"  To which she would add, "you just need to make sure it is short enough."  By this, I think she meant the Crisco.  Because trust me, this recipe stood taller than any I've had since. 

Then in her round glass casserole bowl, she would add peaches, a little sugar, and a touch more flour. Stirring ever so gently.  Then she would take the heavy, round, wooden rolling pin, flour another piece of waxed paper, and roll the dough mixture out into a flat and perfectly thickened round disc.   She would then place this over the peach mixture, crimping it along the top edge of the casserole dish. Each crimp was the perfect indentation of her index finger on top, and her thumb on the bottom.   But she wasn't finished quite yet with this undertaking.  You see, there was always a bit of the dough mixture left over ... by design.  She would then take this dough mixture, roll it out once again, and then she would take cinnamon and sugar, sprinkle it on top, and then roll it up "jelly roll" style. 

Both of these prepared dishes would now go in the oven at 350 degrees for about an hour.  Then I would begin to smell the process after just a few minutes.   About an hour later, music to my ears!! The timer for the oven would sound its musical pleasure.  Both of the master pieces were taken from the oven and then set on the wooden chopping board which had been placed on the counter top.  The chopping board had been turned upside down, because it had been hand painted by my sister in the first grade, and nothing was allowed to sit on the painted side.   Then I was told,  "we need to let it cool for just a bit."  While the cooling process was taking place, out would come a small box and the table would be set.   The master pieces would then be transferred to the center of the table, the small box opened, and the candles placed lovingly in the center of the casserole piece of art.  Then the familiar song would be sung, clapping would follow, and then my family was blessed with the best peach cobbler on the earth!! 

Yes, my February birthday dessert was always my Mother's homemade peach cobbler.  I had this for practically every birthday from the time I can remember, until my 52nd birthday.   Then shortly after my 52nd birthday my Mother passed on the second to last day of March.   I haven't had a peach cobbler of that caliber since then. Even though I spent that painstaking time of "measuring" all her ingredients, as she worked her magic, I've never tried to make her famous crust to top my peach cobbler.  I don't know if the reason for not trying is a fear of not being able to do it, or probably more truthfully, that it is a sacred memory that I refuse to give up or compromise.  Sure, I can make the peach concoction, but the crust and even the "jelly roll" style cinnamon roll-up is better left to the memory.  It's more than a memory of the actual decadence of the dessert.  It's the love it was made of.   I just choose to hold it in my heart.


The above was written as a challenge from my writing group, The Red Dress Club.  We were asked to write about a fruit.  My love of peaches far exceeds their flavor.  It remains a piece of my Mother's special touch.