Cooking Without Measuring

My Mama died suddenly on a August Sunday afternoon in 1956 and in her honor, I write these old tyme storytelling' recipes. She was a very pretty lady born in Franklin County, Rocky Mt. Va, and raised in Brookville, and Franklin, Ohio. She had ribbon black silky hair, bronze skin and eyes of lavender and gray. She sang scat and blues in tiny city clubs and was a baker at her day job. Her cookin" songs talked about hardship, deep love stories and being alive. She'd mix her dough on the table and didn't even Use a bowl. Mama made a "well" in the middle of some bread flour;about 10 palms full. Then she would mix up some yeast with a little warm water and when that yeast started bubbling we would stir it with our fingers;and pour it in that flour "well" on our kitchen table.

She would sign Johnny Rae's song,"CRY " and then we would play that dough like a piano, crack us open some eggs, (2 for her and 2 for me), and stir them eggs until they looked like lemon puddling'. I always knew when it was time to add the dabs and pinches of stuff like salt, baking powder and a little sugar cause she sang sounds instead of words. She would add a pinch of this or that, some garlic or onion powders and mist it real good. The toss in a blob or two of sour cram and a little at a time of evaporated milk ; to wet it. Sometimes, I got to put in a little pure orange juice, mashed bananas, onion bits, cheese or raisins, oats, and jelly or even peanut butter, " But never bubble gum," she'd say. Mama said that kneading was the finest artwork in the universe. She taught me to knead dough by a song she made up; just for us and it goes to the tune of a square dance call. "Mix that dough, now all together like it is the best satin that ever touched your hands. Roll it up in a ball, like the moon in the wind. Now push down, in the middle of that moon ball toward the four directions of our earth.