Doom was always lurking around corners. Ma tended toward old wives’ tales. If I read too much, my eyes would cross. If I washed my hair too often, it would fall out before I reached the age of 30. Pantyhose and tampons would render me sterile. Nail polish would brand me a hussy. Shaving my armpits, well, you don’t want to know that one. Plucking my eyebrows could cause any number of vision problems, which, perhaps, is probably why I fell and hurt myself running, and . . .
. . . I was never, ever, under any circumstances to turn the oven on!
The sturdy Tappan Gas Range of my two previous posts, followed our family from the west side of Chicago to the suburb of Maywood. Both houses were across from what would become I-290, locally dubbed the Congress Expressway and then the Eisenhower. For more than 50 years, I lived either on the north or the south side of the Ike, but, those are stories for other days. Today’s is the story of my home, the range, and Hershey’s Cocoa.
My mother, with all her superstitions and worry, was the best at making hot cocoa. Cold days, after walking home from school, we would often find a cup of hot chocolate waiting. Ma would make a cup for Daddy sometimes, late at night. I know. How do I know? I know because I was reading a book, under my bed covers, when I was supposed to be fast asleep.
I digress.
I have a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. They are letters written to my mother during WWII. They are from her brothers and brothers-in-law, cousins and boys from the neighborhood who had gone off to war. They are from many theaters of battle, some with words sliced out by a censor’s razor. They speak of the Chicago Cubs or the White Sox, others asking after the other boys who hung out on the street corner. They talk of weather and of missing loved ones and of the things in between the lines that speak of war without words. They are the sorts of letters that arrived in countless homes. In almost every letter my mother kept, however, there was a common theme;
Vi, I can’t wait to come home and have a cup of your hot cocoa.
I did not know of these letters until I was a young mother when my mom gave them to, saying she thought I would appreciate having them – and I did. Still do. All I knew as a girl of thirteen, however, was that Ma made good cocoa, with Hershey’s cocoa. The same Hershey’s cocoa that my cousin Mary Jane made each morning, as a young teen, after she had warmed up the old coal stove.
The conversation with my cousin, and the photograph of the new stove reminded me of the letter, my mother, and of a small act of defiance when I was about thirteen years old.
My mother, father and Yia Yia had all gone out somewhere. So had my Aunt Christina and Uncle Joe, who lived next door. For all of them to be gone at the same time, including my grandmother, who hardly ever left the house, leads me to believe that someone must have died and they all went to the wake. They NEVER all went somewhere together, unless it was a wake or a wedding.
I finished my homework then decided I would make some cocoa. Just like that! Out came the Hershey’s container, a half gallon glass jar of milk, and a small pan. I read the directions and proceeded to turn on the burner and warm the milk. I was warned to never turn on the oven. No one said anything about a burner. I managed to make the hot cocoa without setting the pan, a towel, or anything else on fire. It was very good. I cleaned everything up, but, you know, there is a unique aroma that comes with hot Hershey’s cocoa that permeates the air and is subtly detectable when coming in from the cold – that, and the pang of guilt that arises after doing something you are not supposed to do.
When my parents and grandmother came home, I spilled the beans faster than a nervous coffee grinder. Yia Yia slipped quietly to her room. My father looked at me; she who never disobeyed. My mother: well, hysterical would probably describe her mien, as the woulda, shoulda, couldas spewed forth. Finally, Daddy interceded on my behalf. “Violet, she should have asked, but, nothing bad happened, she was careful, she cleaned up after herself and she really IS old enough to start cooking.”
Thus began my warm and sweet love affair with cooking – one pan of Hershey’s cocoa at a time – and it was on the front right burner of that sturdy Tappan range. It really is amazing what memories come forth when visiting a big box store.
Dear Penny, what a charming story in which we meet your daddy and your mom and learn just how much they loved you–one frightened for you and the other, I suspect, rather proud. Peace.
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They were both, Dee, and more. My dad could usually bring all things into perspective, and my mom’s love was never questioned. It’s interesting what qualities that I recognize, or choose to recognize, I’ve gotten from each of them. Thank you.
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Am here much earlier than usual. I am supposed to be dusting. I need a break so with lap cat settled in my lap I decide to go to the Cutoff. And it is a good decision!
Lo and behold there is a story that I call vintage Penny! It ties things together as only you can do: adolescent desire to be independent, faith in your ability, success, neatness, honesty, and your father’s wise assessment.
I imagine that cup of cocoa has never been surpassed. And look how it lead to many more culinary memories through the years. I wish I had a cup of that cocoa!
I am off to tackle dust bunnies.
Hope your Tuesday is a pleasant one.
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How nice to have you choose me instead of dusting, Marilyn. You are, you know, always welcome on the Cutoff.
Thank you. You always make me feel special, and I appreciate it and you.
I wish I could serve you a nice hot cup of that cocoa. I have a feeling we would be talking all afternoon, with more dust bunnies multiplying right in front of us, as dust bunnies are apt to do. Perhaps Midnight would stop by for a bit or milk and the resident herd would march by to check us out.
Now, see what you did? I have dust bunnies in my brain. tee hee
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What a sweet memory … and the perfect intro. to cooking … I suddenly have a craving for a cup of hot cocoa …
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Thank you, Teresa. I hope you were able to have a cup of cocoa. This cold and snowy winter is perfect for some. Hope all is well with you.
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Ok Penny, I’ve had 2 cups of cocoa in the last couple of days thanks to you and now I am probably destined for another! 🙂 I would love to know the secret to your mother’s cocoa that had soldiers overseas longing for it! This was another touching story about your family that I feel privileged to get a glimpse of through you. I can only imagine how your parents would have coped with some of the stunts I pulled when I was that age, and even younger – like melting all my crayons in a saucepan with the bright idea of making colorful candles!
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The power of suggestion. Actually, when I was at the store, I bought a new box of Hershey’s Cocoa. I use it for baking brownies, chocolate cake and such, but, may just have to have a cup soon having talked about it so much here. I think the secret was that she made it so well combined with the solders’ longing for home. She must have made a lot, though, for there were a lot of letters. My mom was such a sweet person. Everyone called her “sweet Violet”. That candle making was quite a stunt, Janet. My mom would have been hysterical, I’m sure.
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Dear Penny, I discovered last night that Elizabeth Wein who wrote “Code Name Verity” has written a second novel about a woman pilot during WWII and a Nazi concentration camp. I got my name on the library list for it. Just in case you don’t know about this, the name of the book is “Rose under Fire.” Peace.
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Thank you, Dee. I have it on my list and hope to read it soon. Never enough time for all the books I want to read.
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What a heart-warming story! I love your father’s wisdom, and how you began your ‘warm and sweet love affair with cooking’. My father used to make us hot cocoa at night, and I can still smell the aroma and hear the tinkle of the teaspoon he used to stir each cup. His cocoa was milky, but the cocoa we were served at school at lunch time on cold days was watery, and not the same at all.
PS Love your metaphor about spilling the beans faster than a nervous coffee-grinder. Brilliant!
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My mom’s cocoa was milky as well, Juliet, and back then, it was whole milk. There is a big difference, for sure, in the taste and texture, but, that “tinkle of the teaspoon” is as much as a stirrer of senses as the distinct aroma. We were just mentioning that special sound the other day. What warm, family images you have evoked with your father making hot cocoa at night and you sitting around the coal stove.
Thank you.
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So lovely to catch another glimpse of your childhood and your parents, Penny. I’m sure we’ve all disobeyed like this at times, but ,as your father said ,there was no harm done and you took another step towards adulthood. 🙂
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Thank you, Perpetual. It was, indeed, a step. My father usually brought a balance to things and I am still learning simple lessons from my mother. I was, am, a lucky one.
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Love your story! Some parents were full of doom..I wonder why. I received some dire warnings too. We had a primus stove and I can’t remember being allowed to touch that! I didn’t want to either, not for cocoa or anything. They always looked fiercesomely dangerous.
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Thank you. I can’t speak for others, but, my mom was a worrier by nature and had seen her share of hardship as a child that helped to mold her. She made up for it with her deep love. Oh, that primus stove sounds like a monster worthy of dire warnings. We had a coal furnace in my early childhood and I was sure it was a monster.
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