Looking at my mother’s handwritten recipe book, for the most part, one would conclude that she was an average MCM housewife. The handwriting is fairly legible, not the way I remember her handwriting at all, and there was an actual attempt at keeping the recipes organized, structured and easy to follow. That is most definitely not how I remember my mother.
Then, there is the potica recipe. Potica is a sweet yeasty strudel-like dessert that is filled with a chocolate walnut mixture, or at least that is how my mother made it. That recipe is broken into two sections, the basic sweet yeast dough and the filling. It is on those pages I can recognize the woman I knew as my mother. It is on those pages that I see my mother’s mind at work.
Notes, overlapping notes, arrows, three, no four different colors of ink were used to write, scratch out and rewrite notes on how to improve the recipe. The handwriting is messy, the way I remember her handwriting. She used to tell me that when she was young, she was left-handed, but forced to write with her right hand. Otherwise, it would have been thought that she was possessed by the devil, but of course. It is on those pages that I see, not only my mother, but myself, the self-doubt, the constant need to do better, the struggle to be something other than myself, something more acceptable and easily understood. Something, simply put, I am not, nor was she.
I don’t know why exactly, but I felt compelled to attempt my mother’s potica recipe, yet again. The first time, was years ago and I did not realize that the dough recipe was meant to be used in making three different pastries. I may have actually been eligible to be in the Guinness Book of World Records for making the largest potica known to man. I made the dough recipe for three desserts and turned it into one. I used a half sheet pan, not nearly large enough to contain the beast. The dough actually oozed over the sides of the pan, not a looker, but she did taste good.
Many years later, I attempted to make the potica recipe again. It was April 2014 and I had invited my family to spend Easter with us because it was believed that my brother didn’t have long for this world and I wanted my father to have some time with him and his entire family. What actually happened that weekend, aside from me making potica of a more acceptable size, was that I received an emergency pacemaker, after first being sent home with allergy medicine and told that I was fine with a pulse of 40. For the record, my brother is still alive, but my father passed 6 years ago. I love Western medicine.
Today was my third attempt at making potica. I honestly thought I was going to master this recipe, but I think my mother had other plans. Even though I had gone over her original scribbles, I had my own hand written recipes, only slightly more legible, to follow. One, was for the original basic sweet yeast dough that I knowingly noted was for three desserts. The second hand written recipe was written for the half portion that I had attempted over 7 years ago with relative success, but still not my best effort. It should be noted, that my kitchen cabinet door opened by itself during the third attempt at making my mother’s potica recipe, a sure sign that she had a hand in what transpired next.
I found myself measuring out and preparing to make the full dough recipe. I could have stopped and remeasured most all of the ingredients, but I had already proofed the yeast for the entire recipe. I decided that I did indeed have enough ingredients to make two batches of the filling, so I decided to move forward and make the beastly amount of dough, foolishly believing that I had this baby under control.
I mixed the dough and set it aside to proof and started to make the filling and then, my phone rang. My friend that I thought was going to visit in the evening was headed to my house now. I hadn’t gotten together all the things I wanted to give her and so, I turned the burner off and went straight into “giving” mode. I wanted to give her my son’s guitars and amp, some video tapes and old Christmas decorations I no longer intended to use. I wanted to get together gifts for her and her daughters from things that I once treasured giving to my children, but they no longer desire. I dug out my Disney’s Aladdin video and genie lamp. They still meant so much to me, but my kids tell me that they don’t care about this stuff, so I wanted to give them to her youngest daughter in hopes of giving the toy a new life. Yes, just like in Disney’s Toy Story, I hate just giving away the toys I have so many memories attached to, to some stranger. I want to give them a good home, a new child to love them. Yes, I’m that corny.
My friend arrived, but I had accomplished my mission and had the guitars, toys, everything ready that I wanted to give her. I thought she was just going to stop in, exchange gifts and run, but instead she sat and chatted for a while. I told her how I managed to goof up the recipe, but I believed that it was my mother’s intervention because I think that halving the recipe was not being true to her original best. Long story short, recipes written by volume instead of weight do not do well being doubled or halved. Volume varies, weight, does not.
I thought I was going to have more time to get the potica filling ready before she arrived and I was concerned that the dough was going to overproof while we chatted and before I had the filling done and cooled for use, but I knew that visiting with my friend was more important than the potica (bite my tongue), so we chatted.
After we loaded her car with all the gifts, I got back to work. What I mess I had created for myself, but somehow, someway I managed to get it all together. I slowly brought the potica filling back to life and finished it. I quick cooled it by spreading it out onto a half sheet pan and began the dubious task of rolling out the dough. I knew that I was supposed to cover the table with a clean white sheet and tie the ends around the legs of the table. I was frustrated when I realized that I didn’t have a white sheet any longer. Pulling out all of my sheets from the linen closet, I was like, “Really?” and settled for a peach floral print one instead. Main thing, it smelled clean, not flowery, so it would work. I tied the sheet to the table and got to work, punching down the dough, weighing out into equal halves and I began to roll. I knew that I was supposed to stretch the dough using the backs of my hands, but it just wasn’t happening, so I rolled and rolled and rolled some more. What a stretchy bitch this dough was, but in the end, I made two poticas. Nothing pretty, but not eligible for the Guinness Book of World Records either.
When my son arrived home tonight, he asked me how my day was. I said, “Fine, but there was a potica situation.” He looked at me and said, “A potica situation, eh?” Good title for a mystery movie, I would think. All day long, I kept thinking, “I thought I had more time.” Not only with the recipe, but with life in general. The relationships I thought I had more time to be with people, to tell them how I felt about them. I thought I had more time to be a rebel without a cause and be mad at my mother for no apparent reason. I thought I had more time to make amends with my mom. I thought I had more time to be young and irresponsible. I thought I had more time to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up, but no.
Just like the proofing dough, we only have so much time before there is an epic fail to be had. I realize, the potica didn’t fail, it was just not my best effort…yet. I still have time, it’s not over yet. I still have time to tell the people I love and cherish that I do so. I still have time to figure out what I’m going to be when I grow up. And yes, I still have time to decipher my mother’s notes, arrow and multi-colors and all to tame this beast of a recipe and make it my own. Time did run out for a friend I lost recently, but I thank goodness that I did see her not too very long ago. I don’t recall how we parted ways exactly that day, but I think we were good.
I thought I had more time to do more to make our situation better, but I was wrong. In a heartbeat, I learned of her passing and my heart aches. Like what was printed on a memorial card for my mother, a quote from James Cagney, supposedly, “I weep for the long-lost years that were never mine to keep.” I really don’t know what this all has to do with making potica, but somehow, it does. I thought I had more time, I really did…The Potica Situation…to be continued.
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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