Author: brendast

Writer. Storyteller. Lover of soft truths and old farm tales.

Mom’s Four Day Make Ahead Cake

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Mom was born at home on June 3, 1928—though Mercer County recorded it as June 2. Grandma always said the county was wrong. The reason, as I was told years ago and had almost forgotten, is that Grandma went into labor on June 2 but didn’t deliver until after midnight. So the county may have written down when it started… but we go by when she actually arrived. June 3 it is.

In honor of my mom’s birthday, I am sharing her favorite cake recipe, told exactly in her own words. 

She brought this cake to all of our family picnics, and there was never a single piece left over. Many have asked for her recipe over the years. 

Family members were always quick to ask if she had brought their favorite cake. She never disappointed. I think she would like knowing others can now enjoy it, too.

I’ve kept her wording exactly as she wrote it, including her name attached to the recipe. 

It feels right to share this today, as it would have been her 98th birthday.

I hope you love it as much as we always did. 

Four-Day Make Ahead Cake. (Elaine Stegall)

This is a wonderful cake that is so easy to make and one of my favorites. You can make the cake on Wednesday and take it on a picnic or anywhere else on Sunday! I like the convenience of being able to make it days ahead of time! If I have had some left over it has even lasted a week and is still delicious. This is a cake that MUST be kept refrigerated. 

CAKE:

1-18 oz. pkg. Devil’s food cake mix

1 cup water

1/3 cup oil

3 eggs

FILLING AND TOPPING:

2 cups or 16 oz. carton of dairy sour cream

1 cup sugar

3 cups of coconut

8 oz. container frozen Cool Whip…thawed or 3½  cups

Heat oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour two 8″ round cake pans. In a large bowl, blend all cake ingredients at low speed until moistened. Beat for 2 minutes at highest speed and pour into prepared pans. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes until cake is done in the middle. Cool cake in pans for 15 minutes … then turn out on to cooling racks or onto waxed paper until completely cool. Then split each layer in half with a piece of thread or dental floss and set aside. Separate layers onto four waxed papers or the cooling racks.

In a large bowl, combine sour cream and sugar. Gently FOLD in coconut and whipped topping. Fill and frost layers just as you would any cake. Garnish as desired. Store in a cake safe in the refrigerator. Enjoy!

Tweety Bird

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My paternal great-grandmother raised parakeets.

Tweety Bird…Not the original, but they look alike.

Whenever we went to her house, I would stand beside the bird cage and watch them. They fascinated me. It was the only time I ever got to observe birds up close.

One day, Grandma ‘Rene — her name was Irene, but everyone in the family called her Grandma ‘Rene — asked Monty and me if we would like to take one home.

Of course we said yes! We were so excited.

Given Mom’s slight aversion to birds, she was less enthused, but she allowed it.

Grandma gave us a cage, and we took him home.

Monty and I named him Tweety Bird after the cartoon character.

Cleaning the cage fell to Mom. She was an excellent housekeeper, so she cleaned it often. When the weather was nice, she took the cage outside and cleaned it on the sidewalk.

The last time she cleaned it… was the last time she cleaned it.

She had set the cage down on the sidewalk and slid the removable bottom out so she could clean it properly.

Unfortunately, she forgot to slide it back in before she picked up the cage.

Before she could react, Tweety Bird saw his opportunity — and he was a caged bird no more.

Mom said he flew up into the tree by the back door, but there was no way she could catch him.

He soon flew away, never to be seen again.

I think she felt bad when she had to tell us what happened when we came home from school.

We knew it was an accident, and she really did feel bad — but we couldn’t resist teasing her that we thought she did it on purpose because we knew she wasn’t fond of birds.

The Turtle in the Truck

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My parents grew up during the Great Depression. Dad grew up on a farm where it was common to eat what you could raise or hunt.

Mom, having grown up in the same era, understood this in a way we might find a little more difficult today. I know Dad brought her rabbit, squirrel, and occasionally had her cook him a mess of frog legs.

One day, when Mom was running the Kewanee milk route alone, she got quite a surprise when one of Dad’s “acquisitions” crawled out from under the seat of the milk truck.

The acquisition?

A soft-shelled turtle—that Dad had intended to make into turtle soup.

Since I wasn’t there and only heard the story later, I can only imagine the look on my mother’s face.

If I’ve given you the impression that she didn’t like animals, that’s not strictly true. She did—but mostly puppies and kittens. She didn’t like unwelcome surprises, and this one definitely qualified.

I don’t know whether she was driving when it happened or if she had already stopped at the next farm.

I only know that she got out of the truck and refused to get back in until the turtle was gone.

The farmer at the stop had to remove it for her. Mom wasn’t about to touch that turtle, and she made it very clear she wasn’t getting back into the truck until it was gone.

The farmer ended up with the turtle.

Dad missed having turtle soup—

…and so did the turtle.

The Lawn Chair Incident

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In the summer and on Saturdays, my brother and I usually went with Mom when she ran the milk route for Dad.

It wasn’t unusual for them to stop for a little while to chat with the people they had become friends with, although they couldn’t stay long because the milk trucks in those days were not refrigerated.

One afternoon, Mom stopped to visit with a farmer and his wife. She went inside the house, but Monty and I stayed outdoors.

It was a beautiful day—warm, with blue skies and plenty of sunshine. We decided to sit in the folding lawn chairs under a shade tree.

I don’t remember what we were talking about, but Monty sat in his chair with his long legs touching the ground. My legs were much shorter, so I sat on the edge of the chair, swinging my feet.

That’s when disaster struck.

My position on the chair and the motion of swinging my feet caused it to fold up—catching my ring finger on my right hand between two pieces of metal. My weight pressed down hard on my smashed finger.

I started screaming at the top of my lungs.

Monty ran to get Mom, but he didn’t make it as far as the house before all three adults came tearing out and rushed to my side.

The farmer tried to unfold the chair, but he couldn’t. He grabbed some tools to take it apart, but he became frantic—probably because I was still screaming.

He partially took the chair apart… and partially ripped it apart.

I heard Mom say something about not ruining his chair, and he said he didn’t care. There were some curse words in there too, but I don’t remember what they were.

The only choice was to take me to the hospital.

Since Mom’s only transportation was the milk truck, the farmer bundled us into his car after his wife gave Mom a white cotton dish towel to wrap around my finger.

The only access to the highway to Hammond-Henry Hospital in Kewanee was a narrow gravel road with long, steep hills.

The farmer was in a hurry, so he drove as fast as he safely could.

I had stopped screaming once my finger was released from the chair, but now I was sobbing.

I sobbed all the way up the first hill…

…and laughed all the way down it.

The sudden drop always made me laugh.

As soon as we started up the next hill, I cried again—then laughed all the way down.

I think there were three hills in all, and it happened every time.

When we finally ran out of hills, I cried all the way to the hospital.

Fortunately, my finger wasn’t broken. The doctor bandaged it and sent me home.

After taking us back, Mom finished the milk route, although I don’t remember the rest of it.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that if I let my arm drop to my side, my finger started to throb—so I held it close to my chest for the rest of the afternoon.

When we got home, Mom made a sling for me out of a dish towel.

I was pretty proud of that sling.

To this day, that same finger is still slightly smaller than the ring finger on my left hand. It’s less noticeable now, and I doubt anyone else would see it…

…but I do.

Because I know what caused it.

Transitions

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I didn’t expect much from today when I woke up this morning. The only thing on my agenda was to catch up on some laundry.

My day starts off like usual… feed the dog, feed myself, dispense meds, and get started.

After Gracie, my fifteen-year-old Shih Tzu, and I eat breakfast, I load the dishwasher and tackle the laundry.

I have way too many clothes—a result of gaining control of my diabetes and losing weight. I now have two sizes of clothes: what I wore before, and what I can wear now.

I am sorting through the larger clothes so I can pass them along, keeping a few oversized T-shirts because they’re comfortable. They also make great work shirts.

We’re in that in-between stretch where the seasons can’t quite make up their minds, so I’m trying to put my winter clothes away. That can get tricky here in the Midwest. Just when it feels like spring has settled in, winter rushes back and says, “Not so fast.”

I am packing the clothes I can no longer wear so I can pass them along. The winter clothes I still wear will go into storage—soon, once I’m sure Mother Nature is finished playing seasonal roulette with the weather.

But it’s not just about the clothes. It’s the space they take up—and what they represent.

The same is true for so many other things in my house.

I’m transitioning my office from designer Brenda to writer Brenda.

There are still too many pots and pans and small appliances in my kitchen—more than I need now. My family is smaller, and I don’t cook the way I used to when Carl and all four children were here.

I don’t need all of this anymore. I’m still figuring out what stays—and what it means to let the rest go.

No Brakes on Main Street

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Mom was running the Kewanee milk route for Dad one day, picking up milk in big heavy cans and hauling them to the Galva Creamery Company. Dad had a deal worked out with the farmers so they loaded the cans for her. When Dad ran the route, he usually helped them.

Monty and I were with her that day. We had been singing songs like we usually did. Our favorites were The Marine’s Hymn and The Caissons Go Rolling Along.

Suddenly, Mom stopped singing and told us to get down on the floor. She didn’t shout, but we could tell by the tone of her voice that she meant business. We didn’t question it—we got down immediately.

We asked her what was wrong.

“The engine died,” she said. “When the engine dies, the air brakes don’t work.”

I had been looking through the windshield just before she told us to get down. We were a little less than halfway down a hill.

The light at the bottom of the hill turned red.

That meant the cross traffic had the right of way.

I remember seeing the cars sitting there at the intersection.

I’m guessing the drivers saw the crazy people in the big runaway milk truck coming down the hill a little too fast and decided it might be best to stay right where they were.

Mom gripped the big steering wheel and kept the truck pointed straight down the hill.

The truck was heavy with a full load of milk cans. Once it started downhill, there was no way to stop it without brakes.

My stomach did that flip-flop thing it does when you go down a hill too fast. Usually it made me laugh.

This time it didn’t.

It all happened so fast. We made it through the stoplight without mishap. We were still rolling, but Mom finally got the engine started again and pulled off to the side of the highway.

We waited there for a few minutes. Then Mom pulled back into traffic and continued on to the creamery in Galva.

I was only six years old, but that is something I will never forget.

Doctors Make House Calls

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Or, at least they did in the 1950s.

I woke up one morning with a fever. Mom made me stay in bed and said I couldn’t go to school. She brought me some of my Little Golden Books and my favorite doll to entertain me. She called the doctor and made arrangements for him to make a house call later that afternoon.

I was fine with the books and my doll for a while, but I got bored. I had seen the books so many times. I don’t remember if I could read the words yet or just look at the pictures.

Before long, though, Mom brought me a new stack of books. Pearl Mohnen, the mother of the twin boys I played with across the street, had sent over some of theirs. I hadn’t seen them before, and I enjoyed them—but I noticed some had gum stuck to the covers. Boys! None of my books looked like that.

My bedroom was a stair-landing room. There was only enough space for my bed, with room to walk around it on one side. The other side was against the north outside wall. Around the staircase was a railing so no one could accidentally step off the ledge into the open stairway.

That afternoon, the doctor came. He stood on the right side of my bed, and Mom stood at the foot. He took his stethoscope out of his black doctor’s bag and placed it on my chest. I jumped—it was cold! I remember the quiet and the soft daylight in the room.

After talking with Mom, he pulled a pad of paper from his bag and wrote a prescription. Soon, he was gone again.

Mom knew she had to get to the drugstore before it closed, but we were home alone. It was cold and rainy outside, so she didn’t want to take me out—but there was no one to leave me with.

So she wrapped me in a blanket and sat me on a kitchen chair with my Little Golden Books and something with bright colored pieces—maybe her plastic clothespins, though after all these years I can’t quite be sure.

She told me she had to go get my medicine and that she would be right back. I knew where the drugstore was—it was only a couple of blocks away.

She told me not to get off the chair while she was gone.

I didn’t.

Mom knew she could trust me to do what she said—and I knew I could trust her when she said she would be right back. I wasn’t scared, but it did feel a little odd to be in the house alone.

She came right back, just as she said she would.

Autumn Leaves and Training Wheels

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Leaves crunched under my feet. The tall oak trees surrounding our school were alive with color as the blue sky and late afternoon sun filtered through them. The crisp autumn air held the faint scent of burning leaves somewhere in the neighborhood.

I was six years old, and the sheer beauty of the day felt like it was wrapped around me.

We had moved into town a few months earlier. Our house and the school were only a block apart, both along the highway that ran through town.

My friend, Susie, and I had agreed to meet back at school that day. She had received a new bike with training wheels for her birthday, and she told me she would teach me to ride it. But first, we had to go home and ask our mothers if it was okay.

Mom gave me permission, but reminded me to stop, look, and listen before crossing the street—and not to cross the highway under any circumstances.

Susie met me at the school a short time later, and that’s how I learned to ride a bike.

Susie rode it first, showing me what to do.

Soon it was my turn.

At first, I just sat on the bike. Then I slowly started pedaling. It wasn’t quite as easy as it had looked when Susie rode it. The handlebars wobbled, and I felt a flicker of frustration.

But once the wheels began to move and I found the rhythm of it, the wobble settled. By the time we reached the end of the block, I was more proud than frustrated.

Susie kept pace alongside me to the other end of the block. I turned the bike around, and she rode it back while I kept pace with her.

We continued in this way for a while, until the sun got lower in the sky and we knew it was time to go home.

By then, I was pretty sure I wanted a little bike with training wheels of my own.

I crossed the street toward home, the sound of leaves still crunching under my shoes, carrying the whole golden afternoon with me.

The Hurrieder I Go, The Behinder I Get

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While I was folding laundry this afternoon, I happened to think of this little cardboard sign I hung on the wall in the kitchen of my first apartment. 

I thought it was a cute saying, and would be a reminder to keep my apartment tidy. But I also liked the fact that it was printed in a psychedelic color scheme because—1970.

I currently find myself in the process of downsizing. That little quote seems just as true today as it was in 1970. It seems like the more I do, the more I find that still needs to be done. 

But, the meaning has shifted since I hung that sign so long ago. It’s not so much that I am behind now, as it is that I am just in the middle of things. 

I don’t like getting behind in my work, it’s true. I never have, especially in my professional life. 

But now, it is less clear where to start and where the middle happens, although the end is clear. I want more space and fewer belongings.

What I’m finding is that it isn’t so simple to lay the job out in a straight line like I’ve done most of my life. 

 I often find I can’t take the next step in one job because something else has to be done first.

A case in point… I live in a multi-level home. I am getting older, so I am trying to minimize the times I have to go up and down stairs every day. 

I want to create a space on a shelf to keep a few convenience foods, some things I can quickly grab for a no-fuss lunch or dinner. But before I can do that, I have to clear the shelf. 

With clearing the shelf comes deciding whether to move the items to a different location or let them go. 

Maybe I’m not getting behind after all.

Maybe there is no exact starting point.

Maybe it’s enough to just begin—wherever I am—and work my way through it, one piece at a time.

Nap Rugs and Sugar Plum Fairies

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Whenever I hear “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies,” I am six years old again, lying on a nap rug in my first grade classroom—warm and safe.

Kindergarten wasn’t required back then, so first grade was my first real taste of school—and I loved it.

After lunch, my teacher — Mrs. Quanstrom — told us to get out our nap rugs and lie down. She turned off the lights, but the room never got completely dark. The tall classroom windows still let in the afternoon light, filtered through the oak trees that lined that side of the school.

After turning off the lights, she put a record on the classroom player. I don’t remember all of the songs she played, but “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” was my favorite.

The room was very quiet except for the music. We could take a nap if we wanted to, but I was always too interested in listening.

The rug beneath me was soft. Mom knew why the teacher asked us to bring one, so she chose a rug she knew would be comfortable to lie on.

I don’t remember ever falling asleep. I was too busy listening—to the music, to the quiet, to the feeling of being exactly where I belonged.

I didn’t always keep my eyes closed, but I did most of the time. And when “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” played, I could see them in my imagination.

The fairies were small and light, and they danced and twirled in the air above me.

Even now, when I hear that music, I am six years old again, lying on that soft rug in a classroom washed in afternoon light.

I am still lying on that rug.

And I can still see the fairies.

No, I never did fall asleep during nap time.

I was already dreaming.