Kentucky Cream Candy

Growing up in small-town Kentucky I experienced some of the best home cooking that exists. We didn't have fast food, and the restaurants we had were mostly little diners.  That meant that everyone I knew cooked, and they did it from scratch.  I remember frozen TV dinners, but they were a treat.  We ate home-cooked, made-from-scratch meals every night.  My mother made meat loaf and macaroni with a homemade cheese sauce and topped with buttery, toasted bread crumbs.   Her mother wasn't a great cook, but I always loved her coleslaw.  My aunt Doris made an incredible blackberry jam cake.  Dad makes the best gravy.

With food and mentors like that I learned to cook at an early age.  Betty Henderson taught me to bake peanut butter cookies and how to flip pancakes before I could even reach the stove.  Mom taught me to make things like divinity and cabbage au gratin. The first cake I ever baked was in a wood burning oven with my aunt Joyce. 

I can, and have, cooked just about everything.  I make a pretty good transparent pie from a family recipe. I love to bake cheesecakes and make candy.  In the winter I relish a big pot of soup or stew.  Summer finds me crafting salads for myself, and dishes with fresh vegetables for anyone who will eat them.  I enjoy cooking, but there are, regrettably, two things I just never quite got.  One is my dad's gravy.  He's shown me.  I've practiced.  I just can't get the hang of it.  

The other is Lorene's cream candy.

Cream candy is a Kentucky specialty.  It seems so simple because the only ingredients are sugar, heavy cream, vanilla, and water.  It's pulled like taffy, cut, and then left to sit overnight.  That's when the magic happens.  The candy transforms into a delightful airy confection that will absolutely melt in your mouth.   

My step-grandmother, Lorene Fultz, made incredible cream candy, and one of the last days I spent with her involved her showing me how to make it.  She boiled the mixture and knew when it was ready without even using a candy thermometer.  I hauled the marble slab in from outside, where it had been chilling in the winter air, and she poured the mixture onto the cold marble.  When it was time, we pulled it together.  Then it was cut and left to do its magic.  The next day I had cream candy to enjoy as I drove home to Cookeville.  

I tried to make cream candy after that.  I got a small marble slab I could put in the freezer when I made it.  Mine just never worked.  I don't know if I didn't pull it long enough or what happened.  I just know that I tried it three or four times, and it never came out right.  

I found a good tutorial on cream candy at My Country Table.  If I can find a marble slab, perhaps I'll try it again someday.  Until then, I have some delicious memories.

Where Does the Time Go...

When we're young time takes forever.  Christmas and summer will never come, but we can't wait to grow up.  Then, one day, we're older.  Time is a blink of an eye.  One day you're graduating from school.  Blink.  You're married with a child.  Blink.  That child leaves home to start his own life.  Another blink.

This last year has been a strange mix of time and blinks.  

We had a pandemic that shut down the entire world, and time passed so slowly, much more slowly than the lives lost to COVID.  Those loved ones were gone in a blink.

A tornado tore up my hometown. Lives lost.  Parts of my childhood erased.  It all happened in a blink, but the recovery takes so much time.

So many friends lost family and loved ones.  My loved ones turned another year older.  Thankfully, so did I.

I lost Titan.  He was with me for over 12 years, and then he was gone in a blink.

Because I'm disabled, I'm home, a lot.  One day drags into the next.  Then, in a blink, my health changed.  I had a stroke on Nov. 1, and it really didn't take long, but those days in the hospital drug on, especially that first night, when I couldn't use my leg or hand.  My recovery was actually very rapid, but it seemed that it took forever.  I'm still recovering, months later.

And all of these eons and blinks this last year have had me thinking.  Deep thinking.  

Except for a few exceptions, my family is generally blessed with decent health and long lives.  I'm going to be one of those exceptions.

Many women dread turning a year older.  They may even lie about their age.  I celebrate.  It means I've survived another year, a year that allowed me to enjoy time with my family, watch my grandchildren grow, and just relish life.  Another year of experiences, not as exciting as they used to be, but experiences just the same.  

In 1976 a school assignment changed my life.  We were given two weeks to take our family tree back as far as possible, and the one thing we had to include was each individual's profession. I thought it sounded pretty boring, but I was always good about doing my school work, so I quickly set about discovering my history. Mom was of great help with her family, and a phone call to my grandparents filled in a few of the blanks.  Dad, however, wasn't as clear on his side, so he had me call two of his aunts.  Lola Bell McCormick was incredible.  She gave me a notebook, family charts, and all sorts of fun little things, as well as a great deal of information. Then Lurlene McCormick spent an entire day with Mom and me, traveling all over Putnam and Overton Counties to introduce me to ancestors I'd never heard of before that day.  She was a fountain of family lore and stories and truly seemed to enjoy the day we all spent together.  

I was hooked.  What I thought would be a fairly boring assignment turned out to be a huge jigsaw puzzle that I'm still plugging pieces into over 40 years later. I've compiled centuries of data.  

But what if there's another blink, and I'm gone?  What happens to all of that history?  I want to gather the leaves of this family tree that I've raked up over the last few decades and make sure I get it all together in one spot.  I want to get the stories down, record the family recipes, and leave it for my sons and grandchildren, as well as the nieces, nephews, and cousins.  I want them to discover this incredible family we share and know their history.   I truly believe that we learn from our past.   I know I did. 

I don't want it all to disappear in a blink.  Don't be surprised if you begin to see more frequent blog posts as I start compiling it all.  I want my children and grandchildren to know some of my stories.  Yvonne is tired of hearing them!  Perhaps I'll write them now.  Save them for posterity.  

Or maybe there will be another blink, and I'll just fade away.  

We'll just have to see...

Celebrating Family

Two women I know lost their fathers to the COVID-19 virus over the last couple of weeks.  I can’t begin to imagine their pain. Not only have they lost someone so important in their life, but it’s happened at such an odd and difficult time.  Neither of them was able to properly say goodbye. The grieving process is hard enough, and now it’s different for them, and it’s all because of this virus and how it’s affected our lives.  

I am truly blessed, though.  Not only are both of my parents still with me -- my father turned 80 in February, but we were recently able to celebrate my father’s life with family and friends.   

The best way to sum up my father is to say that he’s a good man.  Dad is honest, hard working, and ethical, qualities he developed growing up the eighth of nine children on a working farm.  He tends to be on the quiet side, which may be because he lost his mother when he was 13, or maybe he’s just quiet. My brother and I learned early in life to listen when Dad spoke because it was probably going to be something we either needed or wanted to hear.  

Mom would play endless games of rummy or Sorry! with us, but Dad made little toys for us.  He made pop guns that shot dogwood berries or slingshots, things that had Mom worrying about one of us getting injured, but I don’t recall any boo boos along the way.  I only remember those little toys and the fun.  

Dad raises a garden every summer, and they were huge because it fed us throughout the year.  I remember watching Dad break ground with a horse and plow, a tiller, a hoe, whatever he needed and had access to.  He would work all day and then come home and spend hours in the garden. I loved it when the fresh vegetables started coming into season.  Dad and I both love to slice a tomato and enjoy it by itself. I would help Mom shell peas and snap beans. We all loved fresh corn on the cob, hot and smothered in butter, but Mom and Dad would slice it off the cob, freeze it, and then we’d have Mom’s fried corn all winter.  Fresh green beans are delicious, but canned ones got us through until the next crop.  

More than once Dad would come home expecting to harvest something, only to discover that I’d found a few first.  I would walk between the rows during the day, find something ripe and tasty, and pick it to enjoy right then and there.  Green peppers frequently went missing when I was around. I ate them like apples. Still do.  

Dad continues to garden, but the plot is smaller now.  

Dad’s had a few jobs through the years.  He worked at Service City when I was born.  Then it was the State of Kentucky. He hauled water to fill people’s cisterns when we lived in Orangeburg, and he worked in a factory when we lived on Jersey Ridge.  He was also an auxiliary police officer for a while. He worked in another factory after we moved to Cookeville, and then it was off to Bunny Bread, followed by an automotive store.  It may seem like he changed jobs more than some, but in fact, he often worked two jobs at a time. Did I mention that Dad is a hard worker?  

About 30 years ago Dad started a successful lawn equipment business.  He’s had farm equipment, mowers, blowers, chainsaws, and he and my brother service it all.  It’s a fine tribute to his hard work.

Around the end of last year, my brother and I realized that Dad would be turning 80 in February, and we plotted to throw him a surprise party.  The one thing my father treasures more than anything is his family. He’s never happier than when he’s surrounded by his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.  We thought a monumental birthday, such as an 80th, would be an excellent reason to gather everyone.  

I managed to not only invite the immediate family, but I also invited Dad’s brothers, nieces, nephews, and other family members.  Michael found us a nice place to have the covered dish lunch, the food was arranged, and I baked a cake from my grandmother’s recipe, the one she would bake for birthdays.

When the day arrived, we had a good 40 able to attend, which is a nice size crowd for a winter birthday.  Dad was truly surprised when he came in to see everyone. Both of his children were present, and we gathered all of his grandchildren except one.  J.D. was out on the road and couldn’t make it in, but Jonathan and his family came in from Oregon, Jordan came up from Lewisburg, and the rest of Michael’s children made it.  That meant all of Mom & Dad’s great-grandchildren were there as well. Sadly, neither of Dad’s brothers could join us, although his 92-year-old brother did chat for a bit via Face Time.  We had cousins from Kentucky, who were able to stay for a couple of days. I stayed in Cookeville for a few days myself.  

I realize how fortunate I am to have my parents.  A couple of women I know recently lost their fathers, but I’m still able to celebrate mine.

The B**** is Back

Well, dear readers -- if there are any of you left, it has definitely been awhile since I’ve been here, hasn’t it? So what’s happened in the three or four or so years since we last visited?

Let’s take a little stroll down memory lane…

First, just let me say that I have not been hospitalized. That’s an achievement! What I am saying is that my health has been fairly stable, and that’s always a good thing.

Now, here are a few of the big things that have happened.

Jonathan made me a grandmother, and the little guy will be two this summer. He’s incredibly bright, he’s talking in both words and sign language, and he makes me so happy. I flew out to Oregon to meet him when he was 5 months old, and I was fortunate to be there for his first Hanukkah.

Jordan got married, gave me a granddaughter, and moved an hour south of Nashville. She just turned a year old, and she’s a bright one as well. She’ll be walking soon, and she knows quite a few words. She’s just very selective about when she says them, which reminds me so much of her daddy, who was never one to perform on command. She’s also famous for her “model face.” This little girl smiles and laughs all the time, but you point a camera at her, and she will not smile. Instead, she gives you the most serious, deadpan stare, just like a model on a runway. She nails it every time.

I've asked the grandbabies to call me Marmee. That goes back to my love of Louisa May Alcott.

Dad gave us a scare and required open heart surgery. Thankfully, he’s bounced back and is right back to working full time in his business.

Yvonne’s son gave her a grandson as well. He was born just three weeks after my little granddaughter, and he’s just about to turn one. He’s a pistol, whose favorite pastime is chasing his best friend, his dog Roxie.

I did some writing and had a couple of pieces published in some of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books: “A Cousin’s Love” is #85 in Messages from Heaven and Other Miracles and “Mama’s Little Doll” is in Life Lessons from the Cat. They’ve accepted a couple of others as well, but they won’t be published until later this year or next. Corona has screwed up a lot more than the toilet paper supply.

I was doing some occasional dog sitting for friends, so I thought I’d sign up for Rover.com. Yep, that turned into a job. Last September I was home all of about 4 days. The rest of it was spent in different homes sitting with different dogs. It’s no way to get rich, but it’s some nice extra cash every now and then. Plus, I get paid to play with dogs. How bad is that?

Just this year:

• My dad turned 80, and we surprised him with a nice little party and mini family reunion. Only one grandchild couldn’t make it -- he was on the road, but all of the great-grandchildren were there, as well other family and friends.
• A tornado just missed us here in Nashville, while it did a great deal of damage in other parts of the city. We heard it roar by. Then it went along I40 until it ran headlong into Cookeville. That’s where it became an EF4 and really did a number on my hometown. It tore up the area I grew up in and where I had my first apartment. In fact, the woman who lived in the apartment that we brought my older son home to after he was born was killed.
• And now I’m sheltering at home thanks to COVID-19. Yvonne won’t let me leave the house, so I sit here, watch movies, read, and try not to be so thoroughly bored that I start crocheting clothes for the dogs again. I have rediscovered my genealogy work, and I’ve found that fascinating for quite a few years, so that’s been a nice little thing..

Okay, that’s enough of an update for now. I know I’ve left out a ton of stuff, so I’ll address that in later posts. I’m guessing it may not have been too interesting, or I would have recalled it.

Either I lead a very quiet life, or I’m getting really forgetful in my old age.

Ode to a Baby Brother on the Anniversary of his Birth

Today is my brother’s birthday. Yep, he turns the big 5 – 0 today. It’s hard to believe he’s that age because I always remember him as my little brother. That’s quite funny, though, because he became bigger than me when he was 3 and I was 6, and I was never able to look down at him again. Yes, he may be 3 years younger, but he’s a good foot taller.

Life with a little brother can be interesting sometimes. Mine wanted to go everywhere I did, which is aggravating when you want to go to a slumber party with your friends. He was fascinated with fire for a while, and I lost two sets of pompoms because of it. He always loved to build things, and he learned to use a hammer by hitting me in the head with one.

Brother and I were close growing up. One day we’d play with his Matchbox cars or Tonka trucks by building elaborate roads in the driveway. That meant the next day would bring my choice of toys, and I usually chose Barbies. He never quite got the hang of Barbies, though. He usually had his G.I. Joe hang Ken and then kidnap Barbie by tying her to a Jeep or something. Ken’s head never stayed on like it should have after that, and Barbie’s hair didn’t grow back, no matter how much I wished.

I learned to sew by repairing a little boy’s favorite teddy bear. I made clothes for Buzzy the Bear to hide the scars he earned by being well loved. Brudder helped me stay thin by eating faster and then stealing the food off my plate. I didn’t finish a meal until I moved into my own place.

He was never a morning person, and sometimes he wasn’t an afternoon one either. He cried when Bambi’s mother died, named every chicken we had Jody, and once named a calf after a girl he thought was cute.  (And she was flattered!)

In spite of all of his flaws, my baby brother grew up to be a fine man. He raised some wonderful children and now grandfathers eight, soon to be nine. He’s loving, faithful, and a darned good cook. I’m proud of him. Those early decades were a little rough on me, but I guess I’ll keep him now.

Happy Birthday, Michael McCormick! I love you!

If I Could Have Tea with my Grandmother

I baked my Grandmother's Oatmeal Cookies tonight.  As I said yesterday, I never got the chance to know her, as she died when my father was still a child.  I did, however, know her kitchen and the wood-burning oven she would have used to bake them. 

As I mixed the ingredients I pictured my grandmother in her kitchen doing the same.  I saw her beating the egg and adding the sugar while my father, as a child, sat on the stool they always kept there and asked questions.  Why are you doing that?  When will they be done?  When can I have one?  All of the questions a child of 5 or 6 would ask.

I followed the recipe as closely as I could, with one exception.  I did not chop the raisins, something I realized later should really be done.  This recipe has less sugar than any conventional recipe I've seen, so the raisins are used to add sweetness.  Chopping the raisins distributes them more evenly and, therefore, spreads the sweetness a little more equally.  That makes me think that this recipe was probably developed, or at least made popular, during either the Depression or World War II, both times when sugar would have been either expensive or more difficult to come by.

Pearl Burnett McCormick
High School Graduation

One thing my grandmother's recipe did not state was what temperature to bake them at or for how long.  I know her wood-burning stove would have probably had a moderate fire going for baking, so I preheated the oven to 350 degrees.  She said to drop the dough by teaspoonful, so I used a small scoop to keep them uniform and then slightly flattened them.  I baked the first batch for 10 minutes, but that seemed to be just a tad too long, so I baked each subsequent batch for 9 minutes, and they all came out perfect.  

My roommates and I all tried the cookies, and we agreed that they're really quite good, even if only slightly sweet -- the type of cookie that would be perfect with a cup of tea or a glass of cold milk.  

I imagined sitting around the old table at the homeplace on Old Sparta Road with my grandmother and her sisters, enjoying a pot of tea and her oatmeal cookies.  My father and his younger brother would be playing outside.  I could hear the chickens as the boys chased them.  I think we would talk about books, swap recipes and patterns, and share our latest needlework.  

Yes, these are the cookies I would serve if I could have tea with my grandmother.

Here is the recipe updated for today's ovens.

Grandmother's Oatmeal Cookies

Ingredients:

• 1 egg, beaten
• 1 cup sugar
• 2/3 cup shortening
• 4 Tbl buttermilk
• 1/2 tsp soda
• 2 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp cloves
• 1 cup raisins, chopped
• 2 cups flour
• 2 cups oats

Directions:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine all ingredients together, being sure to add the oats last.  This dough will be very stiff and a little dry.  Continue to work it until everything is combined.

Drop by rounded teaspoonful onto a parchment-lined cookie sheet.  Press each down slightly, but not too thin.  Bake for approximately 9 minutes, or until the bottoms are golden brown.  

Allow to cool on the cookie sheet for 2-3 minutes and then remove to a cooling rack.  

Makes 5 1/2 dozen cookies.

My Grandmother's Oatmeal Cookies

I never knew my paternal grandmother, Pearl Burnett McCormick.  She died of Hodgkin's Lymphoma less than a month before my father's 14th birthday.  Her sister Jewell once told me that I am a lot like her because I love to read and cook, but that's about all I knew about her until recently.

As it turns out, my cousin Evelyn has our grandmother's handwritten cookbook.  She took care to record her favorite recipes and bind them with a ribbon.  That tells me she treasured those.  

It's also something I would do, have done in a way.  I have many of my favorite recipes printed out and saved neatly in a folder.  Some of them have handwritten notes made in the margins, things such as additions or substitutions.  I also save recipes on Pinterest.  Some of them are favorites and others are dishes I'd like to try, although it's going to take me awhile to try them all since I have nearly 1,400 saved there.  

Now I'm saving another recipe, my grandmother's oatmeal cookies.  I'm going to bake them in the morning, and I feel that may be another link to a woman I wasn't blessed to know.

Grandmother's Oatmeal Cookies

Ingredients:

• 1 egg
• 1 cup sugar
• 2/3 cup shortening
• 1 cup raisins, chopped
• 4 Tbl buttermilk
• 1/2 tsp soda
• 2 cups oatmeal
• 2 cups flour
• 2 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp cloves

Directions:

Stir all together, adding oatmeal last.  Drop 1 teaspoonful in place and bake until brown.




Here's how they turned out for me.  




    

Happy Easter!

Today is Easter. I know this is a religious holiday, but I’m not going into that aspect of it. Instead, I’m sharing another childhood memory. (Get used to it. I’m an old lady, and we do that a lot.)

One thing we got every Easter was a new outfit and shoes. The night before Easter we would put the empty shoe box out on Dad’s workbench in the garage, or someplace like that, and fill it full of that plastic green grass. The next morning we would rush out to discover that the Easter Bunny had left us some goodies in the nest we had made. It was never much, but we could always count on a few things: a chocolate bunny, some jelly beans, marshmallow eggs, and a small toy or two, like a yoyo or maybe a coloring book and crayons. One thing we could almost always count on was a fly back paddle, or at least that’s what we called the thing.

Ah, the fly back paddle – the toy I hated to see in my Easter basket. First, I

have no hand/eye coordination, so I was absolutely awful with that thing. I never managed to actually hit the ball with the paddle. The most I ever hit was air, and maybe a bug that accidentally got in the way. Second, those were never meant to last. The rubber band would break the first day, maybe the second if I was lucky, and that broken rubber band brought about the third reason I hated to see that thing in my basket.

Once the rubber band broke, the paddle became Mom’s. She would put it on top of the refrigerator and threaten us with it. I don’t ever remember actually being spanked with one, but I remember being threatened, and that was usually enough for me. I learned to just leave those paddles and balls alone and in the toy box. It was safer all the way around.

One year we went to an egg hunt over in Ohio somewhere. There were dozens of children and hundreds of eggs. Some of the eggs were special, and the finder received a dyed chick or rabbit, something I’m glad I didn’t win. Others could be traded in for candy. I was happy to find a couple of those, and that’s when I discovered bulls’ eyes, caramel creams. I still love those.

My favorite Easter memories of all, however, are of the family dinners, when we would all get together after church for something special. If it were at my grandmother’s house it was probably barbecue chicken with mashed potatoes, cole slaw, and corn. That’s really the only thing I ever remember my grandmother serving at big dinners.

I think family is the best memory of all, as it should be.

Happy Easter, everyone.

Horn Honking, Jaywalking and Littering – Oh My!

I was watching a couple of episodes of The Andy Griffith Show this afternoon, and one of the things Deputy Barney Fife said just cracked me up. He told Andy they had to do something about a situation or it was going to lead to “horn honking, jaywalking and littering.” The innocence of that time is gone because those certainly aren’t the problems we worry about now.

I grew up in a place and time my grandchildren will never experience. Maysville, Kentucky, might have had a population of about 7,000 from the mid-60s to the mid-70s. It was just big enough to seem like a city to me and, yet, small enough that everyone knew each other. Okay, maybe everyone didn’t know everyone, but they certainly knew a member of your family, so you didn’t get by with much.

We didn’t have fast food, unless you counted Kentucky Fried Chicken, until the early to mid-70s, when Burger Queen and Long John Silver’s opened up “out on the hill.” We did have the Dairy Yum Yum and White Light, and Dairy Queen was open in the summer. We ate at home around the table, and we talked.

My brother and I regularly played at friend’s houses without always telling our mom where we’d gone. It was no big deal then. She’d just open the door and call our names. If we didn’t hear her and come running, someone in the neighborhood would know where we were.

The entire student body of Washington Elementary School was smaller than my graduating class. We had Halloween carnivals and Christmas pageants. If you were with someone in one class, you pretty much knew you’d be with them the next year as well because we were all growing up together. We also rode the school bus together and played together in the summers. We were a community.

We didn’t stay in the house and play video games. We didn’t have them, and we didn’t have air conditioning either, so we played outside -- all day. We’d get up in the morning, eat breakfast and head out the door, where we’d climb trees, build forts, ride our bikes or play baseball with the neighbors.

Speaking of baseball, the Big Red Machine was in full swing then, and I was firmly convinced that I was going to grow up and marry Johnny Bench -- number 5 and the catcher. Of course, Johnny was if I didn’t marry Donny Osmond, Bobby Sherman, or my first love, Speed Racer. My heart broke when I realized Speed Racer was a cartoon and would never be my Prince Charming, but Bobby came along at a good time, and he was eventually replaced with Donny, who was then replaced by his brother Jay. Yes, my loves were many in those days, but young girls didn’t always have a lot to do in a small town if she wasn’t a cheerleader or into sports.

I loved to read. My mother would sometimes go downtown to the beauty shop my cousin worked at, and I was allowed to walk over to a place I called Eats for a cheeseburger so delicious that I can still taste it. I’d then walk around to the library. I was a voracious reader and would take home books by the dozen. If my father felt I was spending too much time inside reading and not enough time outside with friends, then I’d take my book or latest copy of Tiger Beat and climb the crabapple tree. I did a lot of reading in that tree.

We played board games, not video games. We learned to build because we built our own tree houses. They didn’t come in kits from lumber stores. We learned about animals because some of us were more likely to come home with a snake in their pocket than others. (Not me. I was much more into pretty rocks. Still am.)

We only got four channels on the TV, and you watched one of those or nothing. If the President was on, well, the President was on. We were the remote control. If Dad wanted the channel changed, he’d tell us to change it, and we did.

I grew up with Uncle Al and Batty Hattie from Cincinnati. I stayed up late to watch the Cool Ghoul, sometimes through my fingers, but I loved his movies. I remember when Gilligan got shipwrecked and the Brady’s got married – the first time, not in reruns. TV was more innocent then.

It was all more innocent then. There are things about my life today I wouldn’t change, but there are things I wish my sons could have experienced. We didn’t know the fear our children know today. We were safe in school or at the Saturday matinee at the Russell. We could take candy from strangers on Halloween. We could enjoy our youth. It wasn’t as easy for my boys, and it will be even more difficult for my grandchildren.

I laughed at Barney today. He brought back good memories. The ability to tune in to shows like that almost at will is one of the things today that I appreciate. If I can’t give my children the innocence, I can at least share my memories.

Maysville's Transparent Pie

And no, you can't see through it.

I spent my early years in a small river town in northern Kentucky. Maysville is known as the home of Rosemary Clooney, her brother Nick Clooney, who just happens to be the father of a fellow named George, and Heather French Henry, known as Miss America 2000. It’s also the home of Transparent Pie.

I know what you’re thinking. Why is it transparent? Can you see through it? I’ve only heard that joke my entire life. You aren’t the only one who thought of it, and it ceased being funny sometime around 1967.

Anyway, this pie may have come about around the same time the state of Kentucky did since it’s an old frontier recipe designed to make use of the simple, sparse ingredients a pioneer family would have on hand. The oldest written recipe I found for it dates to around 1836 and calls for only three ingredients: butter, eggs, and sugar. The result is a thin, glossy confection that actually is nearly transparent when sliced into slivers.

As the times changed, the recipe appears to have changed as well. Those who could afford it added vanilla extract. A few recipes called for vinegar, while others called for cream. When the Depression was in full swing, the cream was swapped for evaporated milk.

For whatever reason, this rich, tasty pie is hardly known outside of the northern Kentucky area, even though that George Clooney fellow professes it to be his favorite and frequently orders some from Magee’s Bakery in Maysville. He has them shipped to his homes and movie locations, so he’s doing his best to champion it around the world.

I don’t believe the Magee’s recipe uses cream, but the recipe that has been handed down in my family does.

Fern Watson Fultz, my great-grandmother, gave this recipe to her daughter-in-law Lorene Fultz, who passed it to Shirley McCormick, my mother. It is now mine, and that makes me a fourth-generation pie baker, and I’m not ashamed to claim that title.

Without further ado, here it is.

Transparent Pie

Ingredients:

• 1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, slightly melted
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 cup cream (evaporated milk)
• 4 eggs, beaten
• 2 tablespoons flour
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 unbaked (9-inch) pie shells, NOT deep dish

Directions:

Beat butter and sugar in a mixing bowl. Add cream, and mix well. Beat in eggs. Stir in flour and vanilla. Pour into pie shells. Bake at 375 degrees for 40-45 minutes, or until golden brown and knife inserted in center comes out clean.