Mom was a terrible cook.  Now before you get all puffed up and tell me that I'm being disrespectful for saying that, you need to know that my mom will tell you the same thing, and with a measure of pride.  The only reason I can work out why she feels this way is because her mother was a cooking phenom.  There are still family stories that begin with talk of granny's cooking prowess.  The memory of her mashed potato yellow cake, iced with fudge that was somehow baked on top of the cake so it had a chewy crunch, literally makes my great uncle Troy cry.  Her chicken fried chicken fry was so good that she was summoned a couple of times to H.L. Hunt's mansion to serve it up.   My mom talks about her mother's cooking in hushed tones.  Then she'll say, "Of course everything she cooked was fabulous," and then she'll slightly roll her eyes.  My mom did what all of us do to a certain extent, she rebelled against her mother.  She became a bad cook.

I wasn't really aware that Mom was a bad cook until I got married and started cooking for Daniel.  Some of my childhood standards I tried to pass off on him were greeted with a mixture of amusement, horror, gagging, and just flat out shock.   Here's a few examples:

• Fried bologna (we all know it's called baloney) - Mom would deep fry packaged slice baloney.  It was usually served on top of mustard greens and rice.  We liked it burned.  Along those lines -
• Broiled weiners.  Now she didn't just throw those puppies in the oven, she fancied them up by slicing them half way through longwise, and stuffing the cut with pimento cheese.  That brings us to -
• Pimento cheese is familar to some of you.  For others, I sure you're thinking that it would take too much time to suck the pimentos out of the olives to make this Southern sandwich spread.
• "Brook Street Special."  Named after the street address of my parent's first house.  Ground beef simmered in tomato soup.  Simmer for four hours.  Then add chunks of knock off Velvetta (Velcheata).  Serve over white bread.  I liked to top with too much mustard. 
• Adventures in brunschwager.  These might be too horrible to share - I'll leave you with one, brunschwager tamales.

My mom's chicken 'n' dumplings

I love chicken 'n' dumplings.  It's like chicken and gravy with strips of adult Playdough you can eat without secret shame.  Here's my mom's recipe, as dictated by her:

"Get a fat chicken.  It needs to be nice and plump.  Squeeze it through the plastic.  It should feel like your thigh does in panty hose."

"Mom, not everyone is like us.  Some people exercise and have thin thighs."

"Those people aren't going to be making chicken 'n' dumplings."

"You have a point."

"Put the chicken in a big pot.  Add chopped up four or so sticks of celery and a chopped up yellow onion.  If you're a yankee, add carrots.  I don't know how many carrots, I'm not a yankee.  Add a stick of butter."

"What spices?"

"I'm getting to that.  You need a couple of chicken cubes.  Add one palm full of salt, and a big palm full of pepper.  That's really too much pepper, but we like too much pepper.  Don't tell your father, I also added a half palm full of garlic powder.  He always said he hated garlic.  I threw it in everything.  I'd take the label off the jar.  I told him it was turmeric.   No one knows what turmeric is for.  People would look at your dad weird when he said he loved turmeric.  He was that way about bleu cheese too.  Claimed it tasted like ants.  I told him the stuff on his salad was moldy cream cheese.  Then he use to tell everybody how he liked moldy cream cheese.  I probably should have confessed to him about that one..."

"Mom, I think we might have lost the plot a little.  Back the the recipe.  And don't worry, Dad's dead.  I'm sure he doesn't care anymore."

"That's true.  Okay, where were we?"

"You were talking about the flavoring.  Chicken bullion cubes, salt, pepper, garlic powder..."

"Oh yes.  That's about it.  Then you add two ice tea pitchers of water."

"How much is that?  What if people don't have a tea pitcher?"

"Everybody should have a tea pitcher.  They'll need to go buy one."

"Okay, then what?"

"Bring the water up to a boil, then turn it down to a simmer.   Cook the chicken until it's done."

"I hate recipes that say something like that. 'Roast until thoroughly cooked.  Do not over cook.' Tell them about how long to simmer."

"I don't know.  I never paid attention.  Three hours?"

"Three hours!  No, no, surely not Mom."

"Well then you tell them what you think, smarty pants."

"I'm thinking forty minutes or so."

"Forty minutes to three hours should cover it.  Anyway, just cook it until it won't kill you.  Then take the chicken out to cool.  You might want to add some more chopped up sticks of celery and onion to the pot liquor because the first go 'round they probably boiled away."

"Why didn't you just add those things later so you don't have to re-add them?"

"Do you want to know how I make chicken 'n' dumplings or not?"

"Okay, okay.  On to the dumpling part."

"You might want to add another stick of butter to the liquor too."

"Mom, that's now two sticks of butter.  That's a lot of butter."

"Butter is a good thing.   For the dumplings, you need some newspaper."

"People might freak out about the newspaper thing Mom."

"Well people just need to get over that.  Spread out a double sheet of newspaper and put a big pile of flour in the center."

"How much is a big pile of flour?"

"I dunno.  Just dump some flour on the paper until you think to yourself, 'That's a big pile of flour.'  You need to season the flour with salt and pepper.  Don't put too much pepper in this because it makes the dumplings look awful.  Mix all that up and make a mountain looking shape.  Then poke a hole down the middle of the flour to make it look like a volcano."

"What do you use for the liquid for the dumplings?"

"You use the simmering pot liquor.  Start with one ladle full in the volcano hole.  Try not to get any bits of celery or onion in the broth you're using for the dumplings.  Check and make sure there's enough butter in the broth."

"Mom, there's two sticks in there already.  There's no way it would need more butter."

"There's always ways you might need more butter in everything.  Anyway, use a fork and start to sort of tease the broth into the flour.  Keep working away at the volcano.  Add broth as you need it until all of the flour is all sticky.  Then flour your hands and try to make the dough into a ball.  If it's too sticky, then add some more flour.  If it's too dry, then add some broth.  The important thing is not to over work that dough.  Just get it mixed and quit fiddling with it."

"So you have this big dough ball now. What do you do with it?"

"Well now's the time when you need to get the chicken off the bone.  If you have a kid, get them to pull the meat off the bones.  If not, you're going to have to do it.  Just drop the meat into the simmering broth.  That gives some time for the dough to rest."

"How do you form your dumplings?"

"If you're from somewhere like Alabama, you pinch off parts of the dough and drop it in the simmering broth.  We're not from there.  I roll the dough out.  Make sure you flour your rolling pin before you start.  If you don't have a rolling pin, you can use a big soup can but it leaves weird stripes in the dough.  Roll it until it's about a fourth inch thick.  If you have time, let the dough rest a couple of minutes before touching it again.  Then you need to shoo the kids out of the kitchen."

"Why?"

"Because once you start to slice the dough up, they're going to try to eat it raw.  So just get them out.  Eating that dough can't be good for the digestion.  They could die like that Poltergeist girl.  Slice up the dough into strips about the size of playing cards.  Then slide them into the simmering broth."

"How long to they cook?"

"Until they're done."

"::sigh:: How do you know they're done?"

"Don't roll your eyes at me.  They'll float up to the top of the broth."

"I wasn't rolling my eyes.  Is it finished then?"

"You sighed.  That like rolling your eyes with your mouth.  Yes, you're done.  Now I want some."

"I could make you some."

"I doubt it.  Nevermind.  I'll just make some brunschwager and broth."

"Mom, that sounds terrible."

"What do you know.  You thought two sticks of butter were enough."

******

 My recipe for "It Won't Kill You Like My Mother's Will, But Won't Taste As Good Either, Cheaters Turkey 'N' Dumplings"

I use turkey breast because it's leaner.  You can roast your own, or pick up a turkey breast from the deli section at the grocery.  If you roast your own, use typical spices you would use to roast a chicken (in other words, don't use sage).  Strip the meat from the bone.

Fill a large pot with water.  Add two "chicken cubes,"a palm full of salt, a palm full of black pepper (or you can use a healthy palm full of Montreal steak seasoning), and a palm full of garlic powder.  Add one can of cream of chicken, or cream of celery (I don't really like celery) soup.  I add two bay leaves, though I don't remember why. Bring the pot to a light boil, then turn down to a simmer.

Put a couple of cups full of water with a couple of ice cubes to cool in the fridge.  Then chop up one large yellow onion and several stalks of celery and add to simmering broth.  Add the turkey meat to the broth.

Generously flour a prep surface.  Pile up two cups of all purpose flour.  Add a palm full of salt.  Resist the urge to add anything else.  Make a center hole in the flour mound.  Use your iced water to pour in the center.  Work in about a fourth cup at a time until flour is sticky.  Then flour hands and mound the dough.

Flour your rolling pin.  Roll dough out to about a fourth of an inch.  Cover with a damp towel and let rest for five or so minutes.  Then slice into strips about two by three inches.

Slide the dumplings into the simmering broth.  When the dumplings rise, it's ready.

I serve this with cranberry relish on the side.  Mom thinks that's gross.

My dumplings are not as good as Mom's, not even close.  But you can eat mine and not need a nice lie-down after.