THE COLD

We moved to Chicago from New Castle, Indiana when I was eleven and a half years old. I add in the "half" because at that age it makes a difference. My sister was just past seven. You might think that we would have suffered culture shock, but we accepted the newness as part of life.

Our interim home was a hotel on the corner of North and State streets, right across from the beginning of Lincoln Park. It was March when we came into the city so we got to see spring and summer unfold in Lincoln Park that year. It was 1949 and I remember most of it scene by scene. The Lincoln statue, the Lincoln Park Lagoon, and my favorite -- Bushman -- at the Lincoln Park Zoo. We went to school, we walked the beaches. In the fall, just before Thanksgiving, we moved north to the Western and Foster area, went to school, found a church, made mistakes, got confirmed, all the normal stuff.

Accepting. That is the word that comes to me when I think of how we managed in this big city atmosphere that was probably VERY different from small town New Castle. I went to college, got married, moved east. EAST is different. It took twenty five years to adjust and even now I think of myself as a New Castle/Chicago girl.

And how often during these years did I have a cold. "Have" a cold. "Get" a cold. Pretty much the same in Indiana as in Connecticut. But in Chicago, you get THE cold. I don't know how that differs from the common cold except that you are the one who has it. "I have 'the' cold." It was as if there was ONE cold going around and it was being shared by everyone. Whoever had "a" cold, had "the" cold. But the information stopped there. Nothing about how to treat "the" cold. It was just "the" cold.

Well, folks, now I have "the" cold. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Itchy eyes. Runny nose. Post nasal RUN. Tickle cough. Reflex gag. Heavy chest. Can't sleep. THE cold....

CORNBREAD

The bone and leavings from the Thanksgiving spiral cut ham were going to be thrown out as we did the cleanup. NO! says I. I'll take it. And so I brought it home and put it in the vegetable drawer of the frig and almost forgot about it. Soup for Wednesday night church supper reminded me.

Bean soup and cornbread are part of my childhood. When I go to Indiana, my sister always makes it for me. When it comes to making the cornbread we peruse all of her cook books and recipes on the Internet looking for the one that comes most closely to that childhood taste memory. Mom's best friend, Mildy, made it by look and feel. Handfuls of flour, bigger handfuls of corneal, salt, baking powder, an egg milk. It was the best cornbread ever, made in a cast iron skillet, not sweet, not too raised, but not flat either. It is my standard for corn bread.

At the grocery yesterday there were little corn muffin loaves. Looked good. Bought them and took them to church with the bean soup. YUK! Too much sugar. Tasted like a cupcake. Had the texture of a cupcake. I was appalled. Ruined my already not great soup.

There was soup left over which I brought home. Got out my smallest cast iron skillet, took from the frig the bag of Aunt Jemima self-rising white cornmeal mix, which I had purchased shortly after Thanksgiving, and read the recipe. The cast iron skillet just fit into the toaster/convection oven and so I put the oil in it and set it at 425. Mixed milk and egg into the mix -- NO SUGAR. When the skillet and the oil were really hot, I swirled the oil all around to coat the bottom and the sides and then poured it into the batter. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle. Then back into the oven for 17 minutes.

When I took the skillet out, it was corn bread. Slightly rounded and golden on top and pulled away from the sides. Turned it out on a cooling rack to cool without getting bottom soggy. Perfect! It is the cornbread of my childhood. Perfectly even, dense-ish, texture, NOT sweet, golden on top, perfectly golden on the bottom. I have found the recipe! Now if I could just learn to make the bean soup of my childhood the way my sister does ......