Recipe Hide*And*Seek

Word of the Post
Today's word is: indagate
/in"da*gate/ verb
To seek or search out.
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It is funny what will trigger memory. Pictures, smells, words, and conversations each have a way of bringing up old information. Smell is thought to be the most powerful. My most readily available trigger is language. I have been searching my house, trying to find the recipe I know I have for Crock Pot Apple Butter. It is awesome, and I have it, somewhere.

Through my diggings, I came across another Apple thing, that brought up a funny memory. Yet here I sit crying. I guess past times make me happy and sad at the same time. Let me explain this one.

When I was in Junior High, we lived in a little house made of river rocks and mud. It was the oldest inhabited house in our city. It was the second oldest house still standing. It was surrounded by trees; mulberry (really, they don't smell like the candles!), fig, apricot, black walnut and quince. We used to collect the fruits, and make various dishes. We canned, froze and cooked them all.

One year, we were borrowing a large dehydrator. We dried everything from the grapes that grew at the house across the street, to the one or two figs we saw. I still have nightmares about and food aversion from apricots. But dad discovered the candy that mom could not argue: Dried Apples. We got huge amounts of apples that year, and dad dehydrated most of them. We also made apple leather (fruit roll ups), apple butter, apple pies and baked apples with pancake syrup all over them. YUM. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it. Ahem. Back to the story.

I packed my lunch to school, because I couldn't stand to have the milk forced upon me, as I am allergic to it. Every day, for most of a year, I had a sandwich, carrot or celery pieces, a Capri Sun drink or other such juice concoction, and a huge handful of dried apples.

One day at lunch, my science teacher, Mr. Gage, saw me eating while he was monitoring the lunchroom. I offered him one, and he made the funniest, grossed-out face. He said he thought of something, and dashed out so fast, he almost ripped his pants on the way out the door. I sat there, wondering what I had done so bad that I needed to have the principal called into the matter, and waited for his return. When he came back, he handed me a piece of paper. A photocopy. He had rushed off to the library. I looked, and laughed. I have never again had such a fun teacher who took an interest in my life because of a simple lunch.

I don't know the name of the book, because it wasn't on the copy. The chapter was entitled "Humor and Whimsey", and the page number was 455. The poem is attributed to "Unknown" (the single most prolific author of writing ever to walk the earth!). Here you will see why my search for a recipe makes me laugh, and the memory of this moment makes me cry (but still in a happy way):

DRIED APPLE PIES

I LOATHE, abhor, detest, despise,
Abominate dried-apple pies.
I like good bread, I like good meat,
Or anything that's fit to eat;
But of all poor grub beneath the skies,
The poorest is dried apple pies.
Give me the toothache, or sore eyes,
But don't give me dried apple pies.
The farmer takes his gnarliest fruit,
'Tis wormy, bitter, and hard, to boot;
He leaves the hulls to make us cough,
And don't take half the peeling off.
Then on a dirty cord 'tis strung
And in a garret window hung,
And there it serves as roost for flies,
Until it's made up into pies.
Tread on my corns, or tell me lies,
But don't pass me dried-apple pies.

~~~Unknown~~~

I am looking at a book that I made in college, a 3-ring binder, full of the best of the emails I had, jokes, recipes, and random ideas I had collected up to that time. I don't know when, but I put that copy in this folder. I found it anew today, looking for a recipe that I have lost.

And I am sitting here in my office, laughing, crying, wondering what happened to Mr. Gage after he moved to California. I am wondering how ancient he must look now, if he still lives, since he looked so old when I knew him, 18 to 20 years ago. I used to wonder what he would have done if he actually tore his pants pocket on the door that day? What if he had not come back to give me the poem? I wouldn't be thinking about him today, and THAT would be sad.