My Mother's Crazy...Quilt

Day 286: The subject of crazy quilts came up a few days ago as a friend was preparing to go to a lecture on the subject as it pertained to those on exhibit at Whittier's birthplace. I sent her photos of a crazy quilt I'd made, explaining that I had never used decorative stitching to cover the seams as my mother did. Then it occurred to me that in the very bottom of my cedar chest, I had one of George's quilts ("George" was my mother's nickname). As I thought I remembered it, it was only a top, unfinished, but when I pulled it out, I discovered that indeed it was backed and batted...backed, with my mother's infamous lack of colour sense, with a huge peacock-tail print which would have served better as curtains in a hippie's Volkswagen van. The top, however, was tartan wool, and the seams were covered by embroidery stitches as I remembered. The quilt only measures 48" x 38", lap-robe size.

Contrary to what Patty heard at the lecture (that crazy quilts were usually made with silk fabrics), in my family, they were always made from wool suiting. When one of my great-grandfathers suits wore out, Old-old (my great-grandmother) would cut it into pieces for crazy quilting. The lecturer also asseerted that crazy quilts were not functional, being made of fragile silk fabric. True, perhaps, of those in the Whittier family, but Old-old's were definitely functional, and very warm! I remember bundling up in one when I was a very young child, the scratchy wool coarse against my skin. Old-old's also included embroidery stitches to cover and reinforce the seams, a tradition which my mother carried forward.

The discussion of crazy quilts raised a question in my mind. I found pictures of one I'd made only a few years ago, but for the life of me, I cannot remember who I gave it to. I have no idea how many quilts I've made over the years, but every now and then, someone will say to me, "I just love that quilt you gave me!" At least half the time, I reply, "Did I make you a quilt?"

Appearances Can Be Deceiving

Day 105: "Why has she taken a picture of caramels?" you wonder. Ah, as some are given to say, thereby hangs a tale. Let's set the scene.

My husband is driving. We're headed to Portland, and I'm in the passenger seat. We're about halfway to Oregon and my mother is opening a snack in the back seat, just a small nibbly because we're planning to go to Rose's Deli for dinner. I hear her rustling around and my own tummy expresses itself with a low growl as I turn to see her unwrapping a Kraft caramel. The temptation is too much, so I ask if she has any more. She passes one up to me and I unwrap it, failing to notice that the wrapper isn't as crinkly as it should be, or perhaps dismissing it as a change in packaging. I pop the caramel in my mouth. When I bite down on it, my taste buds are jolted by not receiving the anticipated sweetness, but rather a sour milkiness which makes me think that despite being soft, the cream in the caramel has gone off somehow since it was manufactured. I can't help myself. I say, "Ugh!" and spit the caramel out into my hand. "Did yours taste all right? This one is nasty!" I ask my mother. At this juncture, she's folded double, trying to keep from laughing. What she had given me was a piece of Norwegian gjetost, a caramel-coloured, tangy, firm cheese made from goat's milk which under other circumstances, I would have thoroughly enjoyed. My mouth had been set for a Kraft caramel, smooth and sweet, taste buds all standing at attention at the thought. It was quite a shock, believe me! To this day, though, I think she'd been laying for my husband all along. He was notorious for only consuming a limited number of foods, largely meats, potatoes, green beans and (oddly) artichokes...and, of course, caramels which were one of our favourite backcountry desserts on long hiking trips. That said, she undoubtedly knew exactly how he would react to the gjetost, but having me reject it in disgust was even better than her original evil plan. Gjetost is my favourite cheese...usually.

Icebox Cookies

Day 138: For want of anything better, today I am going to share with you my mother's recipe for "Icebox Cookies." Please note that these are called "Icebox Cookies" and not "Refrigerator Cookies" because they come from an era when powered refrigerators were not the common household appliance they are today. Foods were kept cold in an icebox which had to be replenished with ice on a schedule determined primarily by local weather conditions. The iceman came 'round to the door like the milkman, bearing his wares for a fee. Our household was one of the modern ones, keeping up with the Joneses with an electric fridge, but the name "Icebox Cookies" was destined for posterity. The dough, chilled so it can be sliced easily, makes these cookies simple to prepare. The mapleine gives them a unique taste, so close your cookbook on the "refrigerator cookie" page and try these instead.

3 cups sifted flour
3 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup shortening
1 1/4 cup dark brown sugar
2 eggs
1/2 tsp. mapleine
1/2 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup walnut or pecan pieces

Cream the shortening with the brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, mapleine and vanilla. Sift flour with baking powder and salt. Add flour mix to moist ingredients and combine thoroughly. Add nut pieces if desired (pecans are my favourite for this). Divide dough into two parts and roll each into a log. Wrap each log in wax paper and chill in the icebox/fridge for at least four hours or overnight. Preheat oven to 400 F. Slice dough into thin rounds (a little thinner than 1/4"). Place on ungreased baking sheets and bake for 10 minutes or until the edges start to brown slightly. These are a crisp, yet tender cookie, and dunkable if you wish.

A Different Approach

Day 312: As I mentioned two days ago, my mother took an entirely different approach to quilting. She preferred to make crazy quilts, in which the fabrics are individually stitched to blocks of plain material. Although crazy quilts are often quilted in the standard way, an alternate method is to apply decorative embroidery to cover the seams before the backing and batting is added. My mother preferred this method. This quilt is a small lap robe, the only example of her work which I still have, and for a reason which it rather shames me to admit: George (as most of her family and friends knew her) had the worst taste in patterns and combinations of colours of any person I have ever known. At least this quilt has a tartan theme to hold it together, unlike another hideous quilt top I almost wish I had retained for posterity. It was pieced from dozens of mismatched hippie-era psychedelic print cottons so bright that her skillful embroidery was almost completely camouflaged by the garish purples, oranges and day-glo greens of rainbows and peacocks, paisleys and daisies, mandalas and magic mushrooms. It was so painful to the eyes that I sold it at a yard sale just to get it out of my sight. If ever there was a "period piece," that quilt top was surely definitive of the Age of Aquarius, and I hope the person who bought it recognized it as a work of history.

Genetic Predisposition

Day 104: Mount Rainier National Park, Sunrise Community Kitchen, circa 1933. The young woman in the foreground is my mother, the babe-in-arms my uncle-Gus-the-Lake-James-Ranger. It was Gus who set me on the course of my life when I was but nine years old, having obtained permission from his superintendent for me to stay with him in his duty station for ten days. My father had died in the spring, and Gus (ever my idol) was doing his part to help me adjust. In those ten days, I determined two things: that I wanted to climb the Mountain and that I wanted to grow up to work in the Park. My first stint at Carbon River as a volunteer preceded my first successful ascent by a year or two, but I went on to summit five more times (a total of six), and my readers know to look for me at Longmire today.

Aside from having a Park Service bloodline, I feel a strong bond with the broader NPS "family," and I know many of them are likewise moved by a sense of kinship, as well as being united in a common cause. When one of us is attacked or oppressed, it affects us all. Recent events have shown how we will rise to meet the occasion, "rogue rangers" defending our own in their private time. There aren't many organizations which generate that depth of community connection. Parkies together!

Remembering George

Day 274: We called her George. It started when I was about 10 years old, on the occasion of a brutal self-inflicted haircut which left her with a one-inch pigtail in the back. "Mama, you look just like George Washington," I said, and "George" stuck. She was George to my friends, George to her own. Not too many people have a mother named George.

George's favorite flower was Skunk Cabbage, but running a very close second were "Turk's Caps," miscalled because that was how her father referred to them because they looked like the Turk's Caps he knew from the midwest. I grew up calling them "Turk's Caps," and only in adulthood became aware of the error. Even now have to remind myself that they are really Columbia Lilies, the Pacific Northwestern cousin. What the heck, if your mother's name is George, surely a tiger lily by any other name is still a tiger lily.