1 lump lard, size of an egg

 I don't remember the origin of the Bickel Family Cookbook, and I don't remember how some members of my Bunco family got copies of it, but they did.

Last night at a socially distanced gathering in my garage and back porch, Amy brought newly printed copies of the booklet to distribute because, according to her, some disenfranchised Bunconians had groused that they didn't have copies. 

I have my original one, but I flipped through the photo-copies just to be sure it was what I was thinking, and just based on who contributed, I'm certain my cousin Lori had to be the impetus. I have no recipes in it, so maybe they were trying to coax me into cooking? Lyn sent me a note asking if my mom was a baker, based on the fact that 2/3 of the recipes are desserts.

She wasn't, so much, but the contents of the recipe book is definitely a clue about the origin of my fat cells. They took root many years ago and have resisted my many attempts to evict them. In addition to softening my angles, they hold great memories. Like Fried Pies: a delicacy the Hostess brand tried to emulate and fell desperately short.

I'm sure we had them often, but I remember them most from when my dad, brothers and a bunch of their male friends would gather at nightfall at our house in the late fall and early winter to go raccoon hunting. In the early days, my granddad would go, too. They'd put their hunting dogs in the trucks and take off for the woods.

After a few hours of them being gone, my mom would make fried pies and donuts that burnt your fingers when you snatched them too early. Which you had to do because they were for "the boys" who would be hungry when they got back. But I was hungry right then! And the pies were fresh from the bubbling oil.

They did work up their appetites tramping through the pitch black woods following the baying of flea-bit dogs chasing cute little raccoons. The dogs' job was to sniff out and then "tree" the raccoons, which means they chased the rodents into taking refuge high in trees where the canine units couldn't reach them. The raccoons had the upper hand only until "the boys" caught up. They'd take aim with hunting rifles, careful to not damage the hides, and that would be the end of the raccoons until their fur ended up being worn by someone else.

Stuck at home because girls didn't go hunting (in my house) I don't recall helping much with preparing the breakfast feast the would greet the hunters when they came home sweaty and hungry. I do remember snagging bits of fried dough filled with pineapple and cherry canned pie filling. And doing dishes and sweeping the floor -- those were my primary kitchen jobs. 

I've always thought the fried pie recipe was my mom's, but it was from my Grandma Bickel according to the family cookbook. The ingredients list sounds like her. I don't remember her ever consulting a cookbook -- "Enough to taste," she'd say if asked about an amount. Or "til it looks right." 

My Grandma Bickel was not five-feet-tall. She never cut her hair and always wore it in a braid that she wrapped up into a bun. It was always fun to see her at bedtime when she'd take it down in that long braid. She made her own dresses and even bras. They lived in the country surrounded by an orchard, a garden and fields, so sometimes snakes would get into her yard or garden. She'd chase them down and chop them up with her hoe. She had a chicken house and loved her Bantam hens. 

In her downtime, she sat in an old rocker and read her Bible. She'd find poems or Scripture she liked and write them down in her spidery penmanship. Despite her deep devotion to living a good, clean life, she tried to never miss her "stories." She'd cluck her tongue at the lying, cheating, diabolical antics of the CBS soap opera people but she organized her day around them. Probably prayed for them, too.

She'd make "a mess" of mushrooms or beans or whatever - meaning a dish, not an actual mess, throwing ingredients around that generally included lard -- or bacon grease she kept in a coffee can.  She made tiny pancakes that she fried in lard -- Crisco in later years. And Milnot evaporated milk. She used that stuff in her mashed potatoes and they were amazing. She whipped them with a hand-mixer. No lumps at Grandma Bickel's house. 

Flipping through the recipes, I see Donna's cinnamon rolls, which once you've sampled, you're ruined for them forever. You'd trample your own grandma to get to them warm and drippy out of the pan.

And there are Aunt Shirley's surprises (another clue that Lori put this thing together) where she tells you how to make Elephant Stew and Kahlua, which, "will not be difficult if you drink half of it first." 

The stew requires an elephant, two rabbits, salt, pepper and brown gravy and four weeks of cook time. It serves 3,800 people. The rabbits are in case more people show up, but it cautions to use the bunnies only as a last resort "because most people don't like hare in their stew." Get it? She's a funny one...

(Note to Aunt Shirley/Lori: I know it says anonymous, but I know your tricks.)

How to make canned spinach appeal to the masses? Add a can of cream of anything soup, a cup of shredded cheese and cracker crumbs. Put pats of butter (not on the ingredient list) and bake. This from Beth, who also gave us Tater Tot Casserole.

There's Aunt Joan's cornbread and Aunt Gudrun's Corn and Cheese Casserole, which calls for Gouda cheese. I'm sure that was a big discussion point because the only cheese we knew about growing up was Colby, Colby-jack, cheddar and government cheese in the super lean years. Aunt Gudrun came from Germany and traveled the world with my Uncle Bill, who was an Army officer. So she was sophisticated. I would like to have her goulash recipe, I'll tell you that. It had sour cream in it. There's stuff from my mom, Nancy, Debbie and even Aunt Wanda. 

Anyway, as I started to say, we had socially distanced Bunco last night, and it was super fun. I hope we took enough precautions to keep everyone safe because I've missed those knuckleheads. We were all under blankets by the end, and I was left with pizza that I have already sampled in violation of my diet. And now I really want pineapple fried pies.

It's a good thing I've taken up pickleball. I'll have to play twice a day every day for a while to work Bunco and post-Bunco off.

Speaking of pickleball, I'll leave you with shots of us introducing Ali to it last weekend, when she was home to vote. She and I took on Jeff, and he still ran us ragged. 

She texted Monday to tell me she'd woken up sore from her time on the court. Which makes me think it's a better work-out than I'd initially imagined.

And that means I really can, maybe, have fried pies.