Jennifer Bohnhoff's Blog, page 40

Lighten up! A short history of chemical leavening

Bread wasn’t always as easy to bake as it is now. Bread gets its airy structure by capturing gas bubbles in the elastic gluten of wheat. But how does one get those gas bubbles into the dough to begin with? The answer is leavening.



One way to leaven bread is through the use of chemical mixtures that produce gas. Pearlash is an early chemical leavening first used in breads and baking in the 1780s. Like soap, gunpowder, and potash, it is a byproduct of lye, which comes from fireplace ashes that have been soaked in water. Mix pearlash with sour milk, vinegar, or another acid, and it produces carbon dioxide bubbles that make bread and other baked goods rise.

In 1840, a chalk-like chemical leavener named saleratus entered the market. It was sold in paper envelopes similar to the ones now used for yeast and is chemically similar to baking soda, which became commercially available in the 1860s.

None of these chemical mixtures came without controversy. The August 15, 1853 edition of The Adams Sentinel and General Advertiser, a paper produced in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, explained the process of making both pearlash and saleratus, but ends with a warning:

What is saleratus? Wood burnt to ashes. Ashes are lixiviated -- lye is the result . Lye is evaporated by boiling -- black salts are the residuum. The salts undergo a purification by fire, and the potash of commerce is obtained. By another process, we change the potash into pearlash. Now put this into sacks, and place them over a distillery wash-tub, where the fermentation evolves carbonic acid gas, and the pearlash absorbs and renders it solid, the product being heavier, dryer and whiter than the pearlash. It is now saleratus. How much salts of lye and carbonic acid can a human stomach bear and remain healthy, is a question for the saleratus eaters.

Tomorrow my blog will feature an old fashioned baking soda and vinegar cake recipe handed down to me by my mother.
Photo borrowed from The American Philosophical Society's webpage. Visit here for five interesting blogs on the history of cooking.

Jennifer Bohnhoff is the author of a number of middle grade historical fiction books, including The Bent Reed, which is set at Gettysburg during the Civil War. You learn more about her books and her adventures in historical cooking here.

Moving towards 2017

  2016 was a dark and traumatic year for some of my friends, especially those who are involved in politics and/or Hollywood. We lost some important celebrities andhad a contentious election year, to say the least.

But I am not very political, and I don't put much time into celebrity sightings, so little of that hub-bub affected me.

I  experienced some personal changes in 2016 that were noteworthy, though. My husband and I finished building a house on the land we'd bought 14 years ago. My youngest son graduated from Ranger School, Airborne School, Tank school and
Basic Officer Leadership training and  finally began the career in the military he had anticipated for so long. He also proposed to his girlfriend. My oldest son quit a job he's had for a very long time and began a new one. My middle son graduated from Medical School and began Residency. And I published two novels: Tweet Sarts and Swan Song.

No one can tell the future, but if the past is any guide, I can make a few predictions. I predict a wedding, although the Army will do its best to muddle the date. I predict an oldest son coming into his own and finding a niche where he can use his unique talents. I see a very tired middle son refining his trade. I predict looking like The Beverly Hillbillies as my husband and I furnish our house one pickup truck load at a time throughout the first half of the year.

I have some hopes for the new year. I hope to find a new job closer to my new house. I hope to get two more books out: a Civil War novel set in New Mexico for middle grade readers, and a Christmas sequel to Tweet Sarts. I hope each sells well and I become rich and famous. And lose 30 pounds. And become a runner again. I admit some of these are more likely to happen than others.

Here's to 2017 and the new experiences it will bring. May your hopes light your way down the dark path. May your confidence never flag, and if you trip or find yourself lost, may you get back up, dust yourself off, and count it as one more lesson learned.

Lighting the way New Mexico Style

The Christmas Eve view from the author's front door. (My husband would be horrified: he very carefully lines up the bags so you cannot see the seams from the street.) Lights line the sidewalks and entryways of New Mexico every Christmas Eve.

Here in Albuquerque, they are called luminarias , and they are made by placing a candle atop an inch or so of sand inside a paper lunch sack.

In other parts of the state they are called farolitos . Sometimes they have no bag, but are small stacks of wood.

The tradition began as part of Las Posadas, a special ceremonial procession brought to New Mexico by Franciscan missionaries very early in the Spanish occupation. In the posada, a couple dressed as Mary and Joseph travel from house to house, asking, through song, for a place to stay:

En el nombre del cielo
os pido posada
pues no puede andar
mi esposa amada.
 
In the name of Heaven
I ask you for shelter,
For no farther can
my beloved wife go.
Inside the home, people answer, turning away the weary travelers:
Aquí no es mesón,
sigan adelante
Yo no debo abrir,
no sea algún tunante.
 
There's no inn here,
keep on your way,
I can't open up
You might be a scamp.
On and on the travelers go, until at last they find rest at the church.

This holiday season, may you find light to guide you on the path to truth and love.

Christmas in New Mexico

By John Phelan (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/b...)], via Wikimedia Commons Bizcochitos have been part of New Mexico traditions since Spanish colonists brought them here centuries ago. They are such a holiday favorite here that the legislature made them the official cookie of New Mexico in 1988.

Bizcochitos
Makes 4 dozen

1 1/2 cups lard (you may substitute butter, but the cookies will not be as crisp and moist)
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
2 tsp anise seeds
4 cups flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp salt
About 3 TBS brandy (may substitute apple juice)

Topping: combine 3 TBS sugar and 2 tsp ground cinnamon

Beat lard and sugar until fluffy.
Add eggs and anise seeds and beat until light.
Sift together flour, baking powder and salt.
Add to the creamed mixture along with enough brandy to make a stiff dough.
Spread dough out of a piece of waxed paper. Put another piece of waxed paper on top and chill in the refrigerator. When stiff, roll out between the two sheets of waxed paper until 1/2” thick.
Cut out with a round cookie cutter, dipping cutters in flour to prevent the cookies from sticking.

Dip one side of the cookies in the topping mixture.

Place cookies on ungreased baking sheets.
Bake at 350 for 10-12 minutes until tops of cookies are firm but cookies are not browned.
Cool cookies on a wire rack.

Bread for Civil War Soldiers

Joseph Sherfy in the 1840s At the time of the Civil War, the Reverend Joseph Sherfy, his wife Mary, and their six children lived on a fifty-acre farm along the Emmitsburg Road, just south of the town of Gettysburg. Much of Sherfy’s land was devoted to peach trees that produced fruit that was locally famous.             
When the Union army reached Gettysburg on July 1, 1863, the Sherfy family was ready to help. Joseph dragged a large tub of water to the road and kept it filled for thirsty soldiers. Mary and her mother baked countless loaves of bread for the troops. Because of the overwhelming numbers of soldiers, these loaves were quick to make, like this Honey Wheat Casserole Bread. The commercially produced yeast used in this modern recipe wasn’t available in the 1860s.

On the day after Mary and her mother’s epic bread baking, Union General Dan Sickles made the Sherfy farm into his headquarters, and the family evacuated. The farm, especially the peach orchard, witnessed some of the greatest battles of July 2nd and 3rd.

The fictional McCoombs farm, the setting for my historical novel The Bent Reed, is right next door to Sherfy’s farm. You can read more about Sherfy and his peach orchard here.
Honey Wheat Casserole Bread
Mix until blended:
                1/2 cup flour
                1 cup whole wheat flour
                3/4 cup hot milk
                1/4 cup hot water
                2 tsp yeast
                1 tsp salt
                2 TBS butter
                2 TBS honey
 
Add gradually until dough is firm:
                Up to 1 additional cup flour
Place in a greased 1 1/2 quart casserole.
Sprinkle with 1 TBS wheat germ
Let rise 45 minutes.
Bake in a 375 oven for 20-30 minutes.
Let cool 10 minutes, then turn out from casserole.
 

Earning the Hat

My son and his girlfriend just after Ranger School graduation. When my son was seven years old, he bought a hat that had the Ranger logo on the front.

The first time he wore it, a stranger approached him.

"Son, is your father a Ranger?" he asked.

"No," my son replied.

"How about your big brother?" the man continued.
"No," my son answered.

The man frowned. "You're not a Ranger, are you, son?"

"No, sir," my seven year old son squeaked out.

The man shook his head. "Don't wear it until you've earned it," he said.

My son took the hat home and put it in his closet. From time to time, he looked at it. The hat reminded him of a promise he'd made to himself soon after 9/11, that he'd protect his family and those he loved from the bad people out there who wanted to hurt them.

Last month my son earned his Ranger tab, and wore the hat again.

The End of the Night of Miracles

I hate driving after dark. I don’t like driving any car except my own. And I don’t like driving on unfamiliar roads. Yet, here I was, driving a rental car between Columbus, Georgia and the Atlanta airport at midnight so that I could pick up my husband, whose flight was going to land at one in the morning.

Earlier in the day I had been a little ticked at my dear husband. The work commitment that had kept him from coming with me a day earlier had miraculously disappeared, and while I was glad that he would be able to see our son graduate from the Army’s Ranger School, I wasn’t happy to spend three hours of my short visit driving back and forth on an unknown road in an unknown car. At least, I had thought, our son had returned to base for the night, so I wasn’t losing time with him.

But by the time I left Columbus, there wasn’t any room in my heart for annoyance. A series of miracles, all small enough that they might have been mistaken for coincidences had they not been stacked up one after the other like dominoes, had left my heart filled with gratitude and wonder. My son’s car had died, but it had done so in a restaurant parking lot instead of on a lonely, dark highway. Two strangers had helped him push it into a parking space. We’d driven in two cars, so my son wouldn’t return to base late. A call to AAA had brought Roy, a gentle giant of a tow truck driver who’d helped me get the broken-down car to a repair shop, then had insisted on driving me back to my hotel. Roy had warned me about dangerous truck stops and deer on the road, and sent me on my way with a prayer for my safety. I drove along singing hymns and praise songs and offering up long, rambling prayers of praise.

God wasn’t my only guide on the road that night. In her flat monotone, the Google Maps voice informed me about every upcoming turn. Still, the Atlanta airport is a huge facility, with a north and south terminal. I read every sign twice, worried that I’d end up in a permanent holding pattern around the airport without ever finding the right place to park. The signage seemed clear, and it agreed with Ms. Maps. I felt confident as I drove my car towards the parking lot’s automatic ticket booth.

Until I reached out to push the button, where the word INTERNATIONAL was written across the top of the machine. My heart lurched. How had I arrived at the wrong parking area? What was I to do? I looked in the rear view mirror. Although I saw no traffic behind me, the thought of backing down a one-way ramp seemed suicidal. The only way to go, I decided, was forward: through the multistory parking garage and out the other side, where I could explain that I’d made a mistake. Hopefully, they’d see that I’d spent mere minutes in the lot and wouldn’t charge me. Maybe they’d guide me to the right lot, since Ms. Maps had failed me.

“I blew it,” I said as I handed the attendant my ticket. “I meant to park in domestic.”

The man looked over the top of his glasses at me. “This is the domestic lot,” he said.

“I’m picking up someone who’s coming in on Southwest,” I said.

He nodded. “Then you’re in the right place.”

For the second time that night I looked in the rearview mirror and considered driving in reverse. “Can I just back into the lot, then?”

The attendant shook his head. “Can’t go back in. But you can just park here, right next to the booth. I’ll watch your car for you.” Enough had happened already that day that I didn’t question the man. I thanked him for his kindness, parked the car, and walked into the terminal.

When my husband arrived, he got an earful about the smoking clutch, the giant angel named Roy, and my parking lot confusion. He smiled. He’s used to me parking in odd places. But when we got back to the car, it was not alone. A car was parked next to ours, and in it was a crying woman.

“Can you help me?” she asked. I’ve lost my credit card somewhere, and I’ve called home, but no one is answering. They won’t let me leave the lot unless I pay.” By now it was 2 am, and the woman figured that those at home had their phones on silence. She offered to give us her name, number and address, but my husband just smiled and paid her ticket.

“This one’s for Roy,” he said.

We finally made it to our hotel at 3 am, then had to get up at 6 to make it to graduation. I may have been running on fumes the next day, but they were good fumes.

It wasn’t until after graduation that the repair shop called with the bad news that repairs on my son’s car cost more than the value of the car, but that’s when I realized the final blessing of the weekend; my husband is good at many things, but he is the best negotiator I’ve ever known. That afternoon he and our son sat in two different dealerships and discussed buying a new car. By the time we flew home, my son had learned the fine art of the deal, and was the owner of a new car.

People helped us. We helped people. I am not sure if I know what the higher purpose was that weekend, but I am glad that I played a part in it all. God’s ways are mysterious. They may seem like mere coincidence. But I believe something far greater was at work on that night of miracles.

More miracles

I sat in the restaurant in Columbus, Georgia, nervously wolfing my salad and looking for a sign that the tow truck had arrived in the dark parking lot. If he got back to Ft. Benning in time, my son John would graduate from Ranger School the next day. Tough luck that his clutch had burned out just as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot.

I kept telling myself that all would be well. Our party of four had come in two cars, so I could stay and take care of John’s car while the others drove him back. I’d taken rides in a tow truck before, but always in my hometown, where I knew where to go and what to do. Even there, not all the drivers had been pleasant men. One had been downright snarly, nasty. I hoped I wouldn’t get someone like that again, especially here, where I didn’t know my way around.

The man who climbed down from the cab of the tow truck was a big, big man: very tall and very wide. His skin was so dark that it was hard to distinguish his features. I admit that my heart lurched. By the dim overhead light I read the name embroidered on his shirt. Roy. I smiled and thanked Roy for coming. Roy smiled back, and with that smile and a few gentle words, all my fears evaporated.

Several people came out of the restaurant as Roy attached chains to the underside of the car. One of them, obviously drunk, shouted racist and disparaging things. Roy either didn’t hear or ignored the man. Several people offered to give me a ride. One couple told me it wasn’t safe for a white woman to ride in a tow truck with a black driver. I assured them I didn’t need their help, clambered into the cab, and off we went.

Talking with Roy was easy. I told him that I was a teacher, and he shared that his son had dyslexia. We discussed education, parenting strategies, and how hard it was to find the right school for a boy with special needs. Roy praised God for giving him a wife who was patient and level headed. He called his son, a 14-year-old freshman football player, a big, scary-looking kid who was really a teddy bear. It was clear that this man cared deeply about his God and his family, and that the son took after the father.

At the dealership, Roy helped me fill out the information on the envelope for the nighttime key drop. I asked for the number for the local taxi service, but he insisted on driving me back to the hotel himself. As we pulled up, he told me that I could put my feet up and rest: my night of troubles was over.

I told him I had no time to relax. My husband’s schedule had cleared, and he was able to make it to graduation. I was going to grab a cup of coffee, then make the hour and a half drive to the Atlanta airport to meet him when he landed at 1 am. Roy’s smile faded. He warned me to drive in the left lane because deer came out at night. He also told me which exits were safe for a woman alone at night and which were not.  

And then we prayed together. Roy asked the Lord to protect me on my drive, and I asked for guidance for Roy’s son’s reading problems. Roy gave me his number and made me promise that I’d call the next day. He wanted to make sure I made it back safely, and he offered to tow my son’s car to another mechanic if the dealership’s estimate was too high.

I drove all the way to Atlanta singing hymns and praising God for bringing me the biggest, scariest looking angel ever. I saw deer – both alive and dead – on the drive, but because of Roy’s advice, I didn’t hit any of them.

Little did I know there were more miracles to come that night.

Night of Miracles

I was in Columbus, Georgia a couple of weeks ago to attend my son John’s graduation from Army Ranger School. The night before graduation, he got a pass to have dinner with his girlfriend Deanna, his girlfriend’s mother Carolyn, and me. Later that evening I would drive the hour and a half to Atlanta to pick up my husband Hank, whose schedule had changed, allowing him to grab a flight that came in at one in the morning.

We drove to a restaurant in two separate cars, the mothers in one, and the lovers in the other. As Carolyn pulled into a parking space, I noticed two men standing on the berm in front of us. They were looking toward where our young ones had parked, and they wore horrified looks on their faces. My heart lurched.
I jumped out of the car and ran. John’s car was stopped halfway into the parking space. Smoke billowed from the engine, which made a high, squealing sound. We tried pushing the car into the space, but the clutch was stuck down and the car refused to budge. The two men from the berm joined us. “Looks like your clutched is cooked,” one said. They suggested we try pushing it again. With their help, it slid into place. Before we could thank them, the men went their way.

We looked at our watches and considered our situation. If John was even one minute late returning to base he wouldn’t graduate, and ninety days of sweat and toil would have been wasted. I pulled out my AAA card, which I have carried ever since that fateful day 29 years ago when I locked my keys, my grocieries (including ice cream!) and worst of all, my baby into the car on day when the temperature had topped 100°. AAA had never failed to get me out of a jam. I had to depend on them now.

We ordered our food, then called AAA, who assured us that a tow truck would arrive in 45 minutes. As I ate, I thought what a blessing it was that we’d chosen to drive two cars so that Carolyn and Deanna could drive John back while I got his car to the dealership where he got it serviced, and what a blessing my AAA membership was. I thanked God for the two kind men who seemed to have been standing on that berm, waiting for us to need their help.

It seemed like God was in control and everything was going to work out fine, but I couldn’t help eating my food with one eye gazing out the window, waiting for the truck and wondering what would happen next. What did happen surprised me.

To be continued . . .

All our gloom going up in smoke

Santa Fe has celebrated Las Fiestas de Santa Fe since 1712, making it the oldest civic celebration of its kind in North America. It began as a religious celebration to celebrate the reconquest of New Mexico after the Pueblo Revolt. This year, the Fiesta runs from September 2-11th.
 Since 1924, the Fiesta has begun with the burning of Zozobra, a gigantic boogey-man puppet. Zozobra, which is Spanish for 'the gloomy one,' was originally created by Will Shuster, an artist who thought the Fiesta, was far too serious and solemn. Inspired by Mexico's Yaqui Indians, who burn an effigy of Judas every year during Holy Week, Shuster created a 20-foot-tall puppet, stuffed him with fireworks, and set him ablaze in his own backyard. He and his friends were so pleased that they repeated the performance the next year. A tradition was born.

Even though Shuster continued to create Zozobra, or Old Man Gloom, every year, the effigy didn't always look identical. During World War Two, Zozobra took on a distinctly Asian look, with slanting eyes and round spectacles. Other times, he had sharp teeth and pointed ears, giving him a vampirish appearance. In 1964, Shuster handed over his plans and his rights to the Kiwanis Club, who has kept the tradition going ever since. It has become not only a favorite event, but the major fundraiser for the Club.

I have only seen Zozobra burn once, in the early 1970s. Back then, the crowd was unruly, with lots of drunkeness and brawls breaking out among motorcycle gangs. Since then, the crowds have become much larger, but better behaved.

Have you ever been to Zozobra, or is there a similar tradition in your area? I'd love to hear your stories.

This year's Zozobra is over 50 feet tall. He will go up in flames on the evening of Friday, September 2nd, at Fort Marcy Park.
"Zozobra is a hideous but harmless fifty-foot bogeyman marionette. He is a toothless, empty-headed facade. He has no guts and doesn't have a leg to stand on. He is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. He never wins. He moans and groans, rolls his eyes and twists his head. His mouth gapes and chomps. His arms flail about in frustration. Every year we do him in. We string him up and burn him down in a blaze of fireworks. At last, he is gone, taking with him all our troubles for another whole year. Santa Fe celebrates another victory. Viva la Fiesta!" - A.W. Denninger