Cook & Tell is a digital reboot of the foodletter my mom, Karyl, created 40 years ago, featuring vintage recipes and occasional “orts” from me.
From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Column (December 2, 1976)
Jack is one handsome devil, blackhaired, possessed of a beautiful body, affectionate, devoted, outgoing. He adores my cooking and has a marvelous sense of humor. But Jack, alas, has terrible manners, atrocious breath and four legs. Jack is my dog.
The last thing on earth a free-lance gypsy like me needs to make life complete is a goofy dog, which is exactly what Jack is. A non-productive, non-English speaking creature who requires continuous feeding and letting in and out falls, in my book, under the non-essential category. Nevertheless, he is the incumbent dog, and we are stuck with him. He goes with the place just like the river that runs through my cellar nine months of the year. And the hole in the foundation that lets in the mouse or the squirrel, or whoever it is who gnaws between my walls during the winter. And every other feature of questionable value that makes my house a home.
Understand, I love Jack. Ask anybody who’s ever visited here. Name one other 100-pound setter/St. Bernard (with a trace of German short-haired pointer) who gets to sleep on the bed, sofa or easy chair of his choice. Is a cursed canine one for whom a banquet is regularly spread on the kitchen floor?
Most nights there is no room in the kitchen for people. A recent array of pots and pans set out for Jack to clean up included the nearly empty skillet the corned beef hash fried in, a pot containing the remains of butternut squash, the brownie pan, a cookie sheet with bits of raisin brambles still adhering to it, the dinner dishes and glass bowls offering remnants of lemon pudding and whipped cream. Is this the way an unpopular pooch is treated?
Jack is of dubious lineage, but I am willing to bet he is at least 100 percent chow hound. Nothing edible is safe, unattended on any surface up to shoulder height. No cake is too sacred, no casserole too hot, no crumb too small for the long-haired villain with the astounding reach. If it’s within sniffing distance, it’s fair game. Unencumbered by fear of punishment, uninhibited by feelings of guilt, he plunders with aplomb. I know now, after expending untold energy in scolding and shouting, that scolding and shouting do not work. Jack and I understand each other. It is my fault if he swipes anything. It is I who should be ashamed, leaving things within his reach.
With Jack, it is not a matter of hunger. It is, let us be frank, pure greed. And when food is unavailable, cardboard will do, or the mail, or one of Amie’s stuffed animals. A detached, damp, fuzzy ear; a dismembered plush body; miscellaneous bits of foam rubber, simply testify to my diligence at putting away tasty snacks and latching cupboards.
It is unfair to say that Jack’s appetite is indiscriminate. About the garbage, he is selective. When it comes to the scraps stored in the sink colander for the compost pile, Jack will leave the tea bags and eggshells. On the floor.
I have a feeling there are people who would not put up with this.
It must be clear by now that I’m a pushover for the charms of this preposterous black dog. I am also impressed by his skills. He is adept at digging large holes in what I used to call the lawn, holes in which he buries potatoes, rocks and sticks of wood from my woodpile. He can take laundry off the clothesline and arrange the contents of a wastebasket on the floor. He can spot a trembling leaf in a field from 50 yards away and bark like crazy to let me know. He is a guardian without peer. He bares his teeth at upturned wheelbarrows and tall men. Six-footers and over have learned to approach the house on their knees when coming to call.
Lasagna, blueberry pie, a large bowl of party snacks, 32 peanut butter cookies, a loaf of brown bread, and a bag of marshmallows are recent supplements to Jack’s dogfood diet that come to mind without effort. Inasmuch as his favorite thing is an entire box of brown sugar, which happens to be part of an old family recipe I am not at liberty to give out, will you settle instead for this luscious cake of which he is very fond? I know, because he made off with half of it the last time I made it.
Combine apples and sugar; let stand 1 hour. Mix eggs, oil and add dry ingredients, blending well. Combine with apples. Add the rest of the ingredients and mix well. Bake in greased and floured 10” tube or Bundt pan at 350 degrees for 1 hour.
Amie’s Endnotes
My mother and I rescued Jack from the pound when I was six, and for the next eight years, he was my best friend. He knew all my secrets, slept on the floor by my little trundle bed, swam with me each time I dove off the ledge into the cove across the street. Often, when he got loose and tried to run as fast as the rabbits he chased, he’d return and drop treasures at my feet: spruce boughs, sticks, and once, an entire Beautiful Crissy doll. And on a road trip in the old black Mercedes one summer to visit my grandmother, Jack accompanied me in the back seat, ears flapping out the window like wings, inspiring the first story I ever wrote—”Matt, the Flying Dog.”
Jack and me in the crabapple orchard out back, c. 1976; a page from mom's sketchbook where she envisioned note cards featuring Jack
For more of Karyl’s art, check out my monthly 100-word sketchbook stories!
What fun and perfect recipe for the fall. Thanks, Amie.
Wonderful - and delicious - words, Amie! 😊