determination

Mother’s Depression-Era Vinegar Pie

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Perhaps Mother’s vinegar pie would have been more aptly named if it had been called Sweet ‘n Sour Dumplings, or better yet, Emergency Dessert. For in my book, THE DIRTY DAYS, my brief account of Mother’s vinegar pie surely did give the impression of an emergency situation. As desserts go, Mother’s vinegar pie wasn’t exactly spot on when it came to flavor and texture. I dare say it would have missed the mark considerably for a blue ribbon in the county fair pie contest, had she been naive enough to enter it.
It truly was kind of an emergency when Mother tried to satisfy her family’s sweet tooth when supplies were scarce and the times were tough. Undaunted and without apology, she would boil a mixture of water, sugar, vinegar and vanilla for about two minutes, then set it aside while she made a dough with flour, baking powder, salt, lard, milk, and maybe a beaten egg. She rolled out the dough on a floured surface to piecrust thickness and then cut it into strips, each about one inch by two inches.
She would bring the liquid mixture to a boil again and the strips of dough were dropped into the boiling liquid–one at a time. Mother would swirl the liquid for about three seconds before dropping in each dough strip. After the final strip was dropped in and swirled, she would loosely cover the pan and simmer the “dumplings” for about ten minutes.
I have to admit the end result of the depression-era dessert wasn’t as bad as it might sound. Its flavor actually fell short of terrible. The liquids and sugar mixture were cooked to an appealing, somewhat thick and pale caramel color, which compensated for the dumplings that were fairly rubberized due to the skimpy amount of shortening used in making them.
But with a drizzle of whole milk on the warm dumplings and thick juice, Mother’s efforts were not wasted. Most important, both then and in retrospect, her efforts were and are viewed as an act of love worthy of the highest award.
Pictured below is my version of Mother’s Vinegar Pie, which my husband Bob nicknamed, Fruitless Pie. I must admit that I bastardized my mother’s vinegar pie recipe. I added a bit more sugar, a teaspoon of butter and vanilla and used a mixture of half plain flour and half Bisquick to make the dumplings. Then I topped the dessert with Cool Whip. Although she has been gone for ten years, I can almost see Mother’s nod of approval and hear her soft chuckle.
 I always took it for granted that Mother created her recipe for Vinegar Pie, which she sometimes referred to as Vinegar Cobbler. Much to my surprise I recently found recipes on line for vinegar pie and cobbler, both calling for a top crust over the dumplings, then baked in the oven. My frugal mother simply cooked the liquids and dumplings on the stovetop and never applied a piecrust.

I always took it for granted that Mother created her recipe for Vinegar Pie, which she sometimes referred to as Vinegar Cobbler. Much to my surprise I recently found recipes on line for vinegar pie and cobbler, both calling for a top crust over the dumplings, then baked in the oven. My frugal mother simply cooked the liquids and dumplings on the stovetop and never applied a piecrust.
 
Having sampled my rendition of Mother’s Vinegar Pie (Cobbler), my husband and I recommend that anyone interested in making Mother’s depression-era dessert should select one of the on-line recipes.
Having sampled my rendition of Mother’s Vinegar Pie (Cobbler), my husband and I recommend that anyone interested in making Mother’s depression-era dessert should select one of the on-line recipes.
Here’s a link to a Martha Stewart recipe for Pioneer Vinegar Pie–a significant contrast to the “recipe” used by my mother.

A Generation Fading Away

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grandmaandfamily
Mother: A pioneer woman, who stuck it out with her husband on the drought-stricken plains of the Oklahoma Dust Bowl.
Strong, determined, hopeful. He continued to say, "It's going to get better. It has to."
Daddy: Strong, determined, hopeful. He continued to say, “It’s going to get better. It has to.”

While watching the History Channel Dust Bowl special a few years ago and the recent Ken Burns PBS Dust Bowl Documentary, I have appreciated the brief but touching testimonies of the now elderly survivors of that historic period.

Truthfully, I wish those articulate elderly survivors—approximately my age—had authored a book-length account of their parents’ courage following their decision not to flee the Dust Bowl. The day-by-day, year by year heroism of those parents has not been given the amount of ink Americans deserve to see in written history.

Sadly the children of those 1930s parents are fading away, and scarcely any have recorded the up-close and personal history of their parents’ courage, perseverance and physical endurance, much less record the ways in which those hard times impacted their own lives as youngsters.

Photographer Dorothea Lange’s photos of the weary Oklahoma migrant mother and her forlorn children say a great deal about the suffering of those who fled the Dust Bowl for California. Lange’s powerful images are a good backup to Steinbeck’s depiction of the migrants. However, I wish there had been many more photographs and more written depictions of the folks and their children who bravely remained on the drought-stricken dusty plains.

It is alarming to me that the children of the Dust Bowl, dubbed The Greatest Generation, are now in their late seventies to nineties and passing away at a rapid rate. So the chance of additional recorded accounts of the heroism and strength of the pioneer men, women and children who endured the 1930s Dust Bowl is very slim.

Fortunately, Steinbeck’s splendid novel lives on as a credible depiction of the Okie immigrant’s desperate struggles to survive in California. My novel, The DIRTY DAYS, is based on my life as I actually grew up in the Dust Bowl but with the intention to portray and honor those who didn’t flee from the Oklahoma plains during our country’s worst hard time. It received the publisher’s Editors Choice and Rising Star awards.

My father is delineated in my story with both strengths and weaknesses, with the latter trait garnering the reader’s sympathy. My mother, whom I call a pioneer woman in my book, sometimes tampers with the truth to protect her family’s peace of mind. Both are typical of Dust Bowl parents. Molly, my alter ego and narrator of my story, represents the real me and my friends in the 30s.

Readers tell me it’s good that my story doesn’t end when the drought and dust storms are over. Rather, it briefly takes the reader into Molly’s and her parent’s post Dust Bowl life, and it shows how their acquired 1930s life skills of strength and determination continued to serve them well.

My two children, in my real life and in my novel, express hope that my story will contribute something noteworthy to the recorded history of the Dust Bowl survivors’ vital role during our nation’s worst time.