Introduction


Mother was born to Scottish parents, originally from Temple, Scotland, where, on one of her many sojourns, she found the gravesite of her grandfather. Her father was the Station master of the Pennsylvania Railroad station in Nottingham, Pennsylvania and in Rising Sun, Maryland. Her parents had a farm, or a large garden, that she tended to dislike. She was the youngest of 5 children, 3 boys and 2 girls. My father, Milton Young, is German. That makes me, the middle child of Scottish/German heritage. And being born in April, Aries! But enough of me. I can not remember too many Scottish dishes served, but rather she leaned towards my fathers likes - thus, many, many German dishes. But her Epicurean likes were varied and surprising.
There are many things that I remember about her kitchen - the orderliness of her implements and supplies, but also her knack of using left-overs (the Scot side); the smells of fresh baked cookies or pies or cakes. The almost overwhelming aroma of sour kraut on a cold winter evening - knowing full well that mashed potatoes and pork roast would accompany the dinner (the German side). A huge kettle of hot chocolate (with real chocolate and whole milk) brewing after we had been sledding for the past 4 hours on the Knoll or on Winslow Road or down the hill on Nottingham Road. The turkey baking at 8:00am when I woke up after she had been preparing the mid-day meal for the past 3 hours. Checking the bottom of the rolls. The poached mackerel. The baked or fried flounder. Liver - theres nothing more I can say about that one. The endless hours spent over a hot stove during the Delaware summer preparing corn for freezing or making tomato sauce. And in the early years, the canning and the mixing of oleo with a yellow dye to make it look like butter completely ignoring the fact that there is no comparison between oleo and butter. To this day there is no comparison. Yes ... I can believe its not butter! But then, those were the days of the late 1940's. I can not really remember a canned or frozen store bought meal while I was at home. What I remember are the long hours she spent making our meals from scratch and my dumb questions that she always seemed to have an unquestionable answer for. And she worked full-time, too! The left overs became soup or sandwich spread - ham or beef. Sea foods became chowders. Vegetables became creamed peas and sausage casserole. Hopefully, some of these recipes will find their way into the following pages.
The questions she would ask, "Do you want to lick the beater?" or "You made lunch for us?" (Creamed hard boiled eggs on toast for one and cheese and olives on toast for another). And the statements she would make, "DON'T touch that!" or "Your Father likes it, that's why I'm making it" or "Because your Father doesn't like garlic". The answers to my questions, like why you fold this batter and don't beat it like you did the other one.
In the following pages, you will find a compilation of recipes that Mom had collected over the years. These are the ones she tried and liked. Some of them are her own, or at least modified to the limits of her own ingenuity. All of them are definitely worth a try.
Her recipe file is a collection of delightful memories. She created these memories as skillfully as she created a meal. She was an intense cook. She was an intense Mother. She was an intense woman. She was a dedicated wife. We loved her - she loved us: No questions asked. I never got to say A Good-Bye, so, in some respects, this volume is my Good-Bye. Thanks, Mom, for these and the multitude of other memories and your love. Good-Bye.

Robert M. Young
24 August 2000
Boise, Idaho
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