It's time to have a good laugh!!

SCRATCH

My mother never let me do much in the kitchen except things like making a vegetable salad, or stirring the gravy so it wouldn’t be lumpy.  As a result, my cooking knowledge and ability was practically non-existent when I got married.  But I did remember mother mentioning to her many friends that she’d make certain cakes, pies and such from SCRATCH.  So my first priority after the honeymoon was to locate some SCRATCH.

With mother’s delicious cakes in mind, my first trip to the super market was to buy some SCRATCH.  I found the aisle that read ‘baking items’ and spent a good 15 minutes looking at everything from Mazola oil to cornstarch, sugar, flour and chocolate, but no sign of SCRATCH could I see.  I was sure it wouldn’t be with pickles and mayonnaise, or in the meat department.

I asked a clerk if they carried SCRATCH.   He looked at me rather oddly and finally said, “Oh, you’ll have to go to the store at the corner of Colfax and Wadsworth.”  Well, when I got there it turned out to be a FEED STORE.   I thought this rather odd, but I guess cakes are food, so I went in and said, “Id like to buy some SCRATCH.”  When the clerk asked me how much I wanted, I suggested a pound or two.  His reply was, “How many chickens do you have?  It only comes in 20-pound bags.”  I really didn’t understand why he mentioned chickens, except, I had heard my mother say that she’d made some CHICKEN CASSEROLE FROM SCRATCH, so I bought 20 pounds and hurried on home, delighted with my purchase.

My next problem was to find a recipe calling for SCRATCH.  I went through every single page of my lovely “Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook” given to me as a wedding present, but I didn’t find even one recipe requiring SCRATCH.  Subsequently, I spent hours in the nearby library trying to end my search.  No luck.  There I was with 20 pounds of SCRATCH and no recipe.

When I opened the bag of SCRATCH, I had some doubts that a beautiful, fluffy, moist cake could ever result from such hard looking ingredients, but then I was sure with the addition of liquids and use of heat, the results would be successful.  I had no need or desire to mention my problem to my husband as he had suggested very early in our marriage that he liked to cook, and would gladly take over that department.  One day when I was raving about his chocolate pie, he proudly acknowledged that he had made it from SCRATCH, so I was assured that it could be done.

Now, as many of you know, being a new bride is pretty scary, especially when three meals a day are on one’s mind all the time.  During, the first week I learned that our muffins, waffles, pancakes, pies, cakes and even the lemon pudding my husband made was from SCRATCH.  Well, if he’d made all those things from SCRATCH, I was sure he’d bought a 20-pound bag of it, too.  But, I couldn’t find where he’d stored it.  I searched and searched and then I checked my own supply, which I kept hidden in the bedroom closet behind all my clothes, but it was still full.

The mystery continued, but I was never one to give up or reveal my problem.  The biggest jolt came one day when I heard a friend bragging to my husband that he’d built his house himself from SCRATCH.  In quick succession I heard via numerous acquaintances that they had made dresses, Halloween costumes, even jackets from SCRATCH, in addition to their numerous desserts and pastries.

At this point, I was almost ready to give up because the entire world seemed to know everything about SCRATCH except me.  But pride kept me silent.  If paper can be made from wood, and glue from horses’ hoofs, maybe wood or cloth could be made from SCRATCH.

By now, the detective in me was getting very weary, so, I decided to try a different approach.  One day when Number One husband was doing nothing in particular, I said, “Honey, I wish you’d teach me how to bake a cake.”  Then he got out flour, sugar, eggs, milk, shortening, chocolate, and baking powder, but there was no sign of SCRATCH.  I watched him carefully blend it all together, pour it into a pan, then put it in the oven to bake.  One hour later, when we were eating the rich, fluffy, chocolate concoction, he couldn’t understand my asking, “Honey, why don’t we raise a few chickens.”

(Written by Betty Lowe, Lakewood, Colorado)