Immaculate Conception Catholic Elementary School in Milan, Michigan

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My mother had a stroke on July 2nd, 1999, the day of her 50th wedding anniversary. She died six weeks later, on August 15th, a Holy Day in the Catholic Church, the Feast of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary into Heaven. We Catholics are a superstitious lot. Were these signs? Was God trying to tell us something? I, long ago, gave up on God. I did not believe. However, maybe, just maybe, I should not put this in print.

As I was putting my stories together, my brother sent me an E-mail. He had been talking with our Aunt Sophie, my mother’s sister, while she was in the hospital. This was a year after my mother had passed away. She was talking to my brother about our mother. How our mother had been the only one in the family to graduate from high school. How she went to work at Ford Motor Company as an executive secretary. How she had given money from her paycheck to support the family. How she had used what was leftover to buy a carpet for the living room in the family home. They had never had a carpet in the house before. It was a sign of status to have a carpet. She said my mother was driven. Maybe that is why she drove her children—to be, to have, something better than what had come before. So was it my mother’s plan for us to do better than what she had done or was it God’s, or was it just the natural progression of one generation to the next? Maybe I should keep my options open.

All except one of my mother’s children have Bachelor degrees. The one who does not should, as she was the smartest. Some of us have Master’s degrees. We are successful beyond the wildest dreams of our mother. One is retired at forty—a millionaire. The others are very comfortable. All this is as a preamble to my story of the Immaculate Conception.

To be able to the enter first grade at the Immaculate Conception School you had to be able to say your ABC’s from start to finish and be able to count to 25. My mother drilled me. We were at the priest’s home in Milan. I could not say my ABC’s—I sang them. My mother was mortified. I counted, on and on, beyond 25. He told me to stop. I was accepted.

The big kids told us that if we were bad we would have to go to the Principal’s Office, where they had a “spanking machine.” This was our introduction to first grade at Immaculate Conception Elementary School in Milan, Michigan. We could hear it. “Ker-thump! Ker-thump! Ker-thump!” Someone was being spanked at that very moment. It was not until we were much older that we learned that there was no spanking machine, only an old-fashioned mimeograph machine turning out daily lessons. We perpetuated the myth, however, to first graders who came after us.

Many Catholics tell horror stories of their experiences in Catholic School. I have only a few. Most of my stories are good ones. I have no regrets. I know now that it was a sacrifice for my parents to send me there, and I thank them.

We rode a battered, old, yellow school bus, held together by the proverbial “bailing twine.” The students who rode the bus were mainly from St. Joseph’s in Whittaker, Michigan, a “mission church” of the Immaculate Conception in Milan. We were the farm kids, who, if you were the first on the bus, often had to ride for more than an hour before arriving at school. It is the classic story of, “When I was a child…” that all children endure.

We went to Mass every morning. I was in first grade. After Mass, we marched in rows, by class, and by grade to the school. Someone in the first grade had peed on the floor of the church during mass. Sister grabbed my crotch. I yelped. It wasn't me. She grabbed several crotches before she found the culprit. I never told my mother about this. I do not think I have ever told anyone about this. The Sisters of St. Joseph were a no-nonsense bunch. They were a Polish order, from Ohio, I think. They wore black gowns with starched white collars, a veil with a square, white headpiece, a crucifix around their neck, and a rosary hanging from the rope that secured their waist, a black mantle flowing from their collar. They exuded something higher and more spiritual than we could never attain. Peeing in church was an unthinkable sin, but what does a first grader know about sin?

I learned a lot from the nuns. They told me the story about the boy who raised his hand to strike his mother, was struck dead, and almost could not be buried because his raised arm stuck out of the casket. We learned never to strike our mother or to ever say mean things against her, otherwise we would die and God would make our tongues turn black and everyone would know that we had said mean things about our mother. I learned about the man who poked holes in a communion wafer, which had turned into the body of Christ, and blood poured from the holes. I learned about the man who spit out the communion wafer, and how the priest had to pick it up and re-consecrate the ground where the host had been. I learned about the saints and the martyrs of the church, and how they had died violent and agonizing deaths in defense of the church. I learned about the missionaries, and how they had given their lives to bring natives to the Glory of God in the one, holy, apostolic, Catholic Church. I learned many things.

I made my first Holy Communion in second grade. We were given a scapular to wear, a picture of a saint with a shoelace-like tie that we wore around our necks. We were to always wear it as a symbol of our faith. We were told about the mysteries of the Catholic Church, how the bread and the wine would, during Mass, be turned into the body and blood of Jesus. We were told what to say at our first confession. We had to confess our sins before receiving the body and blood of Jesus. I could not say what I wanted to say. I did not believe that the bread and wine became Jesus. I went into my first confession a liar. It would haunt me for a long time.

God penalized me for my disbelief. The morning of my first Communion, I was covered with the sores of measles. I had a fever. My parents took me to church anyway. The Sister in charge said, do not worry, other children were also coming down with measles. I made my first, Holy Communion with the Catholic Church. My official Communion pictures were taken two weeks later when the measles scabs were gone. I have a sprig of Lilies of the Valley in my lapel, it was my mother’s flower—she even had a French perfume called "Mugee", that smelled of it. I looked like an angel. But, if they only knew! I was a disbeliever. It was all a lie. I would go to hell.

My parents always brought gifts to the nuns’ house, adjacent to the school at holidays. A fresh-cut tree at Christmas tree, maybe a box of chocolates. At Easter, it was a basket with farmer’s cheese made by my grandmother, with some sausage and ham. Tuition, itself, was not enough, to be successful at the Immaculate Conception. My mother knew how to grease the wheel.

I do not know how I learned to read. It just happened. I started with Dick, and Jane, and their dog, Spot, and went from there. I loved the story of the boy with a thousand hats. I read the reader through and through. I have a newspaper clipping from when I was in third grade. Someone had donated a tape recorder to the school so that we could hear ourselves reading. It was the very latest in audio technology. A newspaper reporter came to take our picture and write an article for local newspaper. Only the very best readers would be in the picture!

The caption from the picture read: “Students at Immaculate Conception School at Milan use the tape recording machine for reading improvement purposes. A portion of Sister Mary Marceline’s pupils recording a reading lesson are...Adam Janowski, James Fleszar and Teena Groom, 3rd graders, and Geraldine Bies, 4th grader. The children are taught to read with expression, speak distinctly, not too fast and with adequate volume. The recording is played so that the children may hear their own voices and become aware of any speech defects…”

This was the caption from the picture. I still have it. My mother saved it. The recording of our reading would come back to haunt me a few years later. There was a student named Fred who was in the 4th grade and also made a recording. He said his name and what he was going to read. By the time he was in seventh grade, he could not read at all. When I heard that tape in seventh grade, it made me afraid.

Sister Mary Marceline was a very tough nun. She was not pretty and she had a beaked nose. One time she beat a student with the mantle of her gown. We were aghast. She said it was against her vows. We were dumbstruck. The student left for public school.

I hated wearing a tie to school. It made me gag. I had to tear it off during the long bus ride to Milan. Sometimes I did not bring it at all. That was when Sister Mary David took out the “shining rags.” Every Friday we had to go to the closet and get a rag that was used to polish the area around our desks. Our classroom had to be spotless before we left. Sister Mary David got the idea that if you did not wear your tie to class you had to spend the day with a shining rag around your neck. I did not care. It was better than a tie.

We drove Sister Mary David out of the classroom by the end of the first semester, but she had her final revenge on our final day before Christmas vacation. Paper airplanes were being sailed throughout the classroom. No one was listening. Sister Mary David had been in and out of the classroom all day. She had no control, whatsoever. We were in control of the classroom.

Then there was that final assignment, given to us on the last day of school before Christmas vacation. We were to write to our parents about how we had been so very bad in school and did not do our homework. She wrote it on the board. We had to copy it and put it in an envelope addressed by her to our parents. Then she wrote a special note for me on the board! “Adam is so very bad in school. He NEVER does his homework!” I had to write it, she signed it, and I was to take it to my mother and have her tell the Sister how this would be remedied. It was a long, miserable vacation for me, to give this to my mother; after all that she had done to keep me in Catholic School.

On the Monday after Christmas vacation, my mother rode the bus with me to school. The other students snickered. A mother had never ridden the bus to school with their child. I was utterly humiliated. We came to the classroom. Sister Mary Marceline was at the door. Sister Mary David would no longer be teaching this class. Sister Mary Marceline had been called in to restore order. “What about this letter?” my mother asked. Sister Marceline looked at me, I looked at her, and she said, “I had Adam in third grade and he was a wonderful student. I know he will not be any problem now.” My mother rode the bus back to the farm.

My mother looked up Sister Mary Marceline when I was in high school. She was teaching in Detroit. I do not know how or why she found her, except that I talked about her from time to time. Sister Mary Marceline was one tough nun, but, then again, I always said I admired strong women. We visited with her in the nun’s home. Sister Mary Marceline was pleased that I was doing so well.

I went to public school for sixth grade. There was no argument. My mother had won. She had called my father’s bluff. It was an adventure for me. I do not think I learned much. They were using the same Social Studies textbook I had had in fifth grade. The teacher, Mr. Sperling, told my mother what a wonderful influence I had on two troublesome students. I think they had more of an influence on me. Mr. Sperling, probably did not know all that much about me anyway as he had a series of student teachers from Eastern Michigan University. I think, seven at one time. I only remember the name of one, Mr. Podgorny, because his was an unusual name.

I returned to the Immaculate Conception for seventh grade. Public school had spoiled me. I was no longer a serious student. Give me a “B” and I was happy. Then I would start bothering the other students with my chatter. Sister Mary Eulalia was the Principal. She was also the teacher of the seventh and eighth grades. We were in one classroom, twenty students in each grade. Fred, the student I mentioned earlier was in the 8th grade. Somehow, he had forgotten how to read. Sister Eulalia talked to me. “I need someone to work with Fred,” she said. “He needs some serious help and I want you to do it, because I know you can be patient with him and work with him. You must go over these lists of words with him when you are finished with your work and try to get him to memorize the sentences. You are the only one I can trust to do this without making fun of him.” I worked with Fred, repeatedly. Words and sentences. It was so hard, but I never gave up. Then one day I heard a tape recording we made in third grade. Fred was in the fourth. He said his name, he said the title of what he was going to read, and then he read it. I know I looked at Sister Mary Eulalia and she looked at me, but no words were spoken.

I still recall that look to this very day—from me to her and back again. And I knew. I found out much later that Fred had been injured in a farm accident and his brain was damaged. He had forgotten how to read. Sister Eulalia had found that one student, who, satisfied with a “B,” would have the patience to work with someone with a problem, day in and day out, because he had the patience and perseverance to do it without shaming the student in trouble.

Sister Eulalia is long gone and probably did not know it then, but it was because of her, that I made education my career.

When I served this cake at St. Johns, people thought it had come from a bakery. With its almond paste and raspberry filling it reminded me of Polish coffeecakes I ate at my grandmother's house in Detroit.


Raspberry Almond Tart
“Torta della Santa Maria”

What’s fun about this recipe is that you take an off-the-shelf mix (good in its own right!) and make it something extraordinary both in appearance and in taste. At our church breakfast this morning someone told me that she thought my tart had come from a bakery and that it was the best thing she had ever eaten. Seriously. I am truly humbled. Please try it and let me know how yours turns out!

1 box Krusteaz Raspberry Bars mix
1 cup (2 sticks) butter, divided
1 8 ounce box Solo brand almond paste
2 eggs
1 teaspoon grated orange zest
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
2 teaspoons flour
1/2 cup sliced almonds
1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Crust:

Melt 1/2 cup (1 stick) butter.

Empty full pouch of crust mix into medium bowl and add melted butter. Stir thoroughly until all of the pouch mixture has absorbed the butter.

Spray a 9-inch springform baking pan with baking spray.

Spoon crust mixture into prepared pan. Press dough firmly on bottom and about 1 inch up the sides of the pan. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

Bake for 10 minutes. Remove from oven.

Spread full pouch of raspberry filling evenly over the hot crust.

Filling:

In a medium mixing bowl beat until fluffy 1/2 cup (1 stick) softened butter.

Add 1 can almond paste by tablespoonful.

Beat until butter and almond paste are smooth.

Add eggs, orange zest, almond extract and flour and beat until smooth and fluffy, about 2 minutes.

Spread almond filling over top of raspberry filling being careful to spread filling to edge of crust.

Sprinkle with sliced almonds.

Bake for 35 minutes.

Allow to cool 10 minutes before removing springform collar. It helps to run a sharp knife around the edge of the pan before removing the collar.

When completely cool dust with sifted confectioners’ sugar until top is lightly covered.

Slice if desired and then dust with a bit more confectioners’ sugar.

Serve at room temperature.

Serves 12.
Baking time: 45 minutes
Prep time 30 minutes

Torta della Santa Maria

Easter 2011 -- Wesołego Alleluja!

Some pysanki from my collection. I try to add a couple if new ones every year.

It’s hard to believe that I started this blog just over a year ago. Thinking about Easters past was the incentive to put pencil to paper, spoon to bowl, and eye to camera. I spent many an Easter overseas and it never bothered me that I wouldn’t be experiencing the traditions of my younger years, but now that I am older it does bother me.

My Easter centerpiece--Lilies, roses and pussywillow.

I get pleasure out of recreating the recipes of my childhood and I have a need to write down my memories before they are forgotten. Someone described memories as “personal mythology”. I like that term, because my memory is imperfect. I remember my Aunt Sophie having a hat shop on Michigan Avenue in Detroit. My uncle says no, it wasn’t on Michigan, maybe on Warren. I remember my grandmother riding with me on the bus to the market in Detroit where she selected a chicken and we watched as they butchered it so she didn’t get a different scrawny bird. My uncle says, no, not true, my grandmother never ever rode the bus. She hated them. It must have been Aunt Sophie who went to the market. And so goes my mind. Playing tricks every now and then. We remember what we want to remember. Or we remember how we want our memories to be remembered.

Easter is very late this year and here in Florida the temperature is already almost 90 degrees. It’s very difficult to imagine spring, but just above my computer monitor I have a beautiful framed photograph of daffodils, tulips, and flowering trees from the Keukenhof Gardens in Holland to remind me what it looks like. For years, I carried around a heavy and expensive 35mm Nikon camera. I never took a good picture with it. I finally gave the camera to my brother, retrieving the roll of film left in it. That last roll of film contained the one and only beautiful picture I ever created—of daffodils, tulips, and flowering trees and a beautiful reminder of Earth’s renewal, the glory of spring, and the Christian concept of rebirth.

From the Keukenhof Gardens circa 1985.
This is a photo of the last photo taken with my 35 mm camera.

This Easter I will still dye the eggs, get the basket ready, take it to the local Catholic Church to have it blessed on Holy Saturday afternoon, attend Easter Sunday service (“with incense” as they describe it in their Easter Events schedule) at St. Mary’s Episcopal Church, and have our family’s traditional Easter breakfast soup with white sausage broth and chopped smoked meats, eggs, white cheese and rye bread. A recipe for the soup can be found in the April, 2010 section of this blog.

A Polish Easter basket ready to be blessed on Easter Saturday.

I ended up making the version with nut filling because when I got started
I realized I didn't have enough eggs, of all things, to do both versions!

I’ll finish breakfast with Poppy Seed Coffee Cake, a treat I enjoyed at many a Christmas and Easter.

Poppy Seed Coffee Cake (Strucla z Makiem)

1 package yeast
1 tablespoon warm water
1/2 cup scalded milk
2 tablespoons butter
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 egg yolks
2 cups flour
1/4 teaspoon ground cardamom
2 tablespoons chopped candied orange peel (optional)
1 teaspoon flour

Poppy Seed Filling:
1 cup ground poppy seeds
3/4 cup milk
1/2 cup sugar or 1/3 cup honey
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla

Bring milk to boiling point and add poppy seed. Cook for about 5 minutes, stirring carefully, until milk is absorbed. Add sugar or honey. Beat egg thoroughly. Mix 1 tablespoon of hot poppy seed with egg and pour into cooked poppy seed. Stir until thick. Add vanilla. Must be thoroughly cooled before using.

Walnut Raisin Filling:
1 cup ground walnuts
1/2 cup white raisins

Substitute walnuts for poppy seeds and proceed as in poppy seed filling recipe above. When cool add 1/2 cup white raisins.

Glaze:
1 cup sifted confectioners’ sugar
1 tablespoon hot milk
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Dissolve yeast in 1 tablespoon warm water.

Cream butter with sugar.

Add salt to egg yolks and beat until thick.

Scald milk and cool to lukewarm.

Add beaten yolks to butter and sugar mixture.

Add yeast. Add flavoring and mix thoroughly. Add flour alternately with the milk and knead with hand until fingers are free of dough.

Let rise for about 2 hours or until double in bulk. Punch down and let rise again for one hour. Place dough on floured board and roll to one-half inch thickness into rectangular shape.

Optional: Dredge candied orange peel in flour, shaking off excess flour. Sprinkle orange peel over dough and lightly press into dough using rolling pin.

Spread with poppy seed (or nut raisin filling and roll like jelly roll, sealing all edges. Place on cookie sheet and let rise until double in bulk. Note: 1 can of Solo Brand Poppy Seed Filling can be used if you don’t want to make your own.

Bake for 45 minutes.

When completely cool spread with confectioners’ sugar glaze.

This is the finished Nut Roll--so beautiful I can almost taste it!

Dad's Polish Potato Soup (Zupa Ziemniaczana)

Palm frond received at church on Palm Sunday.

Palm fronds remind me of the season of Lent and the beginning of Spring. Polish-Americans would make extravagant arrangements of folded palm fronts and hang them somewhere in their homes. It's not done very much in the U.S. anymore, but I still like to make a simple cross-shaped palm frond and hang it somewhere in my home. Directions for making a palm frond cross may be found here.

I got to thinking about how I could never spot the fresh asparagus shoots as my dad and I drove slowly along the fence rows in Willis looking for the gourmet treat that signaled the beginning of Spring. “There. Over there. Can’t you see it?” He said. No, I couldn’t. I only realized my problem until I became an adult and found out that I had some color blindness. It wasn’t severe, only a few degrees off kilter. Maybe it was enough to make the difference between my recognizing between the green stems of asparagus and the brown weeds of winter.

I decided it would be a good time to make my dad's recipe for Polish potato soup. Dad didn't cook much, so I cherish his recipes. I don't even know if this is a classic "Polish" recipe or simply one associated with my dad's mother and my dad who made it in her style.  Either way, it is delicious.

Potatoes are a staple in so many Polish recipes. I especially love my dad's recipe for homemade Polish Potato Soup!

I hadn’t made Dad’s Polish Potato Soup in awhile. When I looked at the recipe I had it just didn’t seem right. The recipe called for browning the butter, but I remembered Dad browning the flour, not the butter. So I called my sister, Barbara, and she said that I was right, Dad browned the flour, not the butter. She had changed the recipe because it was easier. It may be easier, but if you don’t brown the flour it will still be potato soup, it just wouldn't be Dad’s Polish Potato Soup. And he would know.

Dad’s Polish Potato Soup (Zupa Ziemniaczana) 

6 medium potatoes, sliced and cubed
1 stalk of celery, chopped
1 medium onion, diced
1 quart of water or chicken stock
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour
2 cups warm milk or half and half
1 teaspoon salt and pepper to taste

Cover vegetables with water or chicken stock (I usually use lower sodium chicken stock) and cook until well done, about 30 minutes. Drain, reserving liquid. Cool slightly.

Put about one cup of the cooked vegetables in a blender and puree, adding some of the reserved liquid to the blender. Puree until smooth and return the mixture to the stock pot.

In a small frying pan, lightly brown the flour, stirring constantly over medium heat with a wooden spoon. This is the critical part. You must stir constantly until the flour starts to smoke and begin to brown. Don't wait too long as the flour will burn.  Set aside.

In a large pot melt butter, stir in the flour, and let the mixture cook until it bubbles and is well blended, about 2-3 minutes. Gradually stir in the warm half and half to the flour mixture and let simmer just below the boiling point or until the mixture is smooth and thick.

Add the reserved liquid and vegetables, stir, and let simmer until smooth and thickened.

Salt and pepper to taste.

Serve the soup with pumpernickel bread. I sometimes have small bowls of cubed pumpernickel, shredded cheddar cheese, crumbled homemade fried bacon, and chopped chive available for guests to add as they wish.

You can also serve this soup with sardine sandwiches that were one of Dad’s favorites.

Dad's Sardine Sandwich

Sliced pumpernickel bread

Mayonnaise

Canned sardines

Sweet onion

Salt and pepper

Liberally spread mayonnaise on two slices of pumpernickel bread. Slice onion into quarter inch slices.

Cover one slice of bread with onion. Liberally salt and pepper the onion. Add 4 to 5 sardines on top.

Cover with other slice of bread.

Don’t plan on kissing anyone after you eat this sandwich unless they have had one too.

Morel mushrooms were a spring mushroom. At Mom and Dad’s house in Howell, Michigan, my dad found a lot of these in the woods just off the garden. They are a delicacy, hard to find these days. I have never seen a fresh one since those days in Howell.

Find them. Eat them! Enjoy! I wish I could!

Morel Mushrooms

One dozen fresh morel mushrooms

Salt

Rinse and pat dry. Cut off bottom of stems.

Sauté in butter and sprinkle with a little salt.

Wild asparagus is found along roadsides in southwestern Michigan. My dad and my sister, Felicia, were experts at finding them. I never could. Simply delicious!—Adam.

Fresh Wild Asparagus

Several stalks of fresh asparagus

1 tablespoon butter

Salt

Rinse, pat dry and cut into 2 inch pieces. Saute in butter. Sprinkle with salt.

When I Think of Spring

Rhubarb Pie--a spring favorite in Michigan.

When I think of Spring, I think of fresh wild asparagus, daffodils and tulips, and rhubarb. I don’t know why I think of rhubarb, but I do. I know that there were two hills of rhubarb growing way in the back of the farm behind the chicken coop and the asparagus beds, to the left of the orchard that never really bore fruit.


Our house on McKean Road in Willis, Michigan circa late 1950s.

In my own personal mythology I can’t remember my mother ever making anything with rhubarb. Maybe she made a pie, but it doesn’t stand out in my memory. But I have this obsession, every spring, to make a rhubarb pie. So I watch for it at my local supermarkets. Sometimes they don’t have it. Other times the stalks are just too green and I know there won’t be much taste or the taste will be too bitter. But sometimes I get lucky and I find a decent batch of rhubarb, not as good as fresh-picked, but it will do when you have the obsession.

In 1974, after graduating from the University of Michigan, I left for Florida in January in a snowstorm, and never looked back. Somewhere in the three years I spent in Naples, Florida, I acquired a cookbook titled “A Treasury of Great Republican Recipes” compiled and edited by The Women’s Republican Club of Greater Naples, published in 1970. The recipes included Mrs. Richard M. Nixon’s Barbecued Chicken Sauce and Mrs. Dwight D. Eisenhower’s Sugar Cookies, but the only one that caught my eye was Mrs. John Kyl’s (Wife of U.S. Representative Kyl of Iowa) Rhubarb Cream Pie.

It isn’t really a cream pie, more custard than cream. And some people don’t care for it because of the custard, expecting a pie more like cherry or strawberry that is only fruit. But for me, when the rhubarb is good, and the sweetness of the custard melds just right with the tartness of the rhubarb, it is nirvana. I think of spring and dream of new beginnings and fresh starts, and the scent of daffodils and tulips.

Rhubarb Cream Pie with Almond Crumb Crust

Crust:

1 9- inch pre-made pie crust (I like the Marie Callender Frozen Pie Crust when I don’t have time to make a real pie crust)
1 egg white, slightly beaten

Filling:
3 cups rhubarb cut into 1/2 inch pieces

1 and 1/2 cups white sugar
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
3 tablespoons half and half
3 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Crumb Topping:
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
6 tablespoons cold butter, cut into 1/2 cubes
1/2 cup sliced almonds

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Prepare pie crust. Brush with slightly beaten egg white. This helps to seal the crust.

For the filling, stir together in a large bowl, the sugar, flour, eggs, butter, and nutmeg and mix just until combined. Add the rhubarb and stir gently until all of the rhubarb is coated with the filling.

Spoon filling into the chilled uncooked pastry shell.

To make crumb topping, sift together sugar, cinnamon and flour. Put in food processor. Add butter. Pulse until the mixture begins to look like coarse crumbs, about 2 minutes. Empty mixture into large bowl and add sliced almonds. Use two knives to break up flour mixture and incorporate almonds.

Spoon crumb crust topping over top of pie.

Bake for 15 minutes at 400 degrees. Reduce temperature to 375 degrees and continue baking for 30 minutes. If crust edges are browning too much put a foil collar around the edge of the pie.

Cool the pie to room temperature before serving.

Serves 8.

Prep time: 30 minutes.

Bake time: 45 minutes.

Strawberry Shortcake Trifle

Strawberry Shortcake Trifle

This recipe would never have been served during Lent as it is such a treat, but I was making it for a pot luck this evening and I thought you might enjoy it. The theme of the pot luck was bring a dish that you associate with your childhood. Something with strawberries in it came to mind. We grew them at home and there were several small farms in the area that grew them for sale near Whittaker, Michigan.

Whittaker, Michigan has always been a small town in southeast Michigan. A railroad track ran through it, but I don’t ever remember seeing a train. There was an old sawmill near the tracks, I think abandoned, even when I was a child. There were a couple of small churches, I remember one because it was an African American church, and the other was our mission church, St. Joseph Catholic, served by the priest from Immaculate Conception in Milan, about 15 miles away.

Whittaker was the home of the Augusta Township Hall and the Augusta Township Volunteer Fire Department. Both buildings sat at the corner of Talladay and Whittaker Road. Each summer the fire department would have a strawberry social as a fundraiser. Picnic tables were often set up in the field next to St. Josephs. Even though we grew our own strawberries at home, there was something special about getting a dollop of stewed strawberries on a piece of yellow cake and vanilla ice cream served in a cardboard container.

Last year, my 80-year-old friend Paul was celebrating a very special anniversary and he was hosting a reception for his friends. He was planning to make strawberry shortcake for a very large group of people. We convinced him that that would be too much work for him as friends would be visiting from out of state so a group of friends of his got together at my house and made strawberry shortcake for about 75 people. We made three 9”x13”x4” pans. Less than a month later we once again made the same strawberry shortcake, but this time it was for his memorial service as he had passed away. His goal had always been to live long enough to make that 50th anniversary and he did.

Paul was very kind to me during a very difficult time of my life. He told me to keep things simple. And he asked me to quit smoking. And I’ve done both.

Strawberry Trifle

The recipe that follows is sometimes called a Strawberry Trifle as it incorporates vanilla pudding instead of ice cream. It has become my go to dish when I am asked to bring something for a crowd. It’s easy and everybody likes strawberries, cake, pudding and whipped cream. When I make this recipe I usually have some leftovers as not everything will fit in the pan, so even if I leave my dish behind, I know that a midnight snack awaits me at home! You can also readily adapt this recipe for folks that are on a low sugar diet by substituting Splenda for the sugar in the strawberries and using artificially sweetened pudding and whipped topping. We did this for one of the pans for the memorial service and I don't think anyone noticed the difference, except those who had to watch their sugar were extremely appreciative of the tasty treat!

Strawberry Shortcake Trifle

1 box butter recipe cake baked as directed
1 teaspoon grated orange rind
2 quarts fresh strawberries
2/3 cup sugar
2 4.6 ounce packages cook & serve vanilla pudding
6 cups milk
1 21 ounce can strawberry pie filling
2 tablespoons butter, divided and cubed
1 16 ounce container Cool Whip whipped topping
4 tablespoons red currant jelly
1/2 cup sliced almonds, slightly toasted (optional)

Prepare cake mix as directed adding in 1 teaspoon of grated orange rind. Bake cake as directed. Allow to cool completely. When cool, slice about 1/2 inch off of the top. This piece can be reserved in a medium serving bowl. Put remaining cake in a 9”x13”x4” disposable aluminum serving pan.

Wash and hull the strawberries. Set aside about a dozen nice ones. Slice the remaining berries into halves or more if very large and sprinkle with 2/3 cup of sugar. Cover and put in refrigerator and allow to set for about 4 hours until sugar is dissolved and some juice is released from the strawberries.

Mix strawberries with one can strawberry pie filling. Spoon strawberries over cake, covering cake completely. Don’t put too much in as you have to keep room for the pudding and whipped topping. Pour remaining strawberries over leftover cake. Refrigerate.

Prepare pudding as directed. Whisk constantly during cooking as you do not want the pudding to burn. When done, remove from heat and whisk in butter. Continue whisking until butter is absorbed. Put pan in a cooling bath of ice cubes and water and cool until almost room temperature, whisking occasionally to keep the pudding smooth.

Spoon pudding over the strawberry layer until complete covered. Leftover pudding can be put on the leftover cake and strawberries. Return to refrigerator and chill for about four hours.

Top with whipped topping. Again, use leftover topping for cake, strawberries and pudding that was set aside.

Heat red currant jelly in small saucepan. Stir until dissolved and allow to come to room temperature.

The finished Strawberry Shortcake Trifle.

Slice all but one of the strawberries in half. Gently brush all of the strawberries with currant jelly. Arrange sliced strawberries in a rosette patter on top of the whipped topping using the whole strawberry for the center.

Decorate edges with toasted sliced almonds (optional). Allow to chill for about an hour before serving.

If you have a large enough round glass container, you could break up the cake and then layer in the strawberries and pudding leaving room for the whipped topping on top. It makes for a very dramatic presentation!