Gladys Taber and November

My father, an avid book collector, introduced me to Gladys Taber’s writing years ago, and I fell in love with her instantly. He has always had the uncanny knack of matchmaking book lovers with books that become favorites.

Sometimes I like to go to my collection on the shelf of my reading room and pull a Taber book and read random passages. Many of her books are organized by month or season, so I find that no matter where I land in her seasonal offerings that mirror mine on our farm in Georgia, I am there – right there with her – in Southbury, Connecticut.

From Still Cove Journal: November

“November is a month when the chill blustery days and long cold nights are hard on dieters. Green salads are fine on hot summer days. but the very sound of the wind from the Atlantic against the big window makes me think of a real breakfast of sausage and buttermilk pancakes with first-run golden maple syrup. By suppertime I forget I am a non-dessert eater, and when I go out to eat, I often order Indian Pudding. I have had many very fine puddings, but almost never an authentic Indian Pudding. So I like to share the recipe my mother and grandmother used:

Bring 4 cups of milk to a boil in the top of a double boiler. Gently stir in 1/3 c. yellow cornmeal and cook 15 minutes. Add 1 cup dark molasses and remove from heat. Add 1/4 c. butter, a teaspoon each of salt, cinnamon, and ginger and 1/2 c. seedless raisins. Place the batter in a greased baking dish. Then pour 1 cup cold milk over it. Bake in a slow oven for 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Serve with hard sauce or cream or even vanilla ice cream.

The main thing about the real Indian pudding is the cup of cold milk poured over…..”

I’ve never made Indian pudding, but it sounds divine. I’m making a shopping list now to try it, perhaps for our Thanksgiving lunch at the office a week from Tuesday. There’s something magical about an old recipe that seems to conjure up the spirits of those long dead and welcome them back to the present. If we ever do discover time travel, I’m fully convinced that the portal will be through an old recipe box, long forgotten, hidden in the corner of an attic, and one that comes alive like Frosty the Snowman’s magical hat.