Grandma’s Kuchen

 

 

            My grand experiment arose from a search for the perfect apple. On a crisp autumn day before Covid struck, quite by chance during a pumpkin farm visit, I bit into a Cortland apple.

            Mmmmm. Tart, sweet, juicy, and crunchy. Perfect.

            In the five years since then, I have searched for Cortlands in grocery stores. No luck. I resigned myself to Galas and Granny Smiths.

            Then a few weeks ago, my husband and I were driving through the orange-leafed Wisconsin countryside and I told him about my fruitless search.

            “I think there’s an apple orchard near here,” Mike said. He was right. Not only that, but a big sign at the entrance hollered “CORTLANDS.”

            Inside the orchard shop, we found bags of Cortlands on the top shelf. I felt elated yet leery. I had searched for a half-decade for them. What if I was remembering wrong? I had lost faith.

We took a half-peck of Cortlands to the lady at the counter and I said, “I’d like to buy this bag, have a taste, and if it’s the apple I’m looking for, I’ll buy all you have.”

She nodded. I opened the drawstring at the top of the sack and drew out an apple. It was plump, round, shiny and red, naked of the hated PLU code sticker. I took a bite.

Aaaaah. How do you describe a taste? It was a flavor explosion. My shoulders relaxed, my eyes closed, and somehow, I was back in my childhood.

I think Mike may have been doubting my enthusiasm. I handed an apple to him.

He bit into it. His face changed. “Oh man,” he said, and jumped right into telling a story about climbing his backyard apple tree and eating until he couldn’t eat any more.

Cortlands are the taste of our childhoods. I wondered why.

“Is this an heirloom apple or something?” I asked the lady. From her reply, I deduced that she was the orchard owner. I wish I could remember her explanation. Basically, she said they don’t do to apples what stores do to apples.

We bought all the Cortlands they had, two pecks.

Which led to my grand experiment.

I am not a baker, but quickly decided I had to bake my grandma’s apple kuchen (cake). I still had a recipe card handwritten by Grandma sometime before she died in 1985. I had never used it. But I could say “kuchen” like Grandma and my mom had said it, with a lot of spit on the ch. The same sound is in “Ach,” known by every kid raised by a Germanic mom. If pronunciation were any forecaster of ability, I would meet the baking challenge.

Still, I felt nervous. I wanted to share the dessert with friends who were hosting us for dinner the next evening. It had to be delicious, exactly the way I remember Grandma’s: sweet, tart, and a bit custard-y.

When I looked at the recipe card, I realized that Grandma wrote recipes the way my mom had: leaving out essential information. Like, for instance, how many apples did the recipe call for? Grandma must have assumed that I knew stuff.

Another problem: Grandma’s recipe called for “shortening.” I did know what that meant: lard. Un-findable at the grocery store. What I found was something called “Crisco butter flavor all-vegetable shortening,” with a note on the label: “Naturally and artificially flavored.” Hmmm.

Last, Grandma’s recipe said “Cut in shortening. . . .” What the heck does “cut in” mean? (I found the answer on the Internet.)

I assembled the ingredients, but still felt shaky, so I consulted the smart people online. I found a lot of kuchen recipes that called for yeast, but Grandma’s recipe had no yeast . . . thank goodness. Yeast scares me. Finally, I found a video of a guy assembling something like Grandma’s recipe. He recommended not peeling the apples. Ah. Now we were talking my language. (Grandma always peeled apples, but I like peels. Plus, I’m lazy.) Most important, the video showed how the batter should look when you pour it into the baking pan before you add the apples.

Finally, I felt ready. How to prepare for the action?

1.     Set out the recipe card.

2.     Set up my favorite picture of Grandma. Ask her to help me out.

3.     Don an apron. Grandma was one of the last great apron ladies.

I followed Grandma’s recipe exactly, but my batter was thick as mortar and almost un-pourable, so I added more milk. I felt daring.

I assembled two kuchens: a large one for my friends’ dinner and a tiny one for Mike and me to sample. The whole effort was worthwhile because of the sublime aroma that filled my kitchen while everything baked.

Once the tiny kuchen cooled, I tried it and was sorely disappointed. It was dry, not custard-y like how I remembered Grandma’s. But I added a dollop of vanilla ice cream and it went down easily.

The next morning, I had a date with my brother and sister. I told them about my kuchen struggles and they had an easy explanation. They agreed that Grandma changed her recipes from year to year. “There were dry years and wet years,” my brother explained.

Hmm. I felt better. And I knew ice cream would help the rescue.

At our friends’ house that evening, we ate the kuchen cold – with ice cream. We all agreed it was fine. But the next morning I heated some up for breakfast. Much better warm.

Ach, we grow too soon oldt und too late schmardt.

Gail Grenier is the author of Dog Woman, Don't Worry Baby, Calling All Horses, Dessert First, and Young Voices from Wild Milwaukee, all available on Amazon.com.