what exactly

For dinner in our house we had the usual diners, me, my three sisters, my Father, my Grandma Braff my Aunt Meercy at least one friend and a neighborhood child. On a non holiday night my mother would prepare at least two main dishes, two kinds of salad, mashed potatoes  and on winter nights home made soup. As delicious as all that might be, the treat of each and every evening was her home baked dessert; cakes, cookies, cupcakes, pies of all flavors with or without creamy, dreamy icing filled with fruits, or jams.  If you wanted it freshly baked, all you had to do was tell Rena Buncher your favorite and wham, Jewish Mom bam it was hot and ready to eat. Our house always smelled like a bakery and often times instead of shopping at the local bakery the neighbors would find reason to stop by and always take home a little of this a slice of that and if lucky just one more dozen of this or that. My mother was a talented woman but loved to receive the ‘kvell’ (joy) of others for her culinary creativeness and her delicious desserts. Usually a humble woman she took great pride in her home made baked goods and never quite stopped anyone from bragging about her talents in the kitchen.

Growing up in our house on Denniston most of our family took for granted that the desserts would be baked and served. My mother could be counted on to insist she bake any request and always added her five or six speciality items just for good measure. But as each of my sisters and I got married entering into the realm of our own kitchens and ovens we realized that distance or for the matter of convenience preparing the desserts ourselves might make more sense. Of course my mother insisted that it was no bother she could bake for us.  However, we all knew she was getting older, the turn around time a little more difficult and we wanted to be the recipients of our  own spouses and children’s delights and glory. My sisters and I assumed that the dessert baking DNA flowed as freely in our chromosomes as any other inherited trait, so dessert time should be kind of easy. 

One by one each of my siblings and I would call our mother, explain how much we liked this cake, those cookies that pie and ask her to give us the recipes. My mother would hem and haw, tell us she never quite wrote the ingredients down anywhere and try to end the conversation with it would be a lot better if I baked them for you. One by one my sisters and I would reply, Ma, you know the recipes, come on we are your family, share. After much consternation, consideration, hesitation and utter resistance my mother would supply the information. What none of my sisters and I knew was that each of us received a recipe for the same baked goods, but each of us had a least one missing product. Whenever we would attempt to bake that cake, pie or cookie, it never ever tasted like the goodies my mother made.  Of course we just thought perhaps the baking gene never found its way into our bodies. It was not until my mothers passing, and the collecting of her personal times did we figure out that the flat tasting pastries had little to do with the DNA, but more to do with an effort to hide some of the information. My mother had written her recipes, hidden them in a a very tattered and torn notebook under the signage of share when I am gone!

My mother knew very well what she was up to and as much love as she had for all of us, my mother still delighted in being the queen of the kitchen replete with her secrets. Recently, thank goodness, many American citizens have begun to concern themselves with the recipes and products used for all kinds of food, and have wondered and worried where did they come from? Is that corn or barley modified with chemicals…how exactly was that corn syrup  grown which is used for soft drinks…while I am eating that fatty hamburger, what was the cattle nushing on to make it so fat? Many Americans have begun asking of the corporations who produce the vast majority of our food sources whats in your recipe? Like my sisters and I all we wanted to know is how did you make this? The issue of Genetically Modified Organisms has become political. Something seemingly as simple as listing how and why and where and what we are eating be listed, a recipe of sorts is being received as if we were sitting with a Oujia board calling the Devil to appear.  Simply trying to be educated on the list of products in what we are eating, so as consumers we can make a decision as to whether we should eat those products or not, is called UnAmerican. Suddenly asking to reveal the secret is unconscionable. It took my mothers passing for my sisters and I to get to the truth. I just hope it does not take the passing of innocent Americans who just want to know what they are eating to get to the truth about GMO’s.