![]() ![]() The sewing part of the club ( popped-off buttons / embroidered dishtowels) was just an excuse for them to gather. This was the 1970s, and although I have no recollection of feminism hitting our small town, my mother and her friends did demonstrate a certain female solidarity ( accidentally?). The women all had names like Pixie ( pockmarked / redhead), Diane, Faye (rich from real estate) and Marcia ( knobby tall). The location rotated month to month, and likely my mother dreaded when it was her turn since we lived in the trailer court ( butt end of trailer faced graveyard) and I knew this brought great shame to her. I remembered my mother ( golden haired / fatigued) making the dessert on the nights she hosted Sewing Club, an informal group of women who got together once a month and worked on various sewing projects while they “visited,” drank coffee ( never alcohol) and ate dessert. It doesn’t seem like it would have that light, whipped texture like Mom’s did.” (“ Bars” are what Minnesotans call anything sweet and gooey baked in a cake pan and cut in squares.) ![]() “Is this it?” Amy would say, then read off a list of ingredients. Over the years, my sister, Amy, and I have often called each other up in search of the recipe. One day this past summer, I got a craving for my mother’s famous lemon dessert ( she died / let me say that right here ). ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |