A simple, staple bread is something most cultures own. Tortillas, Chapatis, Naan, Frybread, Wonderbread... Our family created its own traditional waybread years ago when I was a little kid and we were camping.
My dad liked to get away from it all. We had a pickup with an overhead camper that had a tiny kitchen and just enough places for all 6 of us to sleep crowded. We drove a lot, because he didn't like to stay in one place longer than one night. Before we left, my mother would stock up the little cupboards with all the ingredients for whipping up homecooked meals wherever we might end up.
One trip turned out to be particularly long. We were in the pines somewhere. I'm sure none of us kids knew just where because we spent all the driving time reading from the sack of books we always brought. We hadn't seen a grocery store for a while. Supplies were low. Just how low, we didn't know. That wasn't our responsibility. Our job was to gather wood for a campfire, not fight with each other, go to bed when told, and eat what was served.
My mother was a great cook. Not a recipe sort of cook, she could pull stuff out and use a pinch of this and a scoop of that, and there was dinner. But that night, there weren't many things to pull out. While we were tucked back into the booth reading and waiting for dinner, she was heating up a cast iron skillet. Soon the delicious aroma of cooking was in the air. Mom turned to us with a paper plate filled with little fried breads. They were white and fluffy inside and crusty dark brown on top and bottom. They were delicious! Our happy babble as we scarfed them down must have warmed her. We all ate until we were full. We thought that this was some amazing recipe that she had been holding back on us.
"What are they? What are they called?" We asked.
"Desperados," she said with a smile.
1939 - Thimble Summer
2 months ago