Secret Ingredient

Growing up in a single mom household during the whisper of time between Generation X and the dawn of Millennials was wild. During the school year I’d be sent to the after-school program and someone would drop me off at home around 5pm. It would still be a while before my mom got home from work. I was a latchkey kid at 9 years old. It wasn’t unusual to be left home alone in those days. There was a certain expectation that kids would be fine without supervision for a little while. The rules were simple: Don’t answer the door and don’t burn the house down.

Cooking wasn’t my mom’s forte. She made an effort most nights to put something healthy on the table. Other nights, when I knew she’d be tired, I’d make something simple for myself like a bowl of cereal or Mac n Cheese. This was long before DoorDash and prepaid debit cards. Delivery options were pizza and maybe some very shady Chinese takeout. Being 9, I didn’t really have the cash flow for delivery. Occasionally we’d walk to a restaurant called Brigitte’s just down the road, but that was usually reserved for weekends or special occasions.

One particular night it was getting quite late and my mom still wasn’t home. I decided that I would surprise her by making her dinner so she wouldn’t have to deal with cooking. My culinary skills were pretty limited. But I really wanted to make her something she’d enjoy eating.

It needs to be said that my mom was health conscious to the extreme. Macaroni and cheese, pizza rolls, hot pockets or cereal weren’t going to cut it for her. She ran on vegetables and protein and she didn’t like any of the tasty extras. I knew this from listening to her order whenever we went out to eat and the lack of anything fun in our fridge. Everything had to be poached, grilled, with no butter, oil, salt, and dressing always on the side. She was doing no carbs and gluten free before it was cool.

What my nine-year-old mind saw as something she would eat was likely not in line with what she might actually enjoy. However, I was willing to do the best I could with what we had on hand. I knew we had vegetables. I knew how to boil water. We had an extensive spice rack. Vegetable stew was now on the menu. Time to get started.

I climbed on a rickety stool to get the biggest pot we had out of the tall cupboard. I filled it as full as I could while still being able to haul it over to the stove. I checked the veggie drawer. We had most of the basics. Golden potatoes, red potatoes, carrots, celery, leeks, and a sweet potato. We had an onion, but I wasn’t interested in attempting to chop that thing. The rest were pretty easy to cut into smallish cubes. I didn’t know how to peel anything, so the veggies went in the pot with their skins on.

The next step was the part I hated: lighting the stove. It took a couple of tries. I got a stick of dry pasta, lit the end on fire, and stuck it under the pot with the gas turned on. There was a quick burst of blue flame as it roared to life, but I adjusted the flames to a more manageable level. Now it needed flavor.

I went over to scour the spice rack. I felt that a bay leaf was necessary. That went in first. I knew she liked dill, so I dumped a healthy child-sized handful of that into the pot. Garlic powder, onion powder, coarse-ground pepper from the McCormick aluminum box….extra pepper. Cayenne, just a dash. Oregano…a pinch. Italian seasoning must be good. A few healthy shakes of that… and then I waited for it to bubble.

I stirred my stew diligently. I was still atop the wobbly stool I’d been lugging around the kitchen to reach the chopping knives and other kitchen utensils. I stared into the pot. Clusters of spices floated to the top and swirled together among the starchy, foam-like skin that was beginning to form as it boiled. It smelled like pungent root vegetables and the spice aisle at the grocery store. Something was missing. I hopped off the stool to check the pantry to see if I missed anything else I should add.

We kept the baking ingredients and a few other spices in the pantry. As soon as I saw it, I knew I had found the secret ingredient. It would turn whatever was bubbling away in that pot into a five star dining experience: Cinnamon. In my mind, cinnamon made everything taste better, and this stew was no exception.

I checked the clock. It was 7:30. She should have been home by now. I climbed off the stool once more to get a nice bowl and a wine glass. I set the table. I wanted her to feel like she was dining at a fancy French bistro. I decided that also meant dressing the part.

We lacked a proper chef’s hat, so I found the next best thing. My mom’s floppy yellow shower cap. I thought all the fancy waiters draped a white napkin over one arm. We didn’t have one, so I found the next best thing. A dish towel. The last thing I needed was an apron. We didn’t have one. A pillowcase would work. I tucked it into my pants. I was ready.

Meanwhile, the stew was boiling and bubbling. The kitchen actually started to smell like something was cooking! Sure, it smelled a little …. Interesting, but it could have been worse. I was excited to show her that I could make dinner.

I heard her car in the driveway, followed by the garage door opening. Just then, I realized I’d forgotten to add the cinnamon! The car was idling in the garage. I grabbed the cinnamon and dumped some into my hand. I ascended the stool by the stove and blew the cinnamon into the pot like it was magical pixie dust. The shower cap moonlighting as a chef’s hat was in place. The dish towel was neatly draped across my arm. The pot of boiling vegetables looked like stew. It was time to welcome her to my cafe! Her keys jingled in the lock, and the door opened.

“Bonjour, Madame! May I offer you some stew? A glass of wine? Welcome to my Cafe! Let me show you to your table.” The floppy shower cap was beginning to sink over my eyes, and the pillowcase was barely hanging on. “I am Betty Crocker. Mademoiselle, you look like you’ve had a long day. Let me take your briefcase and coat.” I led her to our kitchen table. I had her place set and a wine glass waiting. With the dish towel so neatly placed over my arm, I asked, “May I offer you the wine list?”

She was definitely surprised. “What is all of this? What have you been doing? What is that smell? What….sniff, sniff…WHAT are you making?!” At first I thought she was upset. Maybe she was, but she quickly tried to change her tone once she realized nothing was on fire, and I wasn’t hurt. It looked like a bomb had gone off in her kitchen, but everything was generally fine.

“Madame? I am Betty Crocker. This is my cafe and I’ve prepared your dinner. Would you like to try it?” She shot out of her seat and went to the stove. She surveyed the kitchen. Every surface was covered in spice dust, vegetable remnants, and puddles of spilled water. Her face was impossible to read. Was I in trouble?

She opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay. She filled the glass I had chosen for her. She took a very long sip, drew a deep breath, and looked at me through very tired eyes. “Well, Miss Crocker, What did you say was on the menu this evening?”

“Delicious vegetable stew! I made it just for you.”

“How about I make myself a bowl, and you can take a seat at the table and tell me how you came up with this idea.”

She turned to the pot that was boiling over and turned the burner off. To my utter delight, she ladled a decent helping into a bowl and brought it back to the table. I was perched on my feet, not quite sitting on the dining room chair. I peered at her from beneath the lacy brim of my floppy yellow chef’s hat. I waited for her to take a bite.

Steam billowed from the bowl. The vegetables were so hot they were just below their melting point. “How did you come up with this recipe, Miss Crocker?” The steam from her bowl was enough to make her mascara run. She took another long sip of wine.

“How did you get this giant pot down by yourself?”

“I know how much you hate cooking, so I wanted to make you dinner. I know you like vegetables, so I decided to make vegetable stew. Will you please try it?”

Whatever frustration she seemed to have been holding back had softened. “Oh sweetheart, I mean, Miss Crocker. How thoughtful of you! Although, I’d prefer it if you didn’t use the stove when I’m not home. The stew needs to cool off a little. How did you reach the kitchen knives?”

She looked at the old stool pushed up to the edge of the counter. “Please don’t climb on the counters or use these knives when nobody is home” She shook her head as she took in the mess I had made for the second time.

The molten soup had cooled a bit and she reluctantly stirred the contents in her bowl. She loaded a chunk of soggy potato onto her spoon. It was covered in specks of God only knows what. It smelled like musky root vegetables and an herbal apothecary…almost medicinal. She took a bite.

“Huh! Not too bad. What…. What all is in here? It’s…interesting. Lots of flavors.”

The potatoes were actually cooked through. Next, she tried a carrot. This was a good sign.

“There’s something in here I can’t quite put my finger on.”

She washed the next few bites down with an enthusiastic gulp of wine. She continued to pick at it until it was mostly gone. Even if she didn’t like it, she tolerated it well enough to make me feel that she didn’t hate it.

“Tell me Miss Crocker, what is your secret?”

“Do you really want to know? I thought of it at the very last minute!”

I felt very proud. Before she could respond, I blurted it out. “The secret ingredient is CINNAMON!”

Her eyes widened. “Oh wow! THAT… is definitely creative….and I can absolutely taste it now that you’ve divulged the secret ingredient! It’s delicious. Will you also be dining on this fabulous stew this evening?”

I was so focused on making the stew that I had forgotten about my own dinner. I was less enthusiastic about vegetables than she was. I absolutely despised cooked carrots. I reluctantly agreed to have some. I needed something to cover up the carrot taste.

“May I have a soda with my dinner? Since it IS a special occasion?”

My mom smiled, “How about some Martinelli’s sparkling apple cider? In a fancy glass?”

“DEAL!”

She got up and prepared me a bowl of my vegetable creation. She poured me some sparkling apple cider into an especially fancy glass as promised. The acrid aroma of the cacophony of spices hit my nostrils. Then, almost as a planned afterthought, the sweet smell of cinnamon was an oddly pleasant undertone. I actually liked all the potatoes. They had cooked well enough that they weren’t crunchy, and not overcooked into mush.

Honestly, coming from the whimsical mind of a nine-year-old, it wasn’t half bad. The generous heap of pepper kind of drowned out a lot of the other spices, but the cinnamon definitely came through. I was a little impressed with myself.

“Mom, you can tell me the truth. Did you really like it?”

She looked into my eyes. Her expression softened. “What mom wouldn’t love coming home to a gourmet meal cooked by her own personal chef? Miss Betty Crocker!”

She picked me up off the chair to give me a hug. “Next time let’s not climb on all the counters like a chimpanzee, light the stove, or get the big knives out. Deal?”

I hugged her back, “DEAL!”

She walked to the kitchen to begin the daunting task of cleaning up the mess I made. I sat on the other side of the counter and sipped my sparkling apple cider. Maybe we chatted about our day. Maybe I just watched her tidy up. That part of the memory isn’t very crisp in my mind, but I do remember one thing. Most might assume that she threw away the rest of my concoction, but she didn’t. She put it in a Tupperware and set it in the fridge. Not only that. She actually ate the leftovers.

As the years passed, cinnamon became an inside joke between us. The cinnamon stew didn’t ever make it into the permanent dinner rotation, but it lives on in our memories. You won’t be finding Cinnamon Stew on any restaurant menu, and I think that’s for the best. Thirty years later, when something is missing from whatever someone is cooking, one of us says,

“Have you tried adding cinnamon?”