A Dish to Pass
Published in the Taj Mahal Review,
Volume 4, Number 2, December 2005

Every cook of her day had a signature recipe, a reliable work of art she knew would be very tasty. Wherever my Grandma Stella went that required carrying a dish to pass, her famous carrot casserole accompanied her. Other women in their tulle and feather hats, short cotton gloves and color coordinated purses would ask her for the recipe. “The girls at the Eagles Auxiliary just love it,” she would tell us with pride. It was traditional in the Midwest in the middle of the twentieth century to share cherished recipes. It was also tradition to express your love of whatever anyone else brought to share.

Grandma would arrive at every church social, christening, birthday or national holiday we were celebrating with her carrot casserole safely nestled in a dish, swaddled in plastic wrap to keep the lid tight and wrapped tightly in several kitchen towels. Then she carefully nestled it in the bottom of a double brown paper grocery bag. You would have thought it was the only remaining artifact from a lost civilization.

On my brother Buddy’s tenth birthday all of the relatives came to our house for a family celebration. Uncle Paul, Aunt Kathy and our cousins Danny and Tommy, both sets of grandparents and even a great aunt we didn’t see very often arrived bearing gifts and dishes to pass. His birthday is in the middle of August, and we were having a cookout.

Grandma Stella and Grandpa drove up in Grandpa’s prized yellow bomber, a 1960 Chevy Impala. Grandma was carrying the usual brown paper bag and Grandpa was carrying a birthday gift for Buddy. These were his baseball years and a new glove and aluminum bat were all he had asked for. His face lit up when he spotted the long narrow package and another smaller package awkwardly wrapped in paper covered in clowns proclaiming their good wishes.

“Guess what I brought?” Grandma asked whoever was in earshot. “I don’t know Mother. I couldn’t possibly guess,” my father replied. He was standing behind my grandmother rolling his eyes at my mother because, of course, all of us knew exactly what was in the bag. Grandma lifted out the bundle of kitchen towels and ceremoniously began the presentation of the casserole. We all gathered around in anticipation as she peeled away the towels and then the Saran Wrap and finally opened the lid on the casserole. “Oh Mother, you shouldn’t have,” my father exclaimed eyeing the carrot casserole. “Grandma, I am so glad you brought your carrot thing,” my brother said, giving her a big hug and kiss. “I thought that’s what you’d like Grandma to bring for your birthday dinner,” she replied.

Truth be told, our family, every single one of us, hated, despised and detested the famous carrot casserole. It was a family joke. Whenever an event was near, we would start to talk about the carrot casserole. My brother and I would make faces at each other seeing who could show the most disgust. Sometimes my father would join in and make faces with us. But then he would gently remind us not to ever hurt Grandma’s feelings by letting her know how we felt. She took great pride in her casserole and it would have been a sin beyond sins to hurt her feelings by letting our true opinions out.

Actually, we brought it on ourselves, this onslaught of carrot casseroles. Because we all raved about it one time, in an attempt to not hurt her feelings, forevermore she decided to make what she was convinced was our favorite Grandma Stella dish. None of us ever had the heart to tell her the truth.

In the 1960’s we wouldn’t have thought of telling our grandmother that we really didn’t like her carrots. It simply wasn’t an option. If she spent time making it and brought it to share with her family, then we would like it, by God.

I think of the carrot casserole every time I use the dish that used to be my grandmother’s casserole dish. I silently thank my parents every time for teaching my brothers and me to have the good grace and manners to not express the way we really felt about the carrot casserole. The lessons we learned at the dinner table are with us today, as we compliment a co-worker on a job well done, even if we silently think we might have done a little better. The lesson of the carrots surfaces when we visit a friend whose newly-redecorated home makes her very happy, but is far from our taste.

The lessons from a quieter time, a slower time are still with each of us. I see it in my children when my daughter tells her grandmother how much she loves her tuna noodle casserole with the crushed potato chips on top and then turns to me and rolls her eyes.