 |
OVER THE MOON: Adele Golby
and Don Langendorf at their engagement party.
Courtesy Adele Langendorf |
I OPENED STANFORD'S Announcement
of Classes for Winter Quarter, 1949, to the page my
fiancé, Don, had selected: Management in Relation
to Family Living. It promised to discuss furnishings
and their care, household management, the purchasing
of equipment and food.
“Don’t you think that class sounds great?”
Don said. “It’s for seniors and engaged
girls only.”
The teacher, Mrs. Stroud, stood in front of the blackboard
and picked a piece of chalk from the felt-strawberry
pocket of her apron. As the chalk scratched the board,
a figure of a cow appeared. She divided the cow’s
body into squares, which she labeled: rump roast, prime
rib, brains.
Light sparkled on her tortoise-shell glasses, and I
imagined her clutching her purse at the meat department.
She would take the wrapped parts home to her kitchen.
I envisioned white tile counters with a Delft blue backsplash.
African violets blooming vibrantly on the windowsills.
A linoleum floor shiny as an ice rink.
The blackboard drawing reminded me of my nephew’s
coloring book. I drew a moon under the belly, named
roast; then I extended the legs so the cow was jumping
over the moon.
For the following class, Mrs. Stroud wore an apron with
a tomato for a pocket.
“You’re in for a treat today. We will be
making popovers, which rise so spectacularly high that
taking them out of the oven is a thrill.” To demonstrate,
she pulled a popover apart, showing its puffy, hollow
halves.
As instructed, I beat the eggs and flour with the eggbeater.
Harder and harder. Lumps of flour multiplied like a
colony of ants. Frantically, I chased them with the
edge of the beater.
“No, no. That’s all wrong.” Mrs. Stroud
stood over me. “You are supposed to beat the ingredients
gently to create air. It’s the air that makes
them rise.” She told me to stop everything and
pour the batter into the muffin pan. “You are
my only failure at making popovers.”
While our popovers baked, Mrs. Stroud lectured about
planning a week’s menu for under $20. “You
can get three meals out of a $2 pot roast. The first
night, serve it warm; next make cold cuts and, finally,
hash.” My mind clicked off classes I could have
taken in this time slot: Shakespeare, political science,
Virginia Woolf. When the baking time ended, I tossed
my popovers into a basket and covered them with a napkin
to hide their lopsided appearance. Their tops looked
like newborn puppies peeking over the basket’s
edge. I felt sorry for them.
I got a D in the class, which wrecked my grade point
average. I wanted to tell Don and make him sorry he
ever suggested the dumb course, but decided that was
not the way to start our marriage. Obviously, I made
the right decision—we have been married for 55
years. |
