Founder, Men in Aprons
“Okay, here’s what we have: Mr. Jeffreys is putting in the shepherd’s pie, Frank Arrington is doing the pickled tongue, Ronnie Stevens has his fried chicken, R.L. Yelverton has the fish muddle, Koji Takahashi is doing tai chazuke—did I say that right?—and Charlie Knox is putting in his squirrel Brunswick stew. Did I miss anything?” Wally Miller looks up from his notes and glances around the room.
R.L. raises his hand. “You forgot Winslow’s dessert. He went down to visit his daughter in St. Louis but I’m sure he’d want to include it.”
“Right!” Wally jots this down. “What was in it again?”
“Heavy cream with apple brandy—”
“—white raisins—”
“Don’t forget the crystallized pineapple—”
“—and chopped nuts,” Wally concludes. “Yes, I think that’s it.”
Jordan Adams raises his hand, looking abashed. He’s a large man with a ruddy complexion, but the members of the group notice that the tips of his ears are tinged pink. He clears his throat. “I changed my mind. I’d like to include my jellied ham loaf, if that’s all right.”
The group claps him on the back, their mood appreciative but somber. Jordan Adams is one of the newest members of the group, his wife having passed last year.
“That’s great, Jordan. We’d love to have it.” Wally gives him a kind smile. Jordan wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Is oyster stuffing considered seafood?” someone asks.
“I don’t see why not,” Wally says. “Would you like to add that, Gerald?”
“Yes.”
“Oyster stuffing,” Wally writes. “Is that the one with the Worcestershire sauce? I think you made it last Fourth of July.”
Gerald nods. “The fried bacon really gives it a pop.”
“That it does. So, if I look back at what we have and what we’ve just added, it looks like we have one hundred twenty-seven recipes, two over our goal. We have ourselves a cookbook, gentlemen!”
There’s a hearty round of applause as the men congratulate themselves. A couple bring out handkerchiefs and pretend to sneeze.
Wally closes the fat binder, stuffed with recipes they’ve shared over the years. He’s feeling a bit emotional himself, not quite believing that they’ve done it. They’ve gone and written themselves a cookbook, and a book printer in Rockford is going to publish it and help them distribute it.
Bettie Shelton had suggested the cookbook five years ago, but the men weren’t sure if they wanted any kind of publicity. When she pointed out that it would be more than a special memento, but something that could help other people in the same situation, they started thinking about it.
The group had come together as a fluke, a few men staying after the weekly grief support group to exchange recipes or talk about what a struggle it was to cook for one. They’d all lost a spouse or someone close to them who took care of the things they had taken for granted before, like cooking. Everyone burned pans that first year, set off fire alarms, ended up staring into a pot full of canned soup and feeling so lonely they felt invisible.
So Wally suggested that they swap recipes and help each other out. Nothing too intimidating to start, but an identical recipe and shopping list they could all share each week, so they could compare notes the following week. It took a while, but they got better, more adventurous. Wally can always tell someone is on the road to recovery when they start pulling out their late spouse’s cookbook or their grandmother’s yellowed recipe cards. Almost every one of those meals will bring tears.
For Boyd Robby, it was his wife’s sausage cakes, fried in lard. For Otto Warren, it was pressed veal. David Combs kept them stocked with shrimp gumbo for weeks—he wouldn’t give up until he got it right.
For Wally, it was the Spanish pork chops that Virginia used to make. Lay the chops in a baking dish with a slice of onion, a slice of pepper, a heaping tablespoon of uncooked rice, topped with canned tomatoes and season generously. Into a four-hundred-degree oven for forty-five minutes and you have a meal to remember. He can picture Virginia smiling at him from across the table whenever he eats it. He wishes he could turn back time and make those chops for her. He knows she’d be proud at how far he’s come.
So that’s really what their cookbook is all about. Not just food, but memories. Each person is writing a small story about the recipe, about something funny that happened, about the first time they made it, about what it means. It’s about sorrow and joy, about the mishaps in the kitchen as well as the successes. But most of all it’s about the women who left a few hapless men behind, men who’ve learned to pick up a spatula, tie on an apron, and cook for themselves.