On a footstool, doing dishes to pay for dinner

Well-done roast beef dinner along with assorted pies, pastry and chocolate treats meant my Adman stepfather's clients had paid up and the bank account was fat. When the client list was lean, so was dinner; tuna casserole or diced hot dogs with beans meant the bank account was close to empty. Simple, plain cookies, like Mandelbrodt made from pantry staples, were the cookie jar goodies for hot dog casserole days. 

It had been a long couple of weeks of tuna or hot dog & bean casseroles, and the Adman was cranky. Small enough to need a footstool to reach the sink, but hungry enough to want a second hot dog, I asked for seconds. Five mouths abruptly halted mid-chew and 10 eyeballs turned to me. The Adman frowned, squinting. I squirmed and asked again, just a little bit louder. One of my brothers kicked me under the table, but I ignored him. I just stared back at the stubborn Adman.

Silently and slowly, he slid the platter across the table to me.  I speared a hot dog. As I was about to savor that first bite, he warned that if I ate the hot dog I would have to do the dishes that evening, pots and all. There were six of us in the family. That would be a lot of dishes for a kid who couldn't reach the sink without standing on a chair, a bit of a challenge. I picked up the hot dog and watching him all the while, took a big bite (hello: apple, tree). I chewed slowly, wondering if perhaps I shouldn't have just gotten a cookie later, instead. 

Ten minutes later I was standing on a chair pulled up to the sink watching it fill with sudsy hot water. It was my first time washing dishes solo, and I was extra careful not to break the (unbreakable) melamine dishes. Forty minutes later, still at it, tears of frustration mingled with the really disgusting cold, sudsless water. I finally realized why my middle brother always paid the others to take his turn.  

Right at the moment I thought I might fall asleep (and drown) with my face landing in the sink, my oldest brother tiptoed in to rescue me. I almost gave it away with a squeal of glee but thankfully he stuck his hand over my mouth. My mother, in stocking feet, minus her trademark red shoes, tiptoed in right behind my brother and began to organize my washing mess. We giggled our way through all the messy pots.

The house was no bigger than a postage stamp so even the whispered giggles would have given us away. Undoubtedly the Adman realized that almost everyone was in the kitchen helping the kid, but he pretended not to know a thing.

That next weekend the client checks were rolling in because my mother was busy making chocolate cookies, but there was still plenty of Mandelbrodt in the cookie jar. Not only did Mandelbrodt always last longer, but you could dip them in milk and they would taste awesome.

I still dunk them in milk and, these days, coffee. Mom's Mandelbrodt is another one of those things she made without a recipe. Fortunately she wrote it down for a relative who later sent me the recipe. Mandelbrodt reminds me of those austere days. But it also reminds me of a time when I knew that prosperity was way bigger than any bank account because my mother always made sure that no matter what the month brought, the food she prepared for us was full of love. No one can be wealthier than that.

Mom's Mandelbrodt

Bon appétit and happy dunking.