Making Mudpies: Reflections of a Restaurant Kid
I always loved to cook. Before I started creating recipes and styling meals in my Easy-Bake Oven kitchen, I was an avid mudpie chef and aficionado. I even had a bakery in our front yard. The ornate cement benches, pedestals, and birdbaths crafted by my uncle, a talented Italian mason, made a storefront worthy of my creations. Every good cook knows that quality ingredients are critical for a top-notch product. I sourced my mud locally, and designed and displayed my muddy confections right there in the front yard. The first (and only, no doubt) artisanal mudpie bakery was impressive, although a commercial failure.
My mother owned a restaurant and didn’t have much time to be a full-on Joan Cleaver, but she did her best. With my mother working and my two sisters in school, I spent my mudpie years with various “housekeepers.” I remember Mrs. Tynes and Valerie Rugrock, both lovely ladies, but it’s Mrs. Betty Foley I remember best. Was I a brat? Perhaps. My mother called me Laura the Horror, but what would she know? Yes, I suppose I could be challenging . . . You can be the judge of that when you’ve finished this piece; we’re on to Mrs. Foley right now.
After a grueling morning at the mudpie shop, Mrs. Foley had me rinse my muddy hands ) in the downstairs (as in the basement toilet. The collective “Ewwww” is loud and clear. I get it by today’s sanitation mores, but it really didn’t freak me out. I remember her holding the cellar door open and shooing me down the stairs. No warm and fuzzy there. Mrs. Foley was all business; didn’t give a whit about my mudpies. To be fair, I was a muddy mess, but we did have a big laundry sink and an outdoor spigot that would have done the job. One day my mother came home and asked where Betty was. I said I fired her and that she left. Yup, she left a five-year-old alone. Again, the collective gasp is loud and clear. Perhaps the hand-rinsing practice had something to do with it. Perhaps not. I could be a bit of a hothead. My mother found a note confirming my story and requesting my mother drop her check in the mail. She’s probably still waiting.
My best friend, Diane, and I used to pick wild violets, make them into little bouquets, and peddle them door-to-door. Diane’s parents owned a tiny French restaurant nearby. Henri’s. It was a boutique restaurant before boutique restaurants were a thing. The bouquet gig must have awakened a budding entrepreneurial spirit because we decided to branch into food sales. It made perfect sense: we both had access to wholesale, make that free, food. Plus, we both loved food. We loved to cook and eat.
We decided to start with a fruit stand at the corner of Dinsmore Avenue and Rt. 9. The location was near our homes and restaurants. Convenient for us, but not so convenient for the public as they whizzed by us on Rt. 9. Additionally, Natoli’s fruit stand was on a dirt lot next to our restaurant. It was a popular spot, easy to pull off Rt.9 and park. Diane expressed concerns that we might cut into Natoli’s business and cause a rift. Kids today. Actually, kids yesterday . . .
I went to nursery school and kindergarten at Little Folk Farm. I mostly remember the playground where my sister ate pebbles back in her day. I liked the sandbox because I could mold prototypes of my mudpies. One day I got into it with another child who probably didn’t fully grasp the importance of my work. Anyway, I bit him and was suspended. Another headache for my mother. When she scolded me, I said with complete seriousness, “Well, I didn’t draw blood!” Was Laura the Horror an apt moniker? Your call.
