BY LAURIE MITCHELL
Startled by the sudden wailing sound of a siren, a red flashing light atop a police car flashed into the pickup’s rear view mirror. Obvious was that one of my hometown’s finest wanted to meet me as red lights were blinking wildly atop and from inside the patrol car behind. I eased to pull over as I adjusted the mirror to get a better look from Daddy’s small, cherry-red Toyota truck.
Awaiting the policeman’s arrival at my window, I quickly looked around the small cab, my collection of once clipped together papers having slipped off the passenger seat and now strewn onto the floorboard. Oh dear, maybe I had had a lead foot and then stopped too fast. As I waited, I assumed the pickup’s license plate was then being checked; this was hardly a stolen vehicle. Several minutes later, a young, bald cop finally waddled up to the rolled-down window on my driver’s side.
“I’ll need your license and registration,” his expressionless voice muttered.
I likely smiled and said something silly. He immediately interrupted me asking, “Where did you think you were going in such a big hurry?” And then the obvious question followed, “Do you know how fast you were traveling?”
I reached for my purse on the floor, quickly finding my wallet holding my Oregon driver’s license. Knowing that was but half of his request, I continued digging into the glove box, not really knowing where my dad might have stored the Colorado registration for his much loved, little Toyota.
“Outta state, huh? Oregon? Is that near Arizona or Montana?”
I laughed aloud. Was he kidding me? My response to his question wasn’t met with the return of a smile, but a hint of irritation. As he continued to finger my driver’s license, he muttered, “This is a city street, Lady, not a highway. Being from out-of-town and all, we expect people to drive the speed limit in our city.”
Forty years earlier I’d moved away, and I still didn’t feel I was from “outta town”. I grew up in Pueblo. Hoping to perhaps soften his attitude, I quipped, “I know this street very well. I’ll bet I was driving it before you were even born.” With that, I got a real scowl.
Finally locating the pickup’s registration stuffed behind a roadmap, I began to explain that I’d been “back home” as my father had been hospitalized for several weeks in the nearby hospital. “Sorry for the mess here. I’m putting together a collection of recipes while I’m spending time at the hospital with my dad.”
I was hoping that my sharing of my dad’s illness, my heavy foot on the gas could be met with some leniency. It was obvious that each of my attempts to be pleasant only escalated the manner in which the cop responded to me. He said, “You know, this is going to be a very expensive ticket considering how fast you were driving.” He cared little about my dad’s hospitalization and, understandably, ignored my mention of the strewn papers.
In the back of my mind, I was wondering about the background of this cop and his place in a much younger generation. Growing up as youngsters in Pueblo, whether Slavic, Mexican, or Italian, we all knew who we were. We were lower-middle class kids, many of us children of steelworkers, and some of first generation immigrant parentage. But, kitchens on our neighborhood’s block produced the very best tamales, spaghetti, and in my case, Mom’s wonderful potica, a sweet East European finely rolled, bread-type pastry.
After Mom’s passing, I couldn’t find her revered recipe. When I’d asked my dad about it, he would usually respond, “Knowing your mom, she probably took her potica recipe with her.”
Whenever I was “home”, I continued to comb through drawers, shoeboxes, and pages of old cookbooks looking for Mom’s recipe. Of those friends and relatives still remaining, I’d sometimes ask about their family potica.
Would they be willing to share? A collection began to evolve. It grew and grew. But, as important as the ingredients of the recipes seemed to be, were the stories that came with each.
“Aunt Josephine swiped her cousin Betty Jean’s recipe, and said it was her’s first! They never spoke again.”
Each recipe had a story that had to be included. My simple file soon became a boxful. And then there were the suggestions: This takes all day to make! Roll the dough thin enough you can see the flowers on the oilcloth beneath. Use grandma’s wooden rolling pin. Only share with those people who appreciate and are ‘potica-worthy’.
I had already noticed the last name on the officer’s badge, one obviously Slavic, or in Pueblo, we were referred to as “Bojons”. “Looks like you’re Slavic. I am, too! I’ll bet you must have a good potica recipe somewhere, seeing your last name, and all . . . .”
“Potica? Ohhh! – oh, my goodness!”
His manner immediately softened and he paused. Standing with the small clipboard holding my half-written ticket, he said, “Well, I do have a helluva good recipe, but it’s from my ex-mother-in-law. It’s about the only good thing I got out of my divorce. She could make a great bread, but my life wouldn’t be worth two cents if she ever knew I took a copy of her recipe – much less shared it.”
I pulled a bank deposit slip having my address from my purse and suggested that if he wished to send the recipe to me, that I’d send him a free cookbook. And should I label his, “The Cop’s Ex-Mother-in-Law’s Recipe”? We laughed together. Reconsidering, he then rewrote the ticket and smiled as he handed me but a “warning”.
I dismissed ever hearing from the Pueblo cop who generously let me off from my infraction. But a few months later, much to my surprise when I was compiling my collection for publication, came an envelope postmarked “Pueblo, Colorado” with a pencil-copied potica recipe on a 4” x 6” card. “DO NOT PRINT MY NAME if you make your cookbook.”
Studying the recipe, I could hardly wait to pull out my baking supplies. The ingredients looked so similar to the one I remembered of Mom’s. His contribution became Recipe #23 in the collection along with seventy-one other variations including state fair winners and favorites made for weddings and special occasions. Over a thousand copies of the collection have been added to the kitchens of those who love potica. But, the one recipe that is most like my mother’s, and the one I choose to make most often and for which I’m most grateful, originated after driving too fast on Lake Avenue in Pueblo, Colorado.
Recipes are stories and some are sweeter than others.
