





































 

Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 11 (2025): 59-61                        ©American Folklore Society 2025 
 

Amuse Bouche 
 
Baking Solo for the First Time 
By: Hanna Griff-Sleven 
 
 
At the end of January, after all the Christmas decorations were taken down, Waltham got  
dressed up for Valentine’s Day.  Hearts, roses and lace appeared in florists’ windows and 
dress shops on Moody Street. When the decorations were completed, usually by the first 
week in February, my mother would take me in our brown Dodge Dart to inspect the 
handiwork; she and I shared a Valentine birthday.   Grover Cronin’s, Waltham’s local 
department store, had four display windows whose mannequins were clothed in elegant 
eveningwear, with Valentine motifs as a backdrop, and tiny pink valentines scattered on 
the ground like cherry blossoms.  Ma would turn to me and say, “You see this, this is all for 
us.”  I believed her.  No one else I knew had this perfect day for a birthday.   
 
I loved celebrating my birthday in school, there were valentine exchanges and I brought in  
pink and white valentine cupcakes to share with my classmates at snack time.  But, in 1969, 
when I was in fourth grade there would be no class celebration;  there had been a series of 
blizzards, and we hadn’t gone to school  for the past eight  days.  Snow drifts  were 
everywhere, and cars covered in snow were parked in driveways—the town had all but 
shut down.  
 
Mummy made us all go outside and play in the morning while she got some peace and did 
housework.  Birthdays were not a big deal in my family; we got a got a cake and usually 
there was a family party with cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles over on the 
weekend.   This year, of course there would be just us 7 (my parents, my two older brothers 
and my younger sister and my grandmother—my Bubbie, who lived with us.) After lunch, 
my mother turned to me and said, “I think you’re old enough to make our birthday cake. 
 
I looked at her in amazement. 
 
 “Yes” she said, “as soon as we clean up from lunch, the kitchen is all yours.”  I had just 
gotten my first badge in Girl Scouts for cooking. We learned how to measure dry 
ingredients and wet ones, and to crack an egg on the side of the bowl so that no eggshells 
got in.  Our final project was baking our own chocolate chip cookies from scratch. I also 
helped my mother when she baked, and knew she was impressed with how I organized all 
the ingredients for the recipe and how well I worked the white Sunbeam Mix Master very 
carefully, being careful to stop it when using a spatula  to scrape the batter from the sides. 
 
 For a kitchen so rich in activity,  it was small. There was a table for four with metal chairs 
that had swirly white plastic bottoms, and a counter with two high stools, one turquoise, 
one white for my sister and me.  The appliances were on the wall opposite the table. We 
only ate lunch or breakfast in the kitchen since there was not enough room for us all. 
Usually, it was just us kids for breakfast.  My mother oversaw the cereal and milk 
distribution but did not sit down to eat with us.  My father was usually long gone, as he 



 
Griff-Sleven, Baking Solo                     Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 11 (2025): 59-61  
 

 

60 

would go and check in on his elderly aunts and uncles that lived together in another 
neighborhood close to our family business: Griff Furniture. 
 
I put on one of Ma’s aprons. I chose a cotton one with ruffles around the bib , white and 
pink, covered with hearts.   
 
Ma, at 5’2,” had curly dark hair in a halo around her head, big brown eyes and was curvy. 
She  stood by the kitchen counter and watched me assemble the ingredients and measure.  
She opened the can of Hershey’s syrup since the  electric can opener was unwieldy.  Then 
she left the room.   
 
My brothers were outside playing with their gang of neighborhood friends, I could see 
them outside the kitchen window, making a snow fort.   Lois, my younger sister was with 
her friend Ricky at his house making Creepy Crawlers.  Ma went to the sun parlor to fold 
linen and watch her soap operas. 
 
Bubbie, wearing a pink hairnet that covered her short, thin gray hair, and light woolen 
purple and white polka-dot  housedress, her walker parked beside her, sat in the living 
room on the blue and green cloth armchair,  reading her Yiddish newspaper with a 
magnifying glass. 
 
As I creamed the butter and sugar and watched the batter turn light yellow, I remember 
feeling grown up.  I added the vanilla, measuring it over the mixing bowl, remembering my 
mother telling me that spices and flavorings didn’t have to be exact, a little extra made it 
taste better. 
 
After I added the chocolate and poured the batter into the  greased heart shaped aluminum 
pan,  I called my mother in to light the gas oven.  We put the cake pan in and my mother 
said, “Remember you have to clean up  and get ready for the frosting.” I washed  the 
utensils and measuring cups and got everything ready for the fun part.  The house started 
smelling like chocolate cake.  Bubbie poked her head in the kitchen and nodded, “Smells like 
a birthday,” she sang out.  
 
Impatiently I waited for it to be done, and then cool.  I called my best friend Barbie 
Sutherland to tell her I was making my own cake. She was properly impressed. 
 
Finally, the cake was done and I made the frosting, deciding on a pale lavender background 
thinking that it would highlight all the jimmies and  colored sprinkles and hearts I was 
going to use. 
 
The cake was exactly as I thought it should be, loaded with color and fun and yummy. 
 
When I brought the cake to the table for dessert, everyone chowed down appreciatively. 
 
I hugged Mummy afterwards and thanked her for the best birthday present ever.  
 



 
Griff-Sleven, Baking Solo                     Digest: A Journal of Foodways and Culture 11 (2025): 59-61  
 

 

61 

This story is dedicated to the memory of my mother Bessie Griff who taught me to cook and 
bake and loved the way I wrote. 
 

 
Image 1: Original Recipe, from the author 

 

 
 
Images 2 & 3: Drawings by Stephanie Woytuk, used with permission 


