My Mama's "Recipe" - Good For What Ails You
by Belle
Things have been quiet this week on Blogabillies because I've been as sick as the proverbial dog and unable to string two sentences together in a coherent fashion. When I am too sick to blog or even e-mail, it's nigh on time to call the undertaker. T-Bone has had a sick spell of his own but managed to write through it—but seeing as how he is technologically challenged and depends on me for the heavy blog lifting .... well, nothing has gotten posted.
All of that is about to change because (1) I just went to the doctor and got my backside shot full of steroids and walked out with a couple of prescriptions that should pull me out of Zombie-land and back to productivity; and (2) my mother is bringing me another batch of her "recipe." I've already polished off the batch she made for me two days ago.
Way back when I was a kid—and we're talking mid-twentieth-century because I am officially an Old Fart, residing in that Twilight Zone of being eligible for AARP membership but still a few years away from Medicare eligibility, and they'll probably raise the age requirement by the time I get there, anyway . . . whoa, where was I? Oh, talking about being a kid.
(Sorry, ya'll, it's the drugs - and hey! It's my birthday! Really. It sucks being sick on your birthday.)
Anyway comma, when my sister and I were young, the doctor told Mom that we didn't need some codeine-laced cough syrup. Best thing, he said, was to mix a little whiskey with honey and lemon juice. My mama took the doctor's advice, and thus was born the necessity of, and ingredients for, her special "recipe."
You have to understand that my parents were teetotalers, so we didn't have whiskey around the house; that required a special trip to the liquor store. And evidently my mother thought whiskey sounded entirely too heathenistic because she settled on peach brandy as the primary ingredient for her homemade remedy. Much more ladylike, you know.
My mom also has a preferred packaging for her recipe: vanilla extract bottles (see photo). Please note that it is always Adams Best—in my mother's book there simply is no other brand. Her two favorite grocery stores have not been carrying the Adams brand recently, and she is not happy about it. Not. Happy. At. All.
My mother is such an advocate of the use of vanilla extract in baking that it has led to a family motto about cooking: if it's sweet, add vanilla; if not, add onion. One way or the other, you'll get the right flavor in your foods.
When it comes to my mama's recipe, the great advantage of the vanilla extract bottles is that they fit handily inside a lady's purse or can be tucked in the inner pocket of a man's suit jacket, facilitating a quick nip to soothe a cough or sore throat. Our former pastor, who always lost his voice during hay fever season, relied on my mother's recipe—discreetly delivered to church in her trademark vanilla bottles—to keep him preaching the Good News of the gospel year-round.
The one lighthearted moment at my father's funeral came when I noticed Pastor Bill slipping behind the funeral tent for a swig of recipe to bring a bit of strength back to his raspy, ragweed-plagued voice. My dad would have gotten a big kick out of that.
Next time you're deciding which of the eleventy-four kinds of Robitussin to buy for that nagging cough, think about making up a batch of recipe instead. One thing about it: even if it doesn't completely cure your cough, you won't seem to mind being sick quite so much.
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