I opened Stanford's Announcement of Classes for Winter Quarter, 1949, to the page my fiancé, Don, had selected: Management in Relation to Family Living. It promised to discuss furnishings and their care, household management, the purchasing of equipment and food.
“Don’t you think that class sounds great?” Don said. “It’s for seniors and engaged girls only.”
The teacher, Mrs. Stroud, stood in front of the blackboard and picked a piece of chalk from the felt-strawberry pocket of her apron. As the chalk scratched the board, a figure of a cow appeared. She divided the cow’s body into squares, which she labeled: rump roast, prime rib, brains.
Light sparkled on her tortoise-shell glasses, and I imagined her clutching her purse at the meat department. She would take the wrapped parts home to her kitchen. I envisioned white tile counters with a Delft blue backsplash. African violets blooming vibrantly on the windowsills. A linoleum floor shiny as an ice rink.
The blackboard drawing reminded me of my nephew’s coloring book. I drew a moon under the belly, named roast; then I extended the legs so the cow was jumping over the moon.
For the following class, Mrs. Stroud wore an apron with a tomato for a pocket.“You’re in for a treat today. We will be making popovers, which rise so spectacularly high that taking them out of the oven is a thrill.” To demonstrate, she pulled a popover apart, showing its puffy, hollow halves.
As instructed, I beat the eggs and flour with the eggbeater. Harder and harder. Lumps of flour multiplied like a colony of ants. Frantically, I chased them with the edge of the beater.
“No, no. That’s all wrong.” Mrs. Stroud stood over me. “You are supposed to beat the ingredients gently to create air. It’s the air that makes them rise.” She told me to stop everything and pour the batter into the muffin pan. “You are my only failure at making popovers.”
While our popovers baked, Mrs. Stroud lectured about planning a week’s menu for under $20. “You can get three meals out of a $2 pot roast. The first night, serve it warm; next make cold cuts and, finally, hash.” My mind clicked off classes I could have taken in this time slot: Shakespeare, political science, Virginia Woolf. When the baking time ended, I tossed my popovers into a basket and covered them with a napkin to hide their lopsided appearance. Their tops looked like newborn puppies peeking over the basket’s edge. I felt sorry for them.
I got a D in the class, which wrecked my grade point average. I wanted to tell Don and make him sorry he ever suggested the dumb course, but decided that was not the way to start our marriage. Obviously, I made the right decision—we have been married for 55 years.
