Heritage is the hidden ingredient in any truly good family recipe
Hang on to your britches. This inaugural blog post is long. Most others won’t be, but this one is special. Its almost Thanksgiving and I’m feeling all the feels about leaning in. At the end you’ll see access to my secretly gluten free perfectly flaky and delicious pie crust recipe. You’re free to scroll right down and grab it. But I think it’ll taste better knowing a little bit more about my crazy heritage. Enjoy!
At the entrance to my garden rests a very special stepping stone—one that proves a constant reminder to me of the resiliency of life, and the steadfastness of family. On a fateful trip to show my new husband of 3 months my grandparent’s vast Montana cattle ranch, my grandfather hobbled through the frozen mud of early winter to give us a tour of my great great grandma Anna Lauraman’s dilapidated homestead, set against barren hills butting up to the Bitterroot Indian Reservation. I spotted this flat stone next to the front door opening, half buried in cow dung and forgotten hay. I asked my grandpa if I could take it, and he waved me off with indifference, as he was not a sentimental man. He paused, though, when he recognized my desire to hold my heritage close. We shared a smile of understanding, a gaze I will cherish, as only two months later he died suddenly of a heart attack.
What do you know of your family history? Is it boring, full of adventure, a little bit saucy, something nobody brings up in polite company, or what everyone talks about because of the fun of it all? From as early as I can remember, the story thread of my roots became like a favorite book read over and over, pages dog-eared, tossed about, tucked close to pull out just one more time.
In fact, the recent acclaimed TV series Yellowstone, and even more so, her prequels, have me convinced Tyler Sheridan gained access to my family history, as so many similarities from these shows bring mine to life. All but taking people to the Train Station, that is….well, kind of…
My great great grandmother Anna Mallak was born in a small Czech town in 1879 (exactly 100 years before me) where her father was the mayor. Even at the age of four, she was required to knit her own garters. By the time she was 13, she’d worked skillfully enough to become a licensed dress maker, a solid feat for that time. Supper was generally boiled potatoes and sour cream.
When she was 29, she and her husband Svaboda and children braved the voyage to America, hitting Ellis Island in 1908—settling in Chicago to start a new life. My great grandmother Marie was 8 at the time. Oh, did I forget to mention Svaboda was an angry drunk? He was a cabinet maker with a lot of tools, and one day in a fit of rage, went after Anna with an axe. With the bravery of a thousand wolves, Anna swept up her children and fled to Nebraska to homestead, where there was a pocket of other Czech families. Alone and hungry, she and the kids picked up the neighboring ranch’s cow patties to burn for fuel, and soon worked for that same ranch. While there, she met a man, Jon Lauraman, who’s visa had run out. She agreed to marry him to keep him in the States. As it turns out, he too was not the nicest of men. A drinking mean streak was in him as well, evidenced by all the deformed tails on their cattle, as he enjoyed twisting them for torture. And all I can think when hearing these stories as my own grandmother tells them….glory, but this woman went through it.
At some point the Lauramans moved to Camas Prairie, MT, where they purchased a large homestead with a humble 160 acres. I say “large” because it was palatially grand at two rooms, instead of the standard one room shacks peppered through the vast prairie. They worked the land, had dairy cows selling soured milk, and because Jon was a carpenter, they built an apartment building in the nearest town of Hot Springs, 20 miles away from the homestead. This turned out to be beneficial for generations to come, as Jon died from burns he assumed in a freak fire, leaving Anna alone once again to make her own livelihood at age 86. Incidentally, that apartment building still stands today. My grandparents renovated and sold it about 25 years ago.
Remember little 8 year old Marie? She married Richard Cross and lived about 10 miles away from Anna on the prairie. They had 3 strapping boys, and in the early 1940’s, when my grandpa was 13, his father Dick died of a heart attack, leaving GG Marie to follow her own mother’s footsteps—raising boys, surviving the harsh Montana life, and fending for herself to make a living. She milked cows and then opened “the” general store in Camas Prairie that was near the one room schoolhouse my own father attended that remains vacant and condemned today.
When my grandpa Sid took over the homestead in the 1950s, he slowly built what would become our family lands, Camaroot Ranch, buying at $7/acre. The estate at its peak comprised of over 5,000 glorious acres for cattle to roam, and a young brown-eyed girl named Jenae to build her creative mind on visits. Ranch hands on horse back, a bunk house, multiple barns, and anywhere from 300 to 1000 head of cattle at a time—tv makes that all sound so glamorous, but I can attest to the mud, early mornings, harsh weather, sore muscles, and the beauty of stepping in the backdoor to the aroma of hearty soup after a long day of ranching. No more boiled potatoes and sour cream in this legacy. Now there was beef, ample vegetables, and grandma’s chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven.
So why this deep dive into my family thread when you just came by for a pie recipe? I think when we have stories passed down, family recipes passed down, family traits passed down (hopefully I don’t have the tail torturing gene), we remember what built us.
When you gather with family this Thanksgiving, or anytime really, take the time to reflect on how you got where you are. What will your great great grandchildren tell about the influence you had on their lives. It likely won’t be from the mundane things, but of the loftier kind. Your grit. Your determination. Your love and care. Your message. My ancestors faced death, struggle, fear, hunger, and bitter family feuds (I can’t divulge ALL the family drama to you—we’ve only just met!) Each time, someone said, “I will write a different future.”
As you pull out the butter splotched recipe cards in the coming days, or hop online to explore someone else’s tried and true offerings, pause and reflect on how intentionality will play a role in this year’s Thanksgiving feast. With a world of uncertainty in front of us, how can we lean in? How can we bring meaning and love to those around us, that they may tell our stories 100 years from now. What will your stepping stone be? Mark your family thread so that the legacy passed on is one of hope, resilience, and love. When I cross that Montana Homestead stone threshold of my garden, a symbolic place of growth and renewal, to cut some fresh sweet peas or find the perfect strawberry, I remember Anna. I remember Marie. I remember Sid. I lean in more to my own father, who left ranching for a higher calling to become a pastor—so that I may constantly capture the legacy that I will then share with my daughters, and whatever family tree they bloom.
Part of the story that my family branch is building is that living with Celiac disease, and having to eat gluten-free, will not keep us from enjoying every morsel of food we eat. Please enjoy this flakey, buttery, secretly gluten free pie crust recipe, from my family legacy to your’s—that everyone will sit around the table to enjoy the deliciousness of memory making, just sans gluten.
