Celestine Sibley

Inexplicably, today marks the 10th anniversary of our AJC colleague Celestine Sibley’s passing. From 1941 to 1999, Sibley was an indispensable member of the Atlanta Constitution and later the Atlanta Journal-Constitution’s newsroom.

Over a 60-year-career, as a reporter and columnist, Sibley covered presidents, the state legislature, murder trials, chatted with Walt Disney about integrating live action with animation, became friends with “Gone With the Wind” author and former Journal reporter Margaret Mitchell and discussed motherhood with none other than Joan Crawford.

But most AJC readers will recall their mornings lingering over Celestine’s Living section columns with their coffee and marvelling at her wit, wisdom and her Southern-infused lyricism.

Today, we’re reprinting one of our all-time favorite Celestine columns. It was one of those quiet, comical outings she specialized in.

We recommend (as she surely would) pouring yourself a cup of coffee and soaking in the early morning stillness while catching up with an old friend. Or  better yet — experience Celestine’s magic for the very first time. We envy you.

Originally published on December 2, 1993

Ginger cake is the recipe for a gray day

By Celestine Sibley

Now I know why small-town women of my mother’s generation liked to cook on gray and chilly winter afternoons. The church circle wasn’t meeting. Their friends, named Miss Minnie, Miss Pearl and Miss Josie (in Muv’s case), were busy looking at what they called their “programs.” It was too cold to work in the yard, and the light by the fireplace or the kitchen rocker was not adequate for needlework.

So they got out their “receipt” books and tried a new recipe.

The other day it occurred to me that some gingerbread would taste good. Not store-bought ginger snaps, not a mix, but the kind of gingerbread that used to perfume the house when I got home from school on a cold winter day.

It seemed to me that a book of mine contained a recipe which had been a favorite with my great-grandmother, Muv’s beloved “Grandma.” Once when I asked for some old family recipes, Muv gave me some of her grandmother’s, all involving sweet potatoes, because Grandma, as she wrote me, had more sweet potatoes than anything else. But Grandma’s recipe for gingerbread was not there.

Leafing through, I reread the little personal notes that should go with every handed-down recipe. Although I never tried the recipe for Woodford pudding, I cherish it because in my mother’s firm backhand script was this:

“Miss Pearl Whittle gave me this. She married Aunt Puss Grimes’ Ernie.”

The ginger cake recipe I found came from Mrs. Lum Crow, Sweet Apple settlement’s beloved Dessie. She was a wonderful cook, and when she died a few years ago, we all wondered how we would weather the next ice storm. She always had extra quilts, hot soup, biscuits and fried apple and peach pies to offer anybody whose kitchen had gone out of service.

Her ginger cake recipe was a bit daunting at first. The list of ingredients began: 1 cup sugar. 1 cup syrup. 1 cup butter.

Who nowadays stocks such things in quantity? I figured I might scrounge up the sugar, but Mrs. Crow, like my great-grandmother and probably all other self-respecting country women, had a barrel of sugar and a barrel of syrup. Butter would be in sufficient supply because they kept a cow.

A teaspoon of baking soda and half a teaspoon of salt I could manage, but ginger? My little can of ginger might yield a dusting, but probably not a tablespoonful. I had some flour (bought by the two-pound package), but not the barrelful Mrs. Crow kept on hand. As for milk, who has more than a cupful in today’s refrigerator unless there are children in the house?

So I made a run to the store and hurried back, grateful for the kitchen’s warmth, eager to get back to the little flour-marked recipe. The sugar, syrup and butter, heated together, smelled wonderful. The tablespoonful of ginger smelled like all my after-school winter afternoons rolled into one. I got out my old wooden dough tray and mixed and rolled with sensual delight.

The warmth and the fragrance of baking ginger cakes can be memorable. But the eating . . . well, I made a cup of tea and dunked two of the finished cookies. I had to. They were hard as rocks.