Host: Kate Tellers 

Kate: [00:00:05] Welcome to the very last Moth Podcast of 2020. I'm your host this week, Kate Tellers. 

It's been an extraordinary year. And for many of us, that's meant shaking up our holiday traditions, gathering with loved ones around a computer instead of a table. In our house, we're missing cousins, siblings, grandparents, neighbors, friends and the chance to do what we love the most, feed them. In honor of that which we cannot consume together, that nourishes us in so many ways, this episode is dedicated to food. 

First up is Annie Share. Annie told this story at a Chicago StorySLAM, where the theme of the night was Flawed. Here's Annie, live at The Moth. 

[cheers and applause] 

Annie: [00:00:52] My childhood kitchen was home to two gigantic blue plastic mixing bowls, neither of which were used for baking. The darker blue bowl was used exclusively for deciding where we were going to eat out for dinner that night. No one in my family was very invested in cooking, unless you counted reheating a rotisserie chicken from Cub Foods, which has its time and place. And so, this was a frequent occurrence in the Share household. 

We would each cast our vote into the big bowl, my brothers for Old Country Buffet, myself a Dave and Buster's loyalist, [audience laughter] my parents praying to go anywhere else. And then, one restaurant would be randomly selected from the bowl, and that's where we'd go out for dinner. Or, more likely, we would fight about it for the next 45 minutes and settle on somewhere no one wanted to go, usually Applebee's. [audience laughter] Very democratic.

There was only one exception to this genetic picky-eaterness, and that was a dessert we could all agree on was simply unparalleled, and that was our Grandma Becky's Bundt cake. Grandma Becky's Bundt cake can only be described as a love child between chocolate streusel and God herself. [audience laughter] An indulgent, buttery marble ring, generously dusted with powdered sugar, so that when you took your first bite, your lips left looking like they had just kissed an angel. [audience laughter] It was amazing. 

As paramount as this cake had become in my life, we'd eat it at birthdays, weddings, Mario Party 5 tournaments. Anytime there was a major or minor life event, there was a Bundt cake. But it was still shrouded in mystery. I had never actually seen it being baked. No ingredients left on the countertop, no licking the batter off the spoon. Just this final form, flawless, fresh Bundt cake. 

When I turned 22, I decided I needed to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I had just moved to Chicago, I'd graduated from college and I wanted to celebrate this new chapter of my life. I wanted to do it the only way I knew how. I needed Grandma Becky's Bundt cake recipe. I texted my dad asking for the ingredients and the supplies as a homecoming gift. And the next week, a big box arrived in the mail. Now, I expected to open it and find an eclectic array of pure extracts, 100% organic raw cacao nibs, maybe some edible gold from the far-off regions of Australia. But of course, I didn't find those things.

Instead, I open it up to find one box of yellow Duncan Hines cake mix, [audience laughter] a package of instant vanilla pudding and a 24-ounce squirt bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup. [audience laughter] I was taken aback at first, but knowing my family's rich culinary history, [audience laughter] I don't think I've ever been less surprised. [audience laughter] So, after about 15 minutes of hardly laborious prep time [audience laughter] and another 30 minutes in the oven, it was complete. 

I followed the instructions to a tee. I had done as my ancestors had done for generations, [audience laughter and clap] but I couldn't help but feel a bit underwhelmed. This couldn't have possibly been the same orgasmic, awe-inspiring dessert that inspired my childhood. So, I did what everyone does when they are disappointed with how a baked-good turns out. I brought it into work the next day. [audience laughter]

Now, [chuckles] I was expecting, at best, maybe some good-hearted jokes at my expense, or if I was lucky, someone would just toss it. But to my surprise, I was bombarded with praise from my coworkers all day long, telling me that they had never had a better cake in their entire lives, encouraging me to quit my job and pursue a professional career [audience laughter] as a pastry chef. And for the next several weeks, my email inbox was flooded with begging for me to make this cake again, inquiries about how I got that cake so moist and that chocolate so sweet. 

After a while, I decided that all I could really reply with was that I would never be one to reveal a secret family recipe. [audience laughter] It was just the magic of Grandma Becky's Bundt cake. Thank you.

[cheers and applause] 

Kate: [00:06:28] That was Annie Share. Annie is a writer and performer based in Chicago, where she's an ensemble member at the Neo-Futurist Theater. In addition to storytelling, Annie loves biking, karaoke and playing cribbage, and of course, Bundt cake. Annie says she now makes the Bundt cake for her and her friends' birthdays each year. She says she's tried to keep the recipe a family secret to varying degrees of success. But now, the cat's out of the bag. To see some photos of the infamous Bundt cake, head to the Extras for this episode on our website, themoth.org/extras. 

While you're there, you can check out some of The Moth staff’s favorite recipes for the holidays including my mother’s new potatoes and garlic baked in parchment. That's themoth.org/extras. 

Up next this week is Pamela Covington. We met Pamela when she participated in a Moth community workshop, and she told this story at an All-Star Community Showcase, where the theme of the night was Around the Bend. Here's Pamela, live at The Moth.

[cheers and applause] 

Pamela: [00:07:36] Good evening. In Savannah, our holiday meals were as bountiful as our Victorian home. We dined on baked fresh salmon, oyster stuffing, hand-picked crab patties, had an assortment of things. And the house, it was decked festively from its crown-molded ceilings down to its glossy hardwood floors and all points in between. 

Life was dreamy living with Watson. He was so attentive with our two boys. They were one and a half and nine. He was an excellent provider. In fact, he saw to it that everything in the house was always exactly the way I wanted it, and he was proud to make it so. But what began as the ideal domestic situation slowly changed. Having served in Vietnam before we met, he suffered with post-traumatic stress disorder and was subject to the changes of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

During one of his unpredictable frenzies, when he hit me in the face, I knew I had to leave for the sake of my and my children’s safety at any cost, emotional or financial. So, I left my middle-class comfort and fled to Jacksonville, a city I’d only visited twice just for fun. 

After five days wandering around homeless, the only place that I could afford for my kids and me was a unit in a dilapidated cement tenement with no refrigerator, no stove, no air conditioning and no heat. The little shabby place was only better than being on the streets. Those piss-poor conditions made me feel so bad I felt insignificant. There I was alone with two children in a strange city, broken in every way imaginable. But no matter what I did, I could not let my children see my breakage.

For them, I had to wear a brave mask. Even though I was having a tough time providing bare necessities, I had to do whatever I had to do for my children. My children had never even gone to bed hungry, and I just had to provide for them. It was no longer Watson and I. It was just me and them. You see, I had run off to Jacksonville without a plan. And that security in Savannah was behind me. Christmas was just a week ahead, and now, on a good day, I cooked Vienna sausages and grits on a borrowed kerosene heater. 

One day, I meet a neighbor of mine, and he says, "Listen, I see you over there doing all that stuff by yourself. If ever I could be of any help to you, let me know." I stopped and I thought about it. All I had for preparing food was an old Sunbeam deep fryer and a tiny toaster oven. What I really needed help with was to have a real kitchen that I could cook in. 

So, I told my neighbor that I had this gift certificate for a turkey I had gotten from the food bank. I had plans already to spend time with friends on Christmas Day. But if me and my kids could cook that turkey, we could eat off of it for days. Well, he said he was going to be out of town and offered to let me use his kitchen. I was relieved. Such a great weight was lifted up off of me. Even though it was only for a little while, I wouldn’t have to worry how me and my children were going to eat. 

I went over to his apartment. He gave me a key and led me on a tour of his kitchen, which wasn’t in any better shape than mine. But I noticed as we walked in how dusty the brown tile floor was, and grit was rolling under my feet. When he went over to open a drawer and show me where the utensils were, roaches ran out of everywhere. I’m thinking, this is where I’m going to cook it? 

So, Christmas Day, the children and I had been invited by a social services worker to join her and her family for a holiday celebration. We got there, and it was wonderful. There were children running around playing. The aroma of all kinds of foods in the air, and everything new like you smell at Christmastime. And there was music playing. I did good until a song by Donny Hathaway, This Christmas, came on. It flashed me back. I was bumming out. Everyone there had been so nice to me and my children. I didn’t want them to think that someone had said or done anything to upset me. I figured it was time for me to go home. 

So, when I got back to my apartment, I thought about it and I said, "Girl, after all that upset, you know you're not going to sleep. You got that turkey in the sink. You might as well go and cook the turkey." So, to pick my spirits up, like I always do, I wanted to hear some music. So, I put on Prince’s 1999, because tonight we’re going to party like we’re going to cook a turkey. [audience laughter] 

I’m doting all over that bird. I'm basting it, I'm seasoning it and I'm fussing with it just to get it right in the center of the pan. [audience chuckle] I got it in there perfect. I snatch that key, head out my kitchen door and go down to my neighbor's. At the door, I'm standing on the stoop, balancing this flimsy aluminum pan, putting my key in the door. I open the door, reach in to turn on the light and head toward the stove. Two big ashy gray rats are standing on the top of the stove on their hind legs, screech, screech, screeching at me before they jump down and run across the floor. 

At that same moment, I drop my turkey. It bounces out of the pan, slides clear across the floor and hits the wall. I am beside myself. I go out on the stoop and I'm crying. Then I retreat to my apartment, throw myself into the sofa and make a decision whether or not I'm going back to get my turkey. [audience laughter] Oh, those rats, I'm thinking, that place is so nasty. I'm not going to let them have it though, am I? [audience laughter] What will we do? Well, I'm going back to get it. I have to. But this time, they can't catch me off guard. I'm going ready for them. 

So, I rummaged through my kitchen drawers and then headed back over. I get to his place and I charge in there like some kind of superhero. I push that door open so hard it whacked the wall. I snatched up my turkey as quickly as I could, and put it in a pan and walked right back home, where again, I put it in the sink, I scrubbed it, I basted it, I seasoned it and then walked it back over to cook it. 

Hours later, I'm carrying a perfectly baked golden turkey in an aluminum pan as if it's on a silver platter, walking it back over to my apartment, where I put it on the countertop and I'm wrapping it in about 10 layers of foil, trying to muffle that irresistible roasted turkey scent from any rats before I walk up the cement stairs to our bedroom and place it high up on a closet shelf, where it can wait to be feasted on by me and my boys. And that night, having done what I needed to do to ensure the survival of the fittest, I slept for the first time in a very long time quite peaceably, in the security of knowing that my children and I would have food to eat the next day and for the next few days thereafter. Thank you.

[cheers and applause] 

Kate: [00:17:55] That was Pamela Covington. Pamela Covington is a speaker, life coach and advocate living in Atlanta. Her memoir, A Day at the Fair: One Woman's Welfare Passage, describes her journey from a middle-class lifestyle into one of deep poverty and back. She came to The Moth by way of a community workshop with Results, an international organization dedicated to ending poverty. 

I hope that this season finds you full of joy. And if your belly is also full, I hope that you'll consider supporting the community around you who may be ending the year with a lighter table. To find a list of some of our favorite organizations, you know where to go, themoth.org/extras. 

As a kid, my family celebrated Christmas. All of us would gather around the piano to sing carols with my grandfather playing the accompaniment under a banner that read, Sing We Joyous All Together. He probably never imagined the reason that we're not gathering now, but he did have the prescience to record himself playing all of the carols in an audio archive our family has been resharing this year. Here's one from my papa to send you on your way.

Kate’s Grandfather in tape: [00:19:03] Number 58, The Carol of the Bells.

[melodious music plays]

Kate: [00:19:24] From all of us here at The Moth, we can't wait to be joyous with you together in the new year.

[melodious music plays]

Julia: [00:20:19] Kate Tellers is a storyteller, host and director of MothWorks at The Moth. Her story, But Also Bring Cheese, is featured in The Moth’s All These Wonders: True Stories About Facing the Unknown. And her writing has appeared on McSweeney’s and The New Yorker. 

Kate: [00:20:35] Podcast production by Julia Purcell. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.