Mom and Betty Crocker

I just put a pan of Betty's brownies into the oven.  While I was mixing them up, I remembered a pretty good story and thought you might enjoy it.

First off, for those of you food bloggers who wouldn't dream of using a packaged mix, get over it.  I have cracked an egg, performed a minimum of measuring, stirred, and in 46 minutes I will have warm brownies.   

Here is the story.  When I was sixteen, mom and I were in our kitchen.  It was during its "harvest gold" period and I do still wonder if that color will come back.  I remember that Mom was reading the paper.  She made her "startled" noise.

Me:  What's wrong?
Mom:  I didn't know this.
Me:  Know what?
Mom:  Betty Crocker isn't real.

Silence.

Me:  You're kidding, right?
Mom:  No.  
Me:  (Rolling sixteen-year-old eyes) How could you not know that?
Mom:  Oh, I don't know.  I didn't think about it that much.  

Although I could have gone into full teenage-jerk mode, after a little mild ribbing ("You do know there isn't an Aunt Jemima, right?") I let it go.  She seemed sort of bummed out.

I like 'old Betty.  Not only can we make a mean pan of brownies, but she saved my bacon more than once when I was a newlywed.  I have her cookbook, use her website (she got tech-y as she matured) and trust her products.  

Best of all:  Every time we make something together, I think of my mom, and smile.