"One of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating."--Luciano Pavarotti

Lottie's Homemade Noodles Recipe

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This recipe for Lottie's Homemade Noodles, by , is from Cater Cook'n, one of the cookbooks created at FamilyCookbookProject.com. We help families or individuals create heirloom cookbook treasures.

Contributor:  
Contributor:  
Susan Aud Sonders
Added: Saturday, October 8, 2005

Category:
Category:

Ingredients:  
Ingredients:  
egg yolks
water
flour
yellow food coloring

Directions:
Directions:
In Aunt Lottie's own words, "To make home made noodles that will dry quickly use just the yolks of the eggs. Add 2 T. water to each egg and no salt. Add flour and roll out, thin as you can and spread out to dry. As soon as the edges begin to dry or curl up, cut them fine with a sharp knife. Add a few drops of yellow food coloring when cooked. Makes them a pretty yellow color."

Personal Notes:
Personal Notes:
Family Memories from Susan: We all remember the noodles laid out to dry, ever so carefully, across the doilies and couches in the living room of the farm house. I also remember her continually cooking in her big white kitchen and the tiny, streaked, cloudy mirror on the side wall. It was over a white metal chest of drawers where her costume jewelry and make-up laid in an array of baskets. I would watch intently as she peered closely into the mirror, putting on her red lipstick and rouge so painstakingly. She would then dust her face with powder and its sweet smell would meander through the air and land on me. She would then turn and with dancing eyes say “time to put on my earbobs” and laugh heartily. I had some of her "ear bobs" in my jewelry box for many years. Lindsay placed these earrings on her ears when she was younger and now they have a home in her jewelry box. This was a ritual every time she took Kenny Jay and Marla or cousins Donna, Pam and Janelle and I into Poseyville to “show us off”. Upon leaving and hearing the old screen door slam behind us, I would step carefully to avoid knocking over the large tin bowl on the porch for the cats. I would hide behind her as we tentatively walked down the gravel road, dodging hissing angry geese as best we could. The walk was always worth it. I can still see and hear the incessant peeping of hundreds of soft yellow chicks as they scurried around their wooden enclosure. We would climb into the back seat of her big car and she would “white knuckle” the steering wheel, her head barely over the wheel. She would move down the gravel lane very slowly and then attempt to stay on her side of the road through the curves and sharp turns of Posey County, laughing all the way. We would hold our breath and look over at each other every few minutes, scared and excited by this ride every year. Then we would stop “in town” and, with her chicken money, purchase “real” milk in a carton. It is a risk she took under Uncle Ed’s protest every summer, since pouring “fresh” cow’s milk into an old carton and setting it before us didn’t fool us for a second.
Even now, when I need to relax, I will summon up the memory of early mornings in the feather bed on the living room floor amidst the doilies and delicately embroidered pillow cases. I can hear the soft crow of the rooster, the rustling of corn stalks and relive the scent of brightly colored wild flowers beneath the window as well as freshly tilled soil, corn stalks, gigantic hogs, perfume, drying noodles and freshly baked pies all mixed together. I see the white sheer window curtain as it gently blew over me; in and out with the breeze of the warm morning air. I felt safe and content.
Long days on the farm were filled with lazy mornings as we braved the stinky chicken coop to gather eggs, peered numerous times into the cold white freezer which contained an astonishing smorgasbord of ice cream, crept down into the cellar just like the “Wizard of Oz”, rode the tractor, watched Uncle Ed shine his plate with soaked up bread and endlessly chew on chicken bones until they gleamed and disappeared as well, roamed for hours through open fields, ran and jumped a fence from stampeding cows, tentatively opened the creaky door of the “peanut” room upstairs, slid down the banister, darted in terror from headless chickens dripping blood, and swung under the big tree on the front lawn awaiting the arrival of my parents driving in for a chicken and dumpling dinner, and a side of Lottie's homemade noodles.

 

 

 

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