48 Bread and Butter Pickles

Gertrude Susan Goldsmith Wallis, My Paternal Grandmother 

52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks 

Week 48 – November 25, 2025 

Prompt: Family Recipe 

 A few months ago, my first cousin, John Wallis White, called and said he had something I might want: a 1944 church cookbook that contained a poem written by our grandmother. I rushed right over to pick it up. It was compiled by the “Ladies of the First Christian Church, El Dorado, Arkansas. Sponsored by Circle No. 4.” Gertrude had already passed away by then—she died on August 16, 1943, at age 54, from diabetes—but her voice lived on in these fragile pages.

When I first glanced through the cookbook, it didn’t appear that many recipes listed contributors’ names. But on page 4, there it was: a poem titled My Mother’s Hymn, attributed to Mrs. Charles B. Wallis, deceased. 

 In preparing this blog post, I carefully reviewed each page and discovered two recipes submitted by Mrs. C. B. Wallis: Eggless Cake and Bread and Butter Pickles. 

EGGLESS CAKE

One cup raisins; 2 cups Menu flour; 2 cups water; 1 teaspons baking powder; 1 teaspoon soda; 1 teaspoon salt; 2 tablespoons shortening; 1 teaspoon cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice; 1 cup sugar. Cook raisins in water down to 1 cup juice, stain and add soda to juice. Cool slightly, cream sugar and shortening, add juice alternately with Menu flour which has been sifted with baking powdere, spices. Add raisins last. Makes 1 10-inch cake. Mrs. C. B. Wallis

Note: Menu Flour was an advertiser in the cookbook.

BREAD AND BUTTER PICKLES

8 cups thinly sliced cucumbers; 2 cups thinly sliced onions; salt, let stand 2 hours, drain juice off; add 3 cups sugar; 2 teaspoons turmeric; chopped peppers (peppers can be omitted); add vinegar to suit taste; boil about 2 minutes. This makes 2 quarts. — Mrs. C. B. Wallis 

 My father loved bread-and-butter pickles, although in my childhood we always bought them at the grocery store. But now I imagine that his mother made them often — perhaps he loved them because they tasted like home. 

 The recipe sounds easy enough. It reminds me of the cucumbers and onions my mother kept in the refrigerator every summer — although she never called them pickles. A few months ago, I tried making them myself, improvising sugar and vinegar without a recipe. They didn’t turn out quite right. Next summer, I’ll try Gertrude’s version. A poem, a recipe, and a grandmother whose voice reached across eight decades to find me — all preserved in a humble 1944 church cookbook. Some heirlooms fit in trunks. Others fit in jars.