Remembering My Nana (& her chocolate cake) on the anniversary of her death, 34 years ago today.
Nan McCarthy
Frances Hyzy Morris (my mom’s mom) was born in Krakow, Poland on March 3rd, 1905. In the century leading up to my Nana’s birth (and after), the people of Poland were being oppressed by both Russian and German occupiers. Polish secret societies were formed to resist the occupiers and preserve the Polish national identity. These revolutionaries endured constant surveillance and persecution, including Russian campaigns aimed at suppressing Polish Roman Catholics in particular.
I mention these historical tidbits for a reason, as they clearly made an impression on my Nana as a young girl, before her family fled Poland along with millions of other Poles in the early decades of the 1900s. Fast-forward many decades later, when my Nana was in her early 70s. She had suffered a psychotic break following a stroke, and had to be placed in a skilled nursing facility called Rest Haven (in South Holland, IL) for a month or so. I was in high school then and would drive the short distance up South Park Avenue to visit her after school. One afternoon as she and I were sitting in her room having what I thought was a casual conversation, my Nana suddenly rose from her chair and crept a few steps toward me. Looking furtively around the room, she put her index finger to her lips, tilted her head toward an interior wall, and whispered, “Shhhh—they’re listening.” “Who’s listening, Nana?” I asked. Again she tilted her head toward the wall, as if to indicate there were people on the other side eavesdropping on our conversation. As a teenager I found this incident disconcerting, but I also understood it wasn’t just random paranoia, because I knew about my Nana’s family history. Yes, she’d been experiencing a break from reality, but you didn’t have to be a genius to connect whatever was going on in her mind to the things she must have seen and experienced in her formative years before she and her parents left Poland.
This episode was a turning point in my relationship with my Nana, because until this happened, my Nana had been my rock, the most stabilizing influence of my life. At 5’3”, she was short and slightly plump, with cornflower blue eyes that twinkled when she laughed. She was tiny but mighty—if you were to look up the phrase “walks softly and carries a big stick” in the dictionary, you might find a photo of my Nana. Not that I ever saw her angry. She was just one of those people who didn’t need to be unpleasant to let you know there was a real badass lying in wait underneath her jolly exterior. Mostly, she laughed a lot. In fact I can hardly remember a time when my Nana wasn’t smiling or laughing. The only time I saw her cry was the day my dad died. I had come home from school—having no idea of the news that awaited me—to find her mopping our family room floor with tears streaming down her face.
Speaking of mopping, my Nana was an exceptionally clean person. She and my Papa rented an apartment on the second story of a four-flat on E. 79th and S. Coles Ave. in the South Shore neighborhood of Chicago. The building was owned by my Nana’s brother, Uncle Stan Hyzy, and his wife Aunt Edna. (Aunt Edna scared the hell out of us younger kids. She was a mean-looking woman with a spirit to match. Family lore had it Aunt Edna would cast spells on the people she didn’t like. I stayed out of her way as much as possible so as not to be the subject of one of her spells.) After my Nana cleaned the inside of their apartment to her liking, she would bring her broom outside to the front of the building to sweep the dirt from the curb on their side of the street. (Imagine what the world would be like if everyone took care of their own side of the street the way my Nana did.)
She was also big on personal hygiene. I remember her frequently admonishing my sister Gerarda to go wash her elbows. (Were Gerarda’s elbows exceptionally dirty? Why wasn’t I, too, told to go wash my elbows? And how does one get one’s elbows dirty anyway?) My Nana’s short brown hair (and later gray) always looked like she’d just been to the salon, and while she didn’t wear much makeup, she invariably carried rose-colored lipstick in her purse, along with the ever-present Clorets for fresh breath & Rolaids for her “sour stomach.” I rarely saw my Nana in anything but a dress, stockings, and leather pumps, along with earrings, necklace, and a bracelet to match. (I wore one of her Bakelite bracelets for years until a piece fell out at a military ball, never to be found again.) Other than dresses, my Nana would sometimes put on a housecoat over her girdle & stockings (swapping out the pumps for house slippers), but only when she was at home cleaning or cooking.
She was one of ten children (either the oldest or second oldest, I can’t remember), and at some point after the family settled in Chicago, Frances quit school in third grade to help care for her younger siblings. When the youngest sibling (I think it was Uncle Cass) was still a baby, their father was killed at work in a steel mill accident. After that my Nana’s help with the younger children became even more necessary. In spite of her lack of education, she eventually worked her way up to become head of payroll at Woolworth’s department store on State Street in downtown Chicago. She never learned to ride a bike or drive a car, so she either walked or took public transportation everywhere she went (that is, if my Papa wasn’t driving her). I remember walking with my Nana all around their South Shore neighborhood—to the grocery store, St. Bride’s Church (where the Masses were still said in Latin), and Rainbow Beach. We would take the bus downtown so my Nana could take me shopping at Marshall Field’s. (Sometimes these trips included both my sister and me; other times we each got a solo trip with just Nana.) We did this at least twice a year, once at the start of the school year to buy school clothes (with lunch at The Berghoff afterward—my Nana’s favorite) and again at Christmas time to look at the window decorations and have lunch in the Walnut Room. On these excursions my Nana would keep her cash in a small cloth pouch she kept tucked inside her bra, a safety measure in case her purse got stolen. She’d come in the dressing room with me to dig out her cash before we went to the register to make our purchases. (I also remember her storing money in their freezer at home. She called it her “cold cash.” Perhaps this is where I inherited my penchant for storing ten-dollar bills in coffee cans.)
Frances became a U.S. citizen in 1940 when she was 35 years old. (My mom would’ve been six or seven at the time.) To me, my Nana epitomizes all that is good in our world. Her childhood—fleeing oppression in Poland, immigrating to America, losing her father at a young age, helping her mom raise her siblings—must have been incredibly difficult. And yet, with very little schooling, she managed to have a successful career in which she was entrusted with managing the payroll of a large department store in downtown Chicago. Her marriage to my Papa couldn’t have been easy either—he was known to be a gadabout—but Frances was a devout Catholic and leaving her husband wasn’t an option. I do know that after my Nana gave birth to my mom, she looked my Papa in the eye and said, “I will never do that for another man again.” And she kept her word. Ha!
In spite of the hardships my Nana experienced, she was unfailingly polite and pleasant to everyone, no matter the circumstances. Even after she had to go back to living in a nursing home in her 80s due to the progression of Parkinson’s Disease and dementia, she would smile and nod and say hello and ask people how they were doing, whether they were nursing home staff, family, or complete strangers. (On these visits I’d bring her two White Castle hamburgers and a chocolate shake, another one of her favorites.)
When Gerarda & I were little, our Nana would come to the house (we lived on 98th & Dobson in Cottage Grove Heights) to take care of us while our parents worked. Even after our Nana stopped taking care of us during the day, she remained a steady presence in our lives. Gerarda and I spent many overnights at our Nana and Papa’s apartment in Chicago, and they frequently came to our house for Sunday dinner in addition to all the holidays. Later, when I was in my early teens, my mom and step-father bought a small house in Lansing for my Nana and Papa, and I would ride my bike the five miles from our house to theirs just to hang out and visit with them. (That was the first house my Nana and Papa ever lived in—they rented apartments their whole lives. When Gerarda and I slept over at Nana & Papa’s apartment in South Shore, we slept on the same trundle bed in the dining room our mom slept on as a child. Not only did both our parents grow up living in apartments, our mom never even had her own bedroom.)
My Nana was a fabulous cook, and she passed along her cooking skills to my mom, who also loved to cook. Frances was known for her mashed potatoes, homemade bread, and chocolate cake. She also made the best fried bologna sandwiches in the universe (two thick slices of bologna fried until the edges are burnt, two slices white bread, one side with mustard & the other slathered in butter). Nana’s chocolate cake was legendary, though, to the point it was the last food my dad requested in the hospital before he died. Here’s her recipe (with my notes / variations in parentheses):
Nana’s Chocolate Cake
⁃ 1/2 lb Imperial margarine, softened (I use 2 sticks regular salted butter)
⁃ 1 cup granulated sugar (I also add 1/2 cup brown sugar)
⁃ 1 egg
⁃ 5 tsp. Hershey’s Cocoa powder
⁃ 1 cup sour milk* (I use 1 cup sour cream or plain Greek yogurt instead—making sour milk without curdling it is an art form, see below)
⁃ 1 tsp. baking soda
⁃ 1 tsp. baking powder
⁃ 1 heaping cup flour
⁃ 1/2 tsp. salt
⁃ 1 tsp. vanilla
⁃ (This isn’t written in my Nana’s original recipe but I swore she added instant coffee, so I add 1 Tbsp. powdered instant coffee)
Cream butter with a fork in a large bowl. (My Nana & mom always used a fork and some elbow grease instead of an electric mixer, and I also do the same. Feel free to user a mixer though, if you want to be wimpy about it.) Add egg, vanilla, cocoa, & mix thoroughly. Then add sour milk & baking soda mixture OR sour cream / yogurt & baking soda. Add salt, baking powder, & flour. Mix well. Pour mixture into greased Pyrex casserole dish and bake at 350 degrees about 30-40 minutes, until toothpick comes out clean. Let cool completely before frosting.
frosting:
⁃ 2 Tbsp butter, softened
⁃ 2 tsp. cocoa powder
⁃ 2 cups powdered sugar
⁃ 1 shot coffee (this was definitely in the original recipe—I use espresso instead of coffee)
⁃ extra powdered sugar and / or milk as needed for right consistency
*sour milk: Heat 1 cup regular milk in a small soup pan over low heat to lukewarm, SLOWLY add 1 Tbsp. vinegar while stirring—if you do this too quickly it will curdle. Add baking soda to sour milk & mix well before combining with other ingredients.
When I think of my Nana I remember her laughter. She exuded merriment. She was always one to appreciate a funny story and have a good laugh, even if it was at her own expense. She took great care with her appearance, yet she was humble. She was rock solid. She was patient, loving, kind, hard-working, and determined. She was the strongest woman I’ve ever known. She died when she was 86, on January 15, 1992—the same day of the same month my dad died 21 years earlier. If there’s one person in this world I’ve strived to emulate, it would be my Nana.
Nan McCarthy 