The Tin From Iowa

The Tin From Iowa

A Little Taste of Home

I come from a biracial family. Which is a beautiful way of saying I was born right in the middle — where both sides were averse to each other, and I somehow managed to be too much and not enough at the very same time.

Not white enough for the Caucasians, and not Black enough for the African Americans. I was the human equivalent of decaf coffee — everybody looked at me like, “Well, what are we supposed to do with you?”

Goldilocks in reverse. Too dark for one bowl of porridge, too light for the other. And still, somehow, just right for the people who actually loved me.

But the Caucasian side, my beautiful mom, was disowned when she was pregnant with me.

And that was her parents, right? But her grandparents also were very upset. Mainly her grandfather.

One thing I remember, since the holidays are coming up and I’m feeling all nostalgic…

Every Christmas and Thanksgiving, I would get a gift. And the gift came in a tin. Every year. Every single year.

I didn’t really understand until I was older and my mom explained it to me. But every year, I would just be waiting for the mail, so excited, because I knew the holidays were coming.

And in Chicago, everything changes. You know, the tree color changes, the leaves start falling off, and the skies are gray more often, and the wind off of Lakeshore Drive hits you like an icicle going through your bones.

But that tin — that little metal tin — was so important and so wonderful. And I couldn’t wait for that brisk breeze to tell me that that tin was coming soon.

Finally, it would arrive on whatever day, right before the holiday. So right before Thanksgiving, there I am, I’m opening this tin, and there it is — peanut brittle, so lovely, that golden crackle. And on the other side was this delicious, I mean decadent, fudge — handmade, crafted in an Iowa kitchen by an 80-something-year-old woman, in secrecy.

She couldn’t let it be known that she was sending anything to me. You know, me — the brown skin girl.

The Iowans, they were farmers and historic. Their family runs for ages. Their lineage goes back in the Americas way, way, way back. But me, I’m an anomaly. A blip on the radar. A dark stain — both literally and figuratively.

But that tin meant so much. And it would have been detrimental to my great-great-grandmother if anyone had known that she was sending it to me. There would have been hell to pay.

But luckily, she cooked with love. And from Iowa, she would send it to Chicago, unbeknownst to her husband — I guess I could say my great-great-grandfather. For years, he didn’t know.

And then she was in her 90s, nearly 100, and he passed away.

And I remember my mom saying, “We’re going on a trip to Iowa.” Whoa. I was like, a trip to Iowa? Us? Wait — me?

And there we went, driving off. And we arrive in Iowa. And when we get there, we pull onto this farm, the back of an old farmhouse, and you could see the rickety stairs, faded painted green and white. Each of the three steps creaked. And we reached the back door that was just a screen, with the door open.

And my mom said, “Hello.” And then a voice — you could hear it — “I’m coming, I’m coming.” And some shuffling, and a door opens, and then the screen door opens, and there she is.

This four-foot-nine little tiny woman, in her late 90s. And she steps out onto the porch, and she says, “Donna Ann, Donna Ann, and Syri Lynn.” And she pulls us in with the might of an army. She squeezes us so tight that I don’t think either of us could breathe. But man, she was so little, I don’t know how she did it.

Her face turned flush red. She reminded me of Santa Claus’s wife — her cheeks, her nose, her white hair, her short stature, just adorable. But she hugged us like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

He had passed away, and she was free to love us freely. And she did. And she invited us to come and visit with her. It was amazing.

I listened for hours and hours that weekend to her stories about the Great Depression, and growing up on a farm, and raising my mom some of the time when she would come to visit for summers. It was fantastic. It sounded so wholesome, like a movie.

This woman held on to her love for me quietly, and baked and prepared in every piece of fudge, every holiday season, every year.

And one day, she was finally free, and able to tell us both, to our faces, that she had always loved us.

This is why I love peanut brittle and fudge so much, even though I’m not a huge sweets person. I’ll always eat a sliver of fudge, and I’ll always nom nom on some peanut brittle.

Because every bite takes me right back to that tin. To her love. To being loved, quietly, and then finally — freely.

— Syri

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Old-Fashioned Recipes Like the Ones in the Tin

And if you want to partake of the beauty that is love woven into food, here are recipes for you to try.

Not just sugar and butter and peanuts. Not just a pot on a stove. But love, made tangible — love that traveled hundreds of miles in secret, love that waited patiently in a tin, love that finally got to be spoken out loud on a farmhouse porch in Iowa.

Make these slowly. Stir them gently. Let the kitchen fill with that warm, golden sweetness. And as you do, think of all the love that has ever been folded into food — the quiet kind, the brave kind, the kind that finds its way home, even when it has to hide for a while.

In the spirit of that Iowa kitchen — the kind made with a heavy pot, a wooden spoon, patience, and love. These are old-fashioned style recipes like the ones she would have made, not her exact handwritten cards.

Old-Fashioned Peanut Brittle

That golden crackle — sweet, salty, shattering into pieces.

You will need:

• 2 cups granulated sugar
• 1 cup light corn syrup
• 1/2 cup water
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 cups raw peanuts
• 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

To make it:

1. Butter a large baking sheet well, or line it with parchment and butter the parchment. Have it ready — this moves fast at the end.
2. In a heavy pot, stir together the sugar, corn syrup, water, and salt over medium heat until the sugar dissolves.
3. Add the peanuts. Cook, stirring often, until the mixture turns a deep golden amber and reaches 300°F on a candy thermometer — the hard-crack stage. This takes patience. Do not walk away.
4. Remove from heat. Quickly stir in the butter, baking soda, and vanilla. It will foam up — that is supposed to happen. That foam is what makes it light and crackly.
5. Immediately pour onto your prepared baking sheet and spread thin with a buttered spatula. Work quickly.
6. Let it cool completely, then break into pieces. Store in a tin — of course — with waxed paper between the layers.

Old-Fashioned Chocolate Fudge

Decadent, creamy, just a sliver at a time — the way I still love it.

You will need:

• 3 cups granulated sugar
• 3/4 cup unsalted butter, plus a little extra for the pan
• 2/3 cup evaporated milk
• 1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips, or 4 ounces chopped chocolate
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• Pinch of salt
• Optional: 1 cup chopped walnuts or pecans

To make it:

1. Butter an 8-inch square pan well. Line with parchment if you like, with a little overhang to lift it out later.
2. In a heavy pot, combine the sugar, butter, and evaporated milk over medium heat. Stir until the butter melts and the sugar dissolves.
3. Bring to a rolling boil, stirring constantly. Keep boiling and stirring for 5 minutes, until it reaches 234°F — the soft-ball stage.
4. Remove from heat. Stir in the chocolate until melted and smooth, then the vanilla, salt, and nuts if you are using them.
5. Beat with a wooden spoon until it thickens and loses its shine — just a few minutes. Do not over-beat or it will get grainy.
6. Pour into the prepared pan and smooth the top. Let it set at room temperature until firm, then cut into small squares.

A sliver for me, a piece for you. And a tin full of love, every single time.