Creative Outlet: Beer rocks, please!

I grew up with German Mennonite parents and grandparents, and learned to cook and bake a lot of the traditional foods that go along with that heritage.

However, I realized early on that most of the wonderful dishes are often difficult and incredibly time-consuming, so I would rarely fix them. When I did, inevitably I would regret it halfway through the hours-long process. So over the years, my three kids learned to steer clear of the kitchen whenever mom was cooking veranika, or baking zwiebach, or making anything they couldn’t pronounce.

A few summers ago, I noticed “beer rocks” written in my son Harrison’s handwriting on my kitchen white board. I love when my kids leave me menu suggestions, but this one made me pause. Bierocks, which involves yeast, were part of my dreaded German Mennonite Pocket Trifecta. But I’d recently inherited a Kitchen Aid stand mixer with a dough hook. That would make it easy.

So I picked up a couple cabbages on my next grocery trip, and one afternoon decided to make bierocks. The recipe in the Ebenfeld Mennonite Brethren Church cookbook listed “your favorite sweet roll dough.” No problem. My mom had copied Grandma Epp’s “Rolls, Buns, or Doughnuts” and other family recipes for me for my bridal shower. After 17 years, I might as well try it, I thought.

I used the mixer to combine the yeast with the other ingredients, “using enough flour to make a soft dough,” the recipe said. After four cups my flour bin was empty. I checked my pantry shelf for an extra bag. None. Darn. This was going to require more than a cup or two from my neighbor, so I headed to the store. As I was in the checkout line (with a lot of other items I’d grabbed while I was there) my husband called my cell phone.

“Karen, your stuff is exploding all over the counter,” he said.

“I’m on my way.”

When I got home, I saw the yeast-flour mixture had indeed risen and bubbled over the sides of the stainless steel bowl, and was spilling down the front of my cabinets onto the floor.

I cleaned up the mess and started adding flour. And more flour. I remembered the gigantic ceramic bowl Grandma used for baking on Saturdays, and the table piled with baked goods hours later. Oh no! I was making bread for a week!

I had plenty of dough for the double batch of bierock filling I’d made. After finally pinching the last pocket closed, tucking the ends under and placing it on the pan, I still had lots left. I rolled out the remaining dough and slathered on butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon and rolled it up for cinnamon rolls. I filled two pans.

But in the meantime my kids and husband had all at various times wandered through the kitchen, wondering when dinner would finally be ready. They’d all snagged a hot bierock or two from the cooling racks, which was fine with me. At that point I didn’t feel like having a sit-down meal anyway. On Harrison’s second trip into the kitchen, he noticed the kitchen in shambles and the exhaustion on my face.

“Mom,” he asked hesitantly, now realizing the enormity of his request, “are beer rocks German?”

“Yes,” I sighed, giving him a flour-dusted hug. “Yes, Harrison, they are.”