Skoolade!

Bad fats kill again — a true story about Life Shortening

True Stories by Mitch

I came across a vintage photo of Life Shortening a few days back while clearing old boxes of newspapers and magazines out of my grandmother’s attic. I grew up in the 50s, and these old treasures immediately transported me back to my childhood when I would frequent the local Woolworth’s Five and Dime to buy penny candies (my go-to was Jaw Busters because I could get 3 for a penny), a 5¢ bottle of Orange Fanta when my mom was around (Coca-Cola if she wasn’t), and on those really special occasions, a malted milkshake. The malts usually happened the day after my birthday when I was feeling all Richie Rich from Grandma Helen’s bequeathment of a birthday dollar (which always felt like a million dollars to me…it was the 50s, after all).

My nan was known around the block as “Sweet Helen” among the neighborhood kids – I’m pretty sure she coined the title herself. Hardly an afternoon would pass without her sitting on her covered porch, and every youngster who passed by her little brick bungalow would get a hoot from her. It was a sing-songy invitation for them to join her on that swinging bench where she would produce, as if by magic, a delicious butter candy lurking deep inside the brass clasps of her orange plaid purse. The glint in her eye diffused any doubt that she derived as much joy from gifting those sweets as the neighborhood kids did from eating them — perhaps more. Similarly, I always marveled at how much she seemed to delight in watching her family devour her assortment of Kodak-moment-worthy (and award-winning) pies, her airy “Angel Cake”, and her perfect butter pastries (all of which her mother, an emigrant from France, taught her to make as a young girl).

Helen was a lifelong baker, as well as a militant proponent of only using the highest-quality ingredients in her baked goods. I remember how this woman was the most uncommon mix of grit, wit, and individualism. “Why would I waste an otherwise perfect day on Sunday Service?”, I recall her often saying when pestered about church. If she had claimed a religion, her sacred doctrines would probably be hilariously practical like the countless kitchen mantras she shared, often with her devilish grin: “The devil is hiding in the details, so let’s never miss a chance to crush the powder out of him with our flour sifter!”, or “There’s really just a small amount of alcohol in vanilla — that’s why we always double it…TWICE!”, or “I’m not undependable, I’m flaky, like the best French pastries!” For the record, I never met a more punctual woman than my nan.

But if Grandma Helen had one holy sacrament above all in the kitchen, it was the farm-fresh creamed butter and high-quality lard always found on the bottom shelf of her mint green Frigidaire. Can you blame a woman who spent most of her childhood churning milk into creamy butter every Saturday for not being swayed by the lab-derived substitutes in the form of margarine or shortening?

Now, there are at least a couple of ironies in finding a photo of Life Shortening among nana’s dusty archives. If you couldn’t tell already, Helen was a real firecracker. She lived through perhaps the wildest century in documented history, and she seemed steeled against the intoxicating allure of modern advertising which she staunchly considered “more crap than tripe” (another classic “Helenism” we all remember from our youth). My mother, sister, and I all had a good laugh at more than a few of the items in these boxes which marked a bygone era dominated by the madness of men (if you were around in the fifties and sixties, you’ll likely recognize that reference to the Madison Avenue fellows drumming up all manner of glossy ads being constantly dished to American audiences).

I recall this Life Shortening photo (above) particularly well, partly because it featured a product she was never shy about slandering whenever the opportunity arose. Just like a late show comic, she would meticulously cut Life Lab’s (and similar) ads out of magazines and newspapers so she always had fresh material to work with. I remember this photograph because as I walked into her kitchen on one of the many Saturday baking sessions, she pulled it off of the fridge, held it up for me to see, and in classic Helen candor announced, “Life Shortening — I couldn’t have said it better myself!”

I remember that on that day, my grandfather, overtaken by a fleeting fit of insanity in believing he could offer a counter-opinion on the matter while remaining attached to his skin, endeavored to argue with her, “Now now, Helly….” I’ll never forget her milli-second glance that told him everything he needed to know. I loved my grandpa, and so imagine my relief when he abruptly ended his advance and sauntered off to his den. My grandma was sweet, but speaking her mind (even after she had already won) wasn’t ever a struggle for her: “I won’t touch the stuff. I’ll live ’til I’m a hundred with nothing but lard and love in my crusts! Mark my words!”

While we sat reminiscing, my mother recalled the time that her neighbor brought her a can of shortening while Helen was over. This neighbor was animated, swearing up and down that it was “just as good as lard, but much cheaper and healthier, too!”. Bless her heart. To my mothers great embarrassment, her effusing was interrupted when Helen calmly lifted the shortening from the neighbor’s embrace, carried it into the garage, freed the lid from the can, and spread a glob of it onto my mother’s station wagon axle just behind the wheel. She replaced the lid, set the shortening on the shelf by the door, wiped her hands off with a shop towel, and walked back inside. That can still sits there on the shelf to this day, and as I’m sure you can imagine, it was the last can of shortening to ever pass under my mother’s threshold.

The debate over animal-based fats and plant-based fats has been brewing worldwide for nearly a century. Life Labs was one of the leading “innovators” in making America enthusiastic about incorporating repurposed soap and candle wax as food. While I’ll probably save this debate for another post, I thought this jaunt down memory lane would be a good reason to commemorate my dear grandma who passed away late last year at the wonderful age of 98 years young.

Remember how I mentioned more than one irony in this story? Well, as jarring and difficult as her sudden passing was, I think Helen would have found at least a slice of humor in the fact that this spry nonagenarian was undone by a shipment of cooking oil when the driver of a semi-truck full of the stuff was spooked by a family of wallabies on the road and sadly veered out of control into oncoming traffic. This truck collided head-on with our sweet grandma’s vehicle upon which, we are told by authorities, she died instantly on impact.

Ever the intrepid traveler, she was visiting a friend thousands of miles away near Melbourne, Australia when her tenure on Earth came to a close. It was just shy of the 100 years she predicted butter and lard would afford her, but it would hardly be fair to blame those staples for Helen’s untimely run-in with the very same “cheap imposters” she swore would be the death of Americans. As Mark Twain once said, “Truth is stranger than fiction”, and on that we can most certainly agree.

Thanks for taking this journey with me, and I hope one day you’ll be able to taste a buttery croissant or coconut cream pie with the most delicious, flaky crust like grandma used to make. With any luck, it’ll make you a lifelong believer in butter and lard, just like me!

Love and miss you Helly!