Remembering Rosina

By Beth Yarbrough

When baking season rolls around, my thoughts and my heart turn toward Rosina. She may have left the building a few years ago, but her presence lives in every fall morning that calls for something comforting from the oven. In her honor, I proudly post this every year.

About six or seven years ago, my bestie, Rosina Pinchot, sent me a care package. I had already learned to shout hallelujah when I opened my mailbox to find something from her that wasn’t in an envelope, because it was a sure sign she had been baking again. Mr. Pavlov and his dog would have been so proud that day, because my mouth began to water before the package even made it into the house.

This was my first occasion to taste her Fruit Betty Bars. They were brown-sugary and buttery and crunchy and oatmealy. And, yes, thank you for noticing that oatmealy is not a word. I will try to do better next time. But back to the bars, a surprise shot of strawberry preserves floated through the middle, giving them a kick. A snowy blanket of powdered sugar on top brought everything together.

In typical Rosina style, she had enclosed a note. “Hi Honey! I found this recipe somewhere on a Betty Crocker box back in the 1950’s. My kids loved them. Enjoy!”

She didn’t have to encourage that. I enjoyed every last bite and so did my hips.

Seasons came and went, and our letters and packages continued to fly back and forth from West Coast to East - Christmas struffoli, an old world Italian confection - photos of her remarkable Pysanky eggs at Easter, hand painted at her kitchen table - she was truly Tinkerbelle come to life. Pixie dust graced everything she touched.

Then one day, sometime in the spring if memory serves, I woke up one morning with those Fruit Betty Bars on my mind. I decided to try her recipe. As usual, I was out of something - brown sugar, strawberry preserves - don’t remember which. So I made a mental note to get to the grocery store that afternoon and then come home and bake.

Leaving the house, I pulled out of the drive just as the mailman drove off so I stopped to grab the mail before I left. When I opened the mailbox, there was a package with Rosina’s familiar handwriting on the label. Thinking there was no way under the sun, I went back inside and opened the box and there they were - a big batch of Fruit Betty Bars.

I called her, screaming with laughter. She had, of course, baked and mailed them a couple of days prior. Neither of us could believe it.

Fast forward to another morning about a year later - this one in late September. I had been busy with photos and writing all morning, but needed to go to the grocery store to get some things for supper, and while I was at it, I decided to get the ingredients and bake up a batch of those delicious bars. On the way back in, I stopped at the mailbox. And there was the package.

Now you might think the tale ended there, but no. Twice more after that I somehow sensed the random date of their arrival. When it happened the third time, the thought of them crossing my mind, I went straight to the mail. Ditto for time number four. Both times, her care package was waiting for me.

Don’t ask me what it all means. Neither of us ever figured it out, except to notice that every time it happened, we both enjoyed a great big bi-coastal giggle, and maybe that was reason enough.

We lost Rosina in the summer of 2022. She sailed away on a cloud, peacefully, with two of her children holding her close. I miss her terribly, and think of her often, and some days I get the sense she hasn’t gone very far. Take today, for instance. Something (or someone) pushed me into the kitchen this afternoon, the result of which was yet another batch of brown sugary, buttery, crunchy, oatmealy (oops! sorry) Fruit Betty Bars.

Truth be told, I think she is probably just off-stage somewhere, still twinkling. A light such as hers is not easily snuffed out. Pixie dust is like that, you know.

Photo of Rosina Pinchot by her son, Bronson. Original folk art motif by Rosina herself.