Part of the magic of Christmas is that all sweets, delicious meals, and brightly or creatively wrapped gifts just seem to appear. Or so it was, if you were 10, or 17, visiting my many aunts and grandmother in rural Oklahoma in the 60's.

I come from a long line of wonderful cooks. If I could once again have a moment in the warm fragrant kitchen of my grandmother and her sisters, I'd be happier than a pig in a mud pond. Come to think of it that kind of describes their kitchen when it was all hands on deck.

These somewhat tubby, absolutely hysterical ladies bumped and grunted into each other as they laughed, told jokes and fussed over who did the best anything. I sat on a stool, being declared the official taster and judge. I was a good taster, horrible judge. Some secret something told me not to choose one over the other, I would instead say such diplomatic praise like "This one is really chocolatey, this one is really crispy, this one is light, this one is creamy, this one melts in your mouth, this one makes you come back for more, they all win." I would moan and roll my eyes, and rub my stomach with ever increasing drama for their hungry egos.

Who knew I would later need all that diplomacy in dealing with my own 3 sons, foster kids times 250, and cops? Course, that and fifty cents won't even buy a cuppa' joe, now. But, diplomacy is a good skill to have, if you like smiles.

My aunts would roll their eyes and scold me for praising all, retorting "You're weak, Marisue, very weak." Aunt Cally, always my defender, would chide them saying "Not weak, just smart." Her winks in my direction typically included the conspiratorial whisper "We know I'm the best, don't we, dear?"

What witches! Delightful, spiteful witches, casting spells on the concoctions from the cupboard. Magical candy and cakes appeared, created from paperless recipes handed down by mothers gone, and passing on to those yet to be.

At Christmas time, I would cancel all dates, all friends, all movies, all shopping, just to spend an evening in that kitchen. To watch the creation of cakes, pies, candy, fudge, divinity, casseroles, breads, puddings, amid the tears, laughter, and messes was better than anything Hollywood or romance could put together.

Well endowed rears bent over, elbows poked, hair peaked out under crooked nets, double chins wagged and gossip reigned. Aprons were splashed with all colors and flavors; the floor was constantly mopped lest someone slip and break a hip, tho' fat chance, literally. The messier someone looked, the harder everyone laughed. I have no clue why then, I could eat tons of "bites" and not gain a pound, and now I look at sugar and have to walk 30 minutes.

The men of the home wisely left to play dominoes at the local feed shop. They could only stand so much estrogen. Weaklings.

When the bewitching cooks asked for my request for the buffet table on Christmas Day, it was always Buttermilk Sheet Cake. I could pig out on it, forget the turkey. The mere memory of the smell of this cake in the oven makes my mouth water. I dare not drool.

Everything I know about life, all the important moments, I learned on that kitchen stool, as I observed relationships of rivalry, teamwork, hardship, heard them remembering loved ones lossed in war, marveled at their remembrances of creating steak from bologna during the depression, and pondered over their constant laughter about things I thought were sad. This strange group of females seemed to "have it." They appeared solid in their position in life, firm in their refusal to give in to problems, strong in their determination to be happy no matter what, and when all else failed, to pretend until things actually were better.

This group of sisters sought to out sing, out shop, out exaggerate each other with every detail of their day.

No, I didn't want to be fat as they were, or as old as they were, nor have their blue-gray hair or their double chins. But, oh! How I wanted to be like them.

Today, as I share this recipe, and if you cook it, I hope you will invite the help of your kids and relatives, and sneak a peek at me watching it all, from the kitchen stool.

The Chocolate Buttermilk Sheet Cake of Christmas' Past

Ingredients:

• 2 cups flour
• 2 cups sugar (could substitute Splenda now)
• 1 tsp baking soda
• 1/4 tsp salt
• 1 cup butter (not margarine, oh my, they never used it!)
• 1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 2 eggs
• 1/2 cup buttermilk
• 1-1/2 tsp real vanilla

Procedure:

1. Preheat oven to 350F, grease and flour a large cake pan; set aside.
2. Stir together flour, sugar, baking soda, and salt; set side.
3. In saucepan, combine butter, cocoa powder and 1 cup water. Bring mixture just to boiling, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.
4. Add the cocoa mixture to flour mixture and beat with an electric mixer on medium to high speed until thoroughly combined, but don't overbeat. (the "skill" is to know when to quit)
5. Add eggs, buttermilk and vanilla, beat for 1 minutes, batter will be thin. Pour batter into prepared pan.
6. Bake about 25 minutes if you're using the sheet pan that's about 15 x 10 x 1 inch and bake 35 minutes for the 13 x 9 x 2 inch pan. The sheet pan is really best.
7. Guard against the edges becoming too hot and brown, or crisp. Check the oven heat, set the pan in the middle of the racks with sides of pan not touching oven sides. Experiment, practice makes perfect, you might need to bake this cake at 325 instead of 350.
8. Frost by pouring warm Chocolate Buttermilk frosting over the slightly cool cake, spreading evenly. Cook in pan for 1 hour, cut into bars, cover so they won't dry out, though the cake shouldn't last that long.

Buttermilk Chocolate Frosting: Combine 1/4 cup butter, 3 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder, and 3 tablespoons buttermilk in a medium saucepan. Bring to boiling. Remove immediately from heat. Add 2-1/4 cups powdered sugar and 1/2 teaspoon real vanilla. Beat until smooth. My aunts beat this with a wooden spoon really fast until it "looked" right. If you desire, you can add pecans at the end and stir.

Dipping a finger in the frosting to sneak a taste is the cook's privilege.

(Don't forget to pass the one on the kitchen stool a piece of warm cake.)