Those Were the Days
We are in the middle of the afternoon and the kitchen is cleaned up from handling cucumbers.
The first item on our list was to get the creamed cucumbers marinating for our supper. The “new potatoes” are scrubbed and ready to be the base for the cucumbers. That will be the sum total of our supper. Nothing more is needed for us.
I can’t believe I had to get salt from the next door neighbor to get the refrigerated pickles going. That does tell a bit about our use of salt . . . slim to none.
The smells, the mess . . . it was all reminiscent of the days when I canned and processed everything that grew above the ground and below it. If it had four legs or two legs and could be found on our farmyard, there was a portion of them in our freezer or on the fruit cellar shelves. My Mom taught me from earlier on to take pride in having plenty of food on hand for easy fixings. How else could I help with barn chores of every type, clean up Carrie and Kevin from trailing behind me and still have a wonderful meal on the table?
I can still visualize the mess in our small farmhouse kitchen during canning and freezing season. I then understood why my grandparents had the “summer kitchen,” which was a short distance from the farmhouse. Chris and Laura had it outfitted with a cookstove that was fed with wood. The pump for water was not very far away. Tin boilers with scalding hot water were on hand either for use in the processing or for cleaning up. The summer kitchen had a loft. The younger of us grandchildren could be in the summer kitchen during a work session, if we sat on the steps and didn’t take away from those who were busy with either things from the garden or butchering chickens and ducks. I can still hear the whistles that us kids were handed from the quills of the ducks. Grandpa Christ knew how to cut the ends and add a slit for it to become a noisemaker that was used . . . only outside. How lucky I am to have experienced those times. The fact that I can recall those events as if they were yesterday is so much of who I am today. Some people would not think it important to retain those memories. Maybe I live too much in memories. Perhaps it is how I turn my back on the reality of what the world holds today.
As I mentioned, our small kitchen was busy from May to the first hard frost. Strawberries and raspberries in the earlier spring, right to the time the last of the apples were put through the press for apple juice and apple cider. When the cabbage was readied for sauerkraut, there was always some cabbage that escaped from the cutter and flew at will. The apples for the press were the ones that weren’t quite good enough to wrap in paper to keep for raw eating into the early winter. You can only imagine how far apple juice can travel. The tick, tick sound when a child’s shoe walks on sticky apple juice and continues to carry it farther into the home. Orlin always made good use of the little gophers: Carrie and Kevin. Pails in hand they made many trips from the garden area into the house. We were not able to remain on the farm. I have no idea what memories Carrie and Kevin carry from that time. I am so appreciative of those times, of those memories. Memories such as those stay oh so sweet and push back the times that were less than sweet. It is amazing how God works in His mysterious ways.
This afternoon as Dennis and I were getting the kitchen back to normal, Dennis did ask how soon he could try the refrigerator pickles. The entire process is making a sugary syrup that the cucumbers absorb. Amazingly, within several days, the thinly sliced cucumbers take on the essence of the spices, sugar and vinegar. I believe in a couple of days the refrigerator will be raided for that first taste. Hark, I can almost hear the tick, tick of the shoes carrying pickle juice.