The Food of a Younger Land (29 page)

T
here are two kinds of lumber camp cooks, the Baking Powder Buns and the Sour-dough Stiffs. Sour-dough Sam belonged to the latter school. He made everything but coffee out of sour-dough. He had only one arm and one leg, the other members having been lost when his sour-dough barrel blew up.”

So reads a passage in one of the Paul Bunyan stories. And, as in all tall tales, the hyperbole serves to emphasize a truth. The sour-dough pancake has always been a favorite food among Wisconsin lumberjacks, and few bull cooks worthy of the name fail to decorate their breakfast tables with huge platters stacked high with steaming, golden, sour-dough cakes. To the camp cook a continuous supply of sour-dough is an indispensable part of camp equipment, and he is never without his batch of “starter.” The “starter” is a portion of dough reserved from previous mixtures and stored in the kind of barrel that proved disastrous to Sour-dough Sam. Zealously guarded, the “starter” can be kept for weeks in ordinary temperatures, lively though it gets.

The night before the pancakes are to be fried, the cook assembles his batter, using the “starter” as a leavening agent. Flour and water are added to the “starter,” and the mixture is left near the stove to rise. By morning it is a light and frothy mass smelling pungently of fermentation. After reserving from the batch a “starter” for the next morning’s pancakes, the cook adds salt, sugar, eggs, a little fat, and a pinch of soda. He pours large spoonfuls of the batter on a huge, fire-blackened griddle, abundantly greased with smoking pork rind and very hot. Then, after the griddlecake has fried a few moments, he flips it expertly. Soon the sour-dough pancake emerges to greet the morning appetite of the lumberjack.

In the old camps it was customary for the cook to install, near the door of the shanty, a crock containing sour-dough batter in various stages of fermentation. Into the crock went all left-over batter, and scraps of bread, doughnuts, cake, or pancakes, which quickly attained the semi-liquid consistency of the batter.

J. WILLIS KRATZER

N
ow, just what beats a big pan of steaming hot baked beans? Nothing, for there is nothing better. But they have to be baked right. Why has Boston all the fame for baked beans? One need not go beyond that oven right over there to taste beans that make Boston take a poor second. Is that judgment too rash? No, for the taste of Boston beans never appealed to yours truly. I want them baked right.

It takes about four hours to slow cook beans right, and that before one thinks of baking them. Mind you, I said “slow cook.” That roiling and boiling on a rip-snorting fire was never meant for the cooking of beans. Then take those beans and add minced onion, salt and pepper, mustard, vinegar, brown sugar and bacon. Then if you make about a half gallon of baked beans, pour in a full bottle of good tomato catsup; don’t be stingy on that, either. Then bake in a slow oven, hot enough to cook but not to blister the beans, for from one to two hours as needed.

I’ll dub these “Nebraska baked beans” and if the world will try them they will be down on Boston’s forevermore.

ESTELLA TENBRINK

T
he huge threshing machine with its coat of bright red paint, chugging down the road behind the puffing steam engine, was a thrilling sight to one little girl on a Gage County, Nebraska, farm in the late ’90s. With keen interest she watched it turn into her father’s grain field. By this time the men of the neighborhood—brawny, sun-tanned fellows, clad in blue overalls and broad brimmed straw hats, their necks protected with red bandanna handkerchiefs—were arriving. Some came with hay racks and pitch forks; others with lumber wagons and shovels. Even the horses seemed to sense the excitement as they pricked up their ears and pulled at the reins. Eagerly the little girl listened for the blast of the shrill whistle, and the hum of machinery which announced that at last the long-anticipated day was here:

The threshing field was a scene of busy activity never to be forgotten. The cooperation of all was required to keep the work running smoothly. Some of the men with their long pitch forks piled high the yellow sheaves of grain on the tall hay racks. There was keen competition as the men raced to see who would be the first to feed his rack of sheaves into the machine which separated the grain from the straw. Other men hauled the oats or wheat to the granary and shoveled it into the bins. Usually a flock of hungry chickens, determined not to let a single grain that fell on the ground go to waste, had to be shooed away.

As the threshing continued, the pile of yellow straw rose higher and higher. To the little girl, who missed not a single detail of the scene, it was a mountain—her mountain, with its delightful bumps and hollows. It was a perfect place to climb during the sunny hours of day, but a place to be shunned at nightfall for that was where the bears and wolves slept. The little girl knew, for had she not seen their holes, deep and dark on the sides of the mountain?

But on this red-letter day the little girl could not spend all the time watching her straw mountain grow. She must help mother cook for the threshers. All the previous day she had been busy helping mother with the preparations. She felt happy anticipation, getting ready for the threshers—like dressing for a party. At last they were really coming!

How good the loaves of home-made bread smelled when mother took them from the oven. It was fun to dip a small white cloth into some butter and rub the brown crusts with it so that they would be soft and shiny. To see the big pile of loaves wrapped in a snowy cloth gave her a feeling of preparedness. It was fun to take the sugar cookies from the pans and pile them on plates to cool. And what little girl would not feel important when she was asked to beat the whites of eggs while mother cooked the syrup of sugar and water until it dripped in threads from the spoon? She felt quite grown-up as she slowly poured the syrup over the stiffly beaten egg whites while mother beat as hard as she could until the frosting was just right to spread on the spice cake. There were always two or three cakes. Sometimes there was a brownstone front, a reddish brown chocolate cake with a creamy brown sugar frosting. Sometimes there was a marble cake or a yellow sponge cake. The little girl liked to measure the sugar and flour, she liked to grease the cake pans; but best of all she liked to “lick” the frosting pan and the cake crock.

The day before the threshers came was a busy one. There was the house to sweep and sut and the kitchen floor to scrub until the bare boards shone. The cream was churned up and down with a dasher until the little balls of butter appeared. Then it was worked into round pats, decorated with the edge of the butter paddle, and put away in a cool cave. Potatoes were dug from the patch in the garden—enough to last until the threshers left. They usually stayed two days. A big bucket of beets was pulled from the patch in the garden, washed and boiled until tender. The little girl liked to slide off the skins after mother had poured some cold water on a pan full, she liked to slice the beets into the stone jar and watch mother pour on the hot vinegar to which had been added salt, pepper and a little sugar.

With eager anticipation the little girl looked forward to the trip in the spring wagon to the nearest town for a roast of beef. Mother always selected a nice big one. It was wrapped in brown paper and kept covered with a thick blanket all the way home and then it was hurried to the cave for there were no refrigerators on the farms in those days.

Mother had the pies in the oven very early in the morning on the day that the threshers came. There were always plenty of them—at least a half dozen. Mince, apple, peach, cherry, raisin, and custard were favorites. Sometimes cream fillings full of coconut or chocolate, or a lemon filling was poured into a crust which had been baked the day before. The little girl loved to see a row of delicious pies placed on a shelf to cool. The pies must be out of the oven early so as to make room for the roast for it took a long time to cook such a big roast tender. Mother said that it wasn’t good if it cooked too fast. Odors that made the little girl’s mouth water came from the oven every time it was opened.

To work alone with mother getting ready for the threshers made one feel important and necessary. But when the threshers came, it was nice to have two grown-up ladies dressed in crisp “calico” dresses and aprons in the kitchen helping mother. A little girl needed some time to watch the straw mountain grow, and then it was such fun to go with mother when she helped the neighbor in return, especially if there was a little girl one’s own age to play with. It was so much nicer to have a little playmate along when one went to the garden for the vegetables. There were green beans, cucumbers, onions, cabbage, sweet potatoes and tomatoes and if it was not too late in the season, there was sweet corn. Mother always cooked every kind of vegetable that she had for the threshers. And they must be gathered on the morning that they were used so that they would be “nice and fresh,” mother said. Two little girls enjoyed sitting under the shade of a tree while they snapped the beans. How delicious they were cooked slowly with a ham bone. They enjoyed peeling the cucumbers and slicing them very thin into some salty water to “draw out the green.” Pepper, salt and vinegar was added and then they were ready for the table. There was always a big dish of stewed tomatoes well seasoned with butter, pepper and salt, as well as a dish of sliced fresh ones. Sometimes there was a big dish of sweet potatoes candied in brown sugar and butter and a dish of buttered beets. The dinner would not have been complete without a dish of cole slaw. And such slaw: The little girl chopped the crisp, white cabbage very fine on a wooden board with a slaw cutter. Mother added salt, pepper, sugar and vinegar until it tasted just right. Then she sent the little girl to the sour cream can in the cave. With a ladle she dipped the thick, sour cream from the can, a little at a time, and stirred it through the slaw with a spoon. “One had to be careful so as not to get too much cream,” Mother said, and the little girl was anxious to have it perfect so the threshers would eat lots of it. Mother liked to have the men eat lots because then she knew that they liked her cooking.

By eleven-thirty all was hustle and bustle. Dishes of preserves, quivering jelly—several kinds of each, chopped pickles and beet pickles and the dish of cole slaw were all on the table, which had been stretched its full length and spread with a red and white plaid cloth. If only the flies didn’t get in, thought the little girl: One didn’t like to have to shoo them off the table with a branch from the maple tree. The roast was sliced and placed in the warming oven where it would stay hot. Time was moving fast. Soon the whistle would blow for dinner. The big kettle of potatoes was mashed, seasoned with salt, pepper and a piece of butter, then some rich, sweet cream added, and the whole beat until it was fluffy. The dripping from the roast was thickened and made into delicious brown gravy. The pies and cakes were cut. A big plate of home-made bread was on the table.

There was a blast from the whistle, the machine stopped; and the men, hungry and dirty, hurried to the house. There were always at least twenty of them—so many that some had to wait for the second table.

Mother and the neighbor ladies busied themselves “dishing-up” while the men “washed-up” in the tin basin which had been placed on the bench under the shade tree. They jostled one another and cracked jokes as they wiped on the roller towels provided for them.

Mother always sent the little girl to the cave for a pat of butter while the men were washing, for it would have been disgraceful to serve soft butter to the first table. One couldn’t help it if the butter turned to oil in a little while. As the little girl, clad in a crisp, blue “calico” dress which mother had her put on after the table was set so that it would be spotless at dinner time, slipped quietly by the threshers on her way to the cave, she wondered why such big men wiped so much dirt off on mother’s clean towels—like little boys. There was plenty of tar soap and a big tub of water had been warming in the sun all morning. Mother said that there “just wasn’t any sense in it”: It made the washing so hard.

How the hungry men “stored away the food”: It was all on the table—meat, vegetables, pickles, preserves, gravy, cups of steaming hot coffee, pitchers of thick cream. Even the cakes and pies and cookies were on the table. It was so full that it fairly groaned under the weight. The little girl and her playmate were kept busy filling the bread plate and the water glasses. Mother said they mustn’t forget—that it was their responsibility. The grown-up ladies kept all the other dishes filled and watched to see that everything was passed a sufficient number of times.

Dirty dishes were hurried from the table as soon as a place was vacant. They were washed and put back, ready for the next hungry man. The threshers laughed and joked and ate until they could eat no more. One by one they retired to a shade tree where they rested and told stories until the whistle blew. That was the signal for threshing to start again.

There was always plenty of food left for the cooks, even if it wasn’t quite so hot as when it was served to the first table. The “little cooks” ate and ate until they could hold no more. It was the best dinner one could imagine: It was even better than a “company” dinner because there was lots more excitement. Mother always let the little girls play while the table was being cleared and the dishes washed. She said they had been such “good little helpers” all morning and they would be needed again when the hungry men came in for supper.

A big kettle of small potatoes in the jackets was boiled while the dishes were being washed. The women relaxed a little now that the rush was over and visited while they cleaned away the dinner. In the middle of the afternoon there was time for a short rest in the “sitting” room. Then the table must be set again, the big slices of home-cured ham fried—heaping platters of it. The potatoes which had been peeled and sliced were browned in the fresh ham grease. A big pot of steaming coffee was made, the left-overs from dinner were warmed, another dish of cole slaw was made, and the table again groaned with food when the whistle blew for supper. It never blew until after the sun went down unless the job was finished early. Sometimes the big red machine threshed away until it was dark. This was when they wanted to finish so that they could pull to the next place that night. Then it was very late when the supper dishes were washed by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. It was always late when the dishes were washed, thought the little girl. And it wasn’t any fun then. The excitement was all over and she was so sleepy that mother always sent her to bed.