I sit down to write with, if not optimism then at least a measure of contentment. Feeling good is its own reward even if you have to talk yourself into it. But this is a true story. My dad never thought of himself as a storyteller but often he was the story’s instrument and it would channel itself through him. He was like our lawnmower, touchy and difficult to get started but once running nothing could turn it off. He was at his best when retelling stories from his childhood, either from his own experience or those passed down through oral tradition. Like the lawnmower’s first putt-putt-putt, those stories always began the same, “In those days . . .”
In those days: we didn’t have refrigerators, no ice in the summer, no need for it in winter. What we had was a root cellar that stayed cool year-round. Milk from the cow was warm and frothy in the bucket. It was set aside and covered until the cream rose to the top. They skimmed it off and transferred it to a glass jar. Then the milk was strained through a linen cloth and both stored in the darkness of the root cellar. It may be hard to imagine a kitchen with a cast iron, wood-burning cook-stove and no refrigerator but this story was hatched on a small farm around the year 1920, over a hundred years ago. My dad (a little boy then) would have been about 9 or10 years old. A late night snack would be found in the root cellar.
In the darkest dark he knew exactly where the cream jar was and it was his favorite treat, thick, rich and sweet on his tongue. He had a favorite long handle tea spoon, just right for scooping deep into the jar. On his way back to the house he might stop at the well to wash the spoon and no one the wiser. Of course they knew what he was doing but as long as it wasn’t a problem, it wasn’t a problem. If it was too cold or too wet he might settle for a leftover crust of bread and butter from the breadbox on the table. But a spoon full of sweet cream from the root cellar was his first choice.
One night in the dark, spoon in hand, he made his way down to the shelf where milk and cream were kept. Unscrewing the lid on the cream jar he dipped to the bottom and drew up a mounded heap of white delight. Without a second thought he popped it in his mouth. Before his lips could close over the spoon he froze, his breath taken away and no way to escape what must have felt like a mouth full of stinging bees. My father though he would die then and there. Instinct kicked in, spitting out the painful concoction out of his mouth made his tongue burn all the more. Surprise, surprise.
What he didn’t know was that a neighbor from the next farm had ground fresh horseradish that day and given a jar to my dad’s foster parents the Coles from Sheldon, Missouri. Ida, my surrogate grandmother had put it in the root cellar on the same shelf, in front of the cream jar. Their economy was as much share and barter as it was cash money. Times were hard and they were poor and that calls for creative cooperation. Even if there had been ketchup or mayonnaise on the shelf at the store in town they wouldn’t spend precious pennies on it. They seasoned food with home grown herbs and spices. Horseradish is related to radishes, mustard and other tangy seasonings. It has a large, white taproot with no odor or taste until it is broken or crushed. Freshly ground it rivals jalapeños for burn, enough to make little boys think they will surely die. Over time it loses its bite but as long as it is kept cool and sealed away from the air, you only put a very small portion on your plate.
My dad got over the burn and started breathing again, lived to be 90. A few years after my mother passed away my son and daughter were with me, stopping to check on their granddad. They went ahead, banged on the kitchen door but didn’t wait to be received. They walked straight into the kitchen. Before the door could close behind them they came scrambling back outside, coughing and fanning the air. Granddad was grinding fresh horseradish. Even if you know what is coming it may be too much for the mucus membranes of eyes and sinus to bear. The old man’s legacy for hot, spicy foods goes all the way back to an old root cellar in 1920.
That is a good story but in fact it is the back story. The here and now story is that in my kitchen, in a drawer there is a long handle tea spoon. The handle end is still silver plated but the spoon end has been worn thin by friction and chemical reactions. Its brassy color and patina speak to a century of spicy, dicy food and four generations of people who stirred and spooned with it. Stories never end. They just shuffle their feet and change direction; this one is still unfolding. Maybe someday one of my descendants might tell their friends and family about their great or great-great grandpa’s horseradish spoon. They might even reach in a silverware drawer and pull out the family heirloom. By then it could span five or six generations. Right now I have that good feeling, maybe not joy or bliss but certainly content with a long lived, much loved story and that is good enough.
In those days: we didn’t have refrigerators, no ice in the summer, no need for it in winter. What we had was a root cellar that stayed cool year-round. Milk from the cow was warm and frothy in the bucket. It was set aside and covered until the cream rose to the top. They skimmed it off and transferred it to a glass jar. Then the milk was strained through a linen cloth and both stored in the darkness of the root cellar. It may be hard to imagine a kitchen with a cast iron, wood-burning cook-stove and no refrigerator but this story was hatched on a small farm around the year 1920, over a hundred years ago. My dad (a little boy then) would have been about 9 or10 years old. A late night snack would be found in the root cellar.
In the darkest dark he knew exactly where the cream jar was and it was his favorite treat, thick, rich and sweet on his tongue. He had a favorite long handle tea spoon, just right for scooping deep into the jar. On his way back to the house he might stop at the well to wash the spoon and no one the wiser. Of course they knew what he was doing but as long as it wasn’t a problem, it wasn’t a problem. If it was too cold or too wet he might settle for a leftover crust of bread and butter from the breadbox on the table. But a spoon full of sweet cream from the root cellar was his first choice.
One night in the dark, spoon in hand, he made his way down to the shelf where milk and cream were kept. Unscrewing the lid on the cream jar he dipped to the bottom and drew up a mounded heap of white delight. Without a second thought he popped it in his mouth. Before his lips could close over the spoon he froze, his breath taken away and no way to escape what must have felt like a mouth full of stinging bees. My father though he would die then and there. Instinct kicked in, spitting out the painful concoction out of his mouth made his tongue burn all the more. Surprise, surprise.
What he didn’t know was that a neighbor from the next farm had ground fresh horseradish that day and given a jar to my dad’s foster parents the Coles from Sheldon, Missouri. Ida, my surrogate grandmother had put it in the root cellar on the same shelf, in front of the cream jar. Their economy was as much share and barter as it was cash money. Times were hard and they were poor and that calls for creative cooperation. Even if there had been ketchup or mayonnaise on the shelf at the store in town they wouldn’t spend precious pennies on it. They seasoned food with home grown herbs and spices. Horseradish is related to radishes, mustard and other tangy seasonings. It has a large, white taproot with no odor or taste until it is broken or crushed. Freshly ground it rivals jalapeños for burn, enough to make little boys think they will surely die. Over time it loses its bite but as long as it is kept cool and sealed away from the air, you only put a very small portion on your plate.
My dad got over the burn and started breathing again, lived to be 90. A few years after my mother passed away my son and daughter were with me, stopping to check on their granddad. They went ahead, banged on the kitchen door but didn’t wait to be received. They walked straight into the kitchen. Before the door could close behind them they came scrambling back outside, coughing and fanning the air. Granddad was grinding fresh horseradish. Even if you know what is coming it may be too much for the mucus membranes of eyes and sinus to bear. The old man’s legacy for hot, spicy foods goes all the way back to an old root cellar in 1920.
That is a good story but in fact it is the back story. The here and now story is that in my kitchen, in a drawer there is a long handle tea spoon. The handle end is still silver plated but the spoon end has been worn thin by friction and chemical reactions. Its brassy color and patina speak to a century of spicy, dicy food and four generations of people who stirred and spooned with it. Stories never end. They just shuffle their feet and change direction; this one is still unfolding. Maybe someday one of my descendants might tell their friends and family about their great or great-great grandpa’s horseradish spoon. They might even reach in a silverware drawer and pull out the family heirloom. By then it could span five or six generations. Right now I have that good feeling, maybe not joy or bliss but certainly content with a long lived, much loved story and that is good enough.
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