WIDE MEADOWS: TREASURES IN THE KITCHEN (A CONTINUING SERIES)

The kitchen was the hub of our lives. From it we went forth, and to it we returned. The front door was used only by strangers -- or when it was known that Mama and Grandma were having Ladies Aid. The kitchen was big senough (once it had been a single-room log-cabin home) for one to carry on an industry of dressmaking, or reading, at one end, completely undisturbed by the rest of the activity going on, yet be pleasantly aware of the nearness of loved ones and the hum of homey occupations.

How pleasant it was on gloomy, dark winter days after the long, cold walk home from school to come into its warmth! Rain dripped off the low eaves and made a cozy patter on the pantry roof. Old Tabby, curled up on the hearth, pursed loudly, loving the stir of our homecoming and the good smells emanating from the oven. The teakettle on the back of the stove sang gaily and every once in a while a log in the fireplace would break in two, causing a busy sputtering of sparks.

Many of our treasures were concentrated in this one room where we could look around and see them all at once. There was the clock on the mantel with its exquisite jewel-like pendulum, the big hunk of many-faceted green glass that was used as a doorstop, the colorful Mexican basket hanging on the wall, and the Blue Willow bean jar on the cabinet. The walls were decorated with such necessary items as the almanac, the shaving mirror and comb rack, and a map of Europe. The continent of Europe was changing. Mama had marked with a pencil the location of the Marne River where Cousin Joe had recently been killed. There was a hug bird chart we'd gotten with carefully saved Arm and Hammer baking soda cards. Winter birds, summer birds, meadow birds, mountain birds were all assembled in one setting, and the purple grackle had an insect in its mouth.

The big square table in the center of the room wasn't merely a place to eat. It doubled as Mama's cutting board when she sewed. It was our study table. There we played checkers and dominoes and a most peculiar game that I have never seen repeated by other children. It originated in the fertile brain of Lou, and had it been named it would probably have been called "Salting the Heifers." This game was best indulged in when Mama and Grandma and all other adults were outside. A small pile of salt was spooned onto the corners of the table. Then we pursued each other around the table, having to stop at each corner and take a lick at the salt with our tongues. What hilarious fun to see the pained expressions on each other's faces when we had reached the saturation point of salt consumption. Of course the floor became good and crunchy, too, and ofttimes, if it were summer when we played barefooted and there happened to be a raw, sore toe, one participant might be sent yelling for the wash pan, where the offended member was quickly dipped.

But it was at Christmas time that the kitchen really came into its own. Although there was much good cooking going on at other seasons throughout the year, especially at threshing time or any summer Sunday when company was expected, still it was at Christmas that it was most enjoyed, for all heat from the old black range was welcome and comforting then.

We seldom had company for Christmas dinner on account of the roads. By this time frozen ruts were so deep and continuous that it was a cold, hazardous journey for the aunts and uncles and cousins. If the neighbors dropped in, they walked, and we would serve them hot buttered popcorn or a plate of molasses candy. But still we baked and friend and stewed and boiled from a week before Christmas clear up through New Year's, experimenting with new recipes and perfecting the old ones.

Throughout the holidays, everyone's favorite cake, cookie, or pie would be served, so the route to the cellar, the smokehouse, and pantry, that great triumvirate for the garnishment of our table, was kept well traversed. There was a constant warm smell of vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, rising dough, roasting meat, baking bread, and boiling cranberries. We picked out quarts of hickory nuts and walnut kernels and shelled gallons of popcorn.

Starting off early in the holidays with the plebeian gingerbread, butter, molasses, and ginger cookies, we progressed through raisin, mincemeat, and pumpkin pies; raised doughnuts fried in the deep lard in the old three-legged kettle; pound cake, devil's cake, hickory-nut cake, divinity, and fudge, to wind up with the glorious queens of all, Grandma's five-layer coconut cake and Mama's peach custard pudding.

Of course, in an doubt and round about all these sweetenings were the rosy, pink slices of baked ham; the pungent brown sausages replete with salt, pepper, and plenty of sage; golden, bubbly chicken pie, butter beans, green beans, pinto beans; fried, baked, boiled and scalloped potatoes; Cole slaw, and a roster of pickles and jellies that would reach from one end of the valley to the other.

But on Christmas Day, there for dinner, centering the table on the glass-stemmed stand, was the high, light, creamy, five-layer, becoconutted cake, and for supper the golden-studded, meringue-covered peach custard pudding.

Grandma had three, little, thin, tin cake pans which she kept on top of the pantry shelves for her cake-baking alone. Woe be to anyone who dared to use them for anything else. In preparation for her cake baking she washed and dried these carefully, greased and floured them lightly, and distributed them equally distant along the top of the cook table. There was nothing slipshod or bang-up about this culinary concoction.