A long, long time ago, I
was a girl on a farm in northeastern Pennsylvania. It was a small dairy farm,
run by my uncle, who also lived with us.
Growing up on a farm has some benefits, obvious and less so.
4 oz. Cheddar cheese, grated
1 oz. butter
Hot toast
2 tbsp. milk (or bitter ale, optional)
1 tsp. mustard
Seasonings to taste
Heat the butter in the saucepan. Add the milk (or ale), mustard, cheese and seasoning. Stir until the cheese has melted. Pour over toast and serve quickly
Yes. I am a farm girl, at heart.
Over the years, I've attempted to camouflage that fact. College helped. Living in a city helped. But careful observers can tell. It's all in the hands.
In the knuckles, actually.
Regardless of how careful the manicure, my hands always remind me of that episode of Seinfeld about the girl with Man Hands.
Over the years, I've attempted to camouflage that fact. College helped. Living in a city helped. But careful observers can tell. It's all in the hands.
In the knuckles, actually.
Regardless of how careful the manicure, my hands always remind me of that episode of Seinfeld about the girl with Man Hands.
Growing up on a farm has some benefits, obvious and less so.
First, my brother and I could
more or less run wild for long periods of time. This was the generation that
didn't believe in a lot of supervision. Although it did believe in spanking.
Funny how those priorities have changed over time.
Another benefit was in learning firsthand the cycle of life. Farms are all about feeding, fucking, and dying. Sometimes all in the same day. I confess to having participated in the execution-style killing of chickens. Although never did I actually wield the ax. I left that up to my brother, who although younger was a lot more pragmatic about the entire process. Instead, I took upon myself the role of Chief Consoler: I held the chicken and calmed it by gently stroking its feathers, and then placed its head on the block, between the V of two embedded nails.
I thought the least I could do was to offer it some small comfort before the ax fell. And then I held its feet and wings tightly as it flapped its life's blood away.
I know a lot about chickens. Probably too much.
*********
Living on a farm is not living in the lap of luxury. At least it wasn't for us. And we were lucky: my father worked at a local paper mill, and my uncle ran the farm. It was a good balance. Still, we lived as if we were skating on poverty's edge.
In truth, we weren't. But there are fictions created in every family. Still, we re-cycled before there was such a word. My mother would save sharp scraps of soap and put them in the plastic mesh bags that once held onions to make a home-style Brillo Pad. She re-used Christmas wrap, ribbon, bows, and sometimes even nametags. And then there was food. My mother was relentless with her use of leftovers. She saved every last bit, even six green beans, for use in a casserole.
Farms are all about food. From the vegetable gardens we tended to the animals we raised, there was a steady undercurrent of menu planning, at least for my mother. While she was counting chickens, estimating how many she would need to freeze to get us through to Spring, I was naming them and consoling them.
*******
My mother was not an adventurous cook. There isn't time for much culinary adventure when you're a housewife and a farmwife. She tended to rotate through a few tried and true standards. Which was good because, in general, we weren't adventurous eaters. Except for me.
I liked to try new and different things. I was fascinated by the unusual. On rare occasions, my mother would splurge and purchase a big can of La Choy chop suey, which included a separate container of fried chow mein noodles. I was in awe of the bean sprouts.
*******
Another benefit was in learning firsthand the cycle of life. Farms are all about feeding, fucking, and dying. Sometimes all in the same day. I confess to having participated in the execution-style killing of chickens. Although never did I actually wield the ax. I left that up to my brother, who although younger was a lot more pragmatic about the entire process. Instead, I took upon myself the role of Chief Consoler: I held the chicken and calmed it by gently stroking its feathers, and then placed its head on the block, between the V of two embedded nails.
I thought the least I could do was to offer it some small comfort before the ax fell. And then I held its feet and wings tightly as it flapped its life's blood away.
I know a lot about chickens. Probably too much.
*********
Living on a farm is not living in the lap of luxury. At least it wasn't for us. And we were lucky: my father worked at a local paper mill, and my uncle ran the farm. It was a good balance. Still, we lived as if we were skating on poverty's edge.
In truth, we weren't. But there are fictions created in every family. Still, we re-cycled before there was such a word. My mother would save sharp scraps of soap and put them in the plastic mesh bags that once held onions to make a home-style Brillo Pad. She re-used Christmas wrap, ribbon, bows, and sometimes even nametags. And then there was food. My mother was relentless with her use of leftovers. She saved every last bit, even six green beans, for use in a casserole.
Farms are all about food. From the vegetable gardens we tended to the animals we raised, there was a steady undercurrent of menu planning, at least for my mother. While she was counting chickens, estimating how many she would need to freeze to get us through to Spring, I was naming them and consoling them.
*******
My mother was not an adventurous cook. There isn't time for much culinary adventure when you're a housewife and a farmwife. She tended to rotate through a few tried and true standards. Which was good because, in general, we weren't adventurous eaters. Except for me.
I liked to try new and different things. I was fascinated by the unusual. On rare occasions, my mother would splurge and purchase a big can of La Choy chop suey, which included a separate container of fried chow mein noodles. I was in awe of the bean sprouts.
*******
Living on a farm meant work for
everyone. We kids were, frankly, slave labor. There was an endless list of
chores to do. And so nothing more completely irritated my father or mother
than to see me settled in a chair with a book.
"Have you done your chores?"
"Yeah."
"Well, in that case, why don't you make dinner?"
I was pretty young the first time I ever cooked for my family...maybe nine or ten. It was a big deal. They were big eaters....big, predictable eaters, used to eating roughly the same things at the same time every day.
I, however, knew I was destined to be unpredictable. And, so, for my big debut as family chef, I pored through cookbooks for hours before finally settling on something suitable interesting: Welsh Rarebit.
It met all of my criteria. It was easy (just a handful of ingredients). It sounded exotic. It contained cheese. And its name sounded a lot like "rabbit," which amused me.
(The cheese part was particularly important. We'd just received a five pound block of American cheese, courtesy of the Women, Infant, and Children program. That's right: we qualified for a cheese subsidy. And there was no way my mother was going to let that go to waste.)
In case you are wondering, Welsh Rarebit is, basically, melted cheese on toast.
My family is not a talkative bunch during dinner. They tend to quickly get down to business. There were surprisingly few questions or comments, most clarifications about its name. It was, even by our standards, one of the faster meals in memory. The leftovers gave my mother quite a challenge for a few days.
I cooked sporadically after that. Each time, my family gamely ate whatever new experiment I put in front of them without complaint. Fortunately for them it was rarely the same thing twice. In each case, they ploughed onward, in true, stoic farmer fashion. I like to think that my fearless exploration of other cuisines broadened their horizons. But, maybe not.
Welsh Rarebit"Have you done your chores?"
"Yeah."
"Well, in that case, why don't you make dinner?"
I was pretty young the first time I ever cooked for my family...maybe nine or ten. It was a big deal. They were big eaters....big, predictable eaters, used to eating roughly the same things at the same time every day.
I, however, knew I was destined to be unpredictable. And, so, for my big debut as family chef, I pored through cookbooks for hours before finally settling on something suitable interesting: Welsh Rarebit.
It met all of my criteria. It was easy (just a handful of ingredients). It sounded exotic. It contained cheese. And its name sounded a lot like "rabbit," which amused me.
(The cheese part was particularly important. We'd just received a five pound block of American cheese, courtesy of the Women, Infant, and Children program. That's right: we qualified for a cheese subsidy. And there was no way my mother was going to let that go to waste.)
In case you are wondering, Welsh Rarebit is, basically, melted cheese on toast.
My family is not a talkative bunch during dinner. They tend to quickly get down to business. There were surprisingly few questions or comments, most clarifications about its name. It was, even by our standards, one of the faster meals in memory. The leftovers gave my mother quite a challenge for a few days.
I cooked sporadically after that. Each time, my family gamely ate whatever new experiment I put in front of them without complaint. Fortunately for them it was rarely the same thing twice. In each case, they ploughed onward, in true, stoic farmer fashion. I like to think that my fearless exploration of other cuisines broadened their horizons. But, maybe not.
4 oz. Cheddar cheese, grated
1 oz. butter
Hot toast
2 tbsp. milk (or bitter ale, optional)
1 tsp. mustard
Seasonings to taste
Heat the butter in the saucepan. Add the milk (or ale), mustard, cheese and seasoning. Stir until the cheese has melted. Pour over toast and serve quickly
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