Today, I renewed a friendship with a woman I have never met. In fact, she died long before I even knew of her. I came to know much about her from her children, grandchildren and those who loved her. We would have liked each other, I think. We are similar is so many ways. It is not from the stories that I feel bonded with her though, it is through a hand written recipe card. Each year, about this time, I take down the little wooden box of cards and scraps of paper that tell the history of my family’s meals. I remove the creased and folded paper from the front. The ink is faded, the paper stained, but the recipe has not changed. “Zucchini Relish”, it reads, “Start with 10 cups grated Zucchini”. Zucchini, that long maligned and joked about vegetable. I am embarrassed to admit that I had to go begging for the dark green squash this year, as I experienced a total crop failure. What kind of gardener can’t grow zucchini? This one, obviously. As I run the green rind with its firm white flesh across the hand grater, I silently thank the kind stranger who so generously shared his abundant harvest with this incompetent gardener. “Add 4 to 5 cups grated onion” is next and I think sad thoughts as I grate the onion so as not to waste the tears. “Put in large container, add 3 TBS salt”. I pull down the old enamel dishpan that belonged to my grandmother and pile in the freshly grated squash and onion sprinkling it with snow-white salt. "Let sit for 3 hours to overnight”. I like this woman! She understands that sometimes life gets in the way and you can’t always finish something in the time allotted. While the squash rests, I will process the tomatoes that came out of my garden this morning. They are round and ripe and the perfect shade of scarlet. I think about my grandfather who allowed me to tag along with him in his meticulous garden. He never grew angry when my little feet trod on seedlings or I pulled up and ate the carrots he was planning for dinner. Had it not been for him, I probably wouldn’t have a clue how to plant corn or grow a green pepper, let alone choose the perfect tomato. I scald, peel and cut the tomatoes; pushing them down into glass jars that that I have used since I was a new bride. If I run short on modern jars, I will bring out the old ones, rescued from my grandmother’s basement and check them carefully for cracks and chips. When the jars are full, with no air spaces and a layer of juice covers the top, hot lids are screwed down. Next, I carefully lower them into the boiling water in the old granite-ware canner on the stove. By the time they are finished, it will be time to continue with the relish. “Chop fine 4 to 5 cups red and green peppers”. As I put them into the food processor, I wonder how long it took the original cook to hand chop the peppers small enough for relish. In seconds mine are done, cut to uniform size and texture. Fresh from my garden, they smell as wonderful as they look. I consult the card propped on the small shelf just below my cupboard. There is stained thumb print where she must have held it close to see the measurements, just as I am doing now. The spices come next, “1 to 1½ tsp. turmeric” I love the deep golden color and earthy smell of this exotic spice. It seems that it should be used more often than to only make pickles and relish. “1 to 2 tsp. nutmeg” I appreciate the estimated measurements of this project. The writer must have realized that life cannot be measured to the exact; sometimes it requires more of this and less of that. Personal taste is more important than precision. “2 to 3 tsp. celery seed, 1 to 3 tsp. black pepper” I grind the pepper in an old coffee grinder. I adore the coarse texture and sharp bite of fresh ground pepper. How many housewives of the past never knew the bright flavor of pepper fresh ground? All that would have been available when this recipe was written were spices of unknown origin and vintage, kept for possibly years in tiny tins at the back of the cupboard. I think how much we take for granted now, strawberries in January, corn on the cob in March. What would they have thought walking into our mega-supermarket today? “4 to 5 cups sugar” (the sweetness of life) “1 ½ quarts vinegar, (the bitterness and sorrow) “¼ cup or so corn starch” She never tells me that it must be mixed together or to put it in a large pot. She was a woman who believed in common sense and assumed that everyone would know enough about cooking to do this or they shouldn’t be in the kitchen. She probably learned this recipe at her mother’s side, learning, step by step the alchemy of cooking. How could she ever know that this card would end up in the hands of someone who had to learn the process all by herself? I promise at this point that if I ever have a granddaughter, I’ll teach her all the secrets and techniques of all the family favorites. “Bring to boil, add peppers and rinsed, drained zucchini. Boil three minutes”. The smell in the house makes your mouth and eyes water at the same time. It smells like history, the history of women, generation after generation, putting by food for the winter to feed their families. I look at the card again and notice that at the bottom, in different colored ink, is written, “Carl likes 2 tsp. hot pepper flakes”. I run out to the garden yet again, and pick a few ripe red jalapeño peppers. I chop them up in the processor till they are as fine as the pepper flakes would be and toss them in the pot. Perhaps I will walk a few jars down to my friend Carl when it is done, so he can taste his mother’s food again. “Pack in jars and seal. Ladling the green and red vegetables with the rich golden sauce into the jars, I think of my connection with this woman again. She must have stood at the stove on a hot summer day, much like this one and gone through the exact same motions. Fill the jar to an inch within the top, wipe the rim clean and put the hot lid on top. When all the jars are full, screw the bands down and carefully lower into the canner, trying not to splash the boiling water on the dog lying by the stove. I can feel her hands as mine when I dry my fingers on my apron. I can imagine the satisfaction as she looked at her sparkling jars of produce lining the pantry shelves. As soon as the jars are done and lined up on a tea towel cooling, I think I’ll pour a cup of coffee and go outside to the porch. From there, I’ll be able to hear the “ping” of the jars as they seal. I’ll sit on the swing and think of this woman, my friend, who unknowingly passed a recipe for life to someone she would never know. I’ll drink my coffee and wonder….. What I will leave behind for someone else to find.
Posted on: Sat, 07 Sep 2013 16:16:00 +0000
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