The cool weather has forced me to stay homebound and busy myself with more writing. As some of you know, I'm preparing my fourth book to be published but still have some editing
and sorting to do.
I came across one poem I started last year about my grandmother's kitchen and
how it was put together.
The poem I'm sharing here talks about spending the day
with grandma in her kitchen.
One year during the summer my aunt and uncle had to go to town for supplies for
the fall and winter seasons. They hitched up their horse team and wagon and
headed for town. I got to go with them for the seven-mile trip.
I loved seeing all the
birds and animals along the way and listening to stories about all of them.
When all the grandmas heard a trip was planned, they all hurried and made lists of
what they wanted in town.
My Grandma Louise was promised some large glass jars from the store manager.
She saw them on the shelves full of other products like mayonnaise or dill pickles.
When they were empty they were thrown away or resold. She asked the manager
if she could purchase them.
Being one of the favorite customers, she got them free
or she traded some beadwork for them. The manager had several saved for her
so she asked her niece to pick them up.
My grandpa also had a request. He spotted some wooden pallets behind the store
and did some bargaining for them.
So after all the shopping, my aunt and uncle picked up the jars and pallets and loaded
them into the back of the wagon. I was so curious to know what they were going
to do with them.
When we finally got home which was about an eight hour round trip, we stopped
at grandma's house first and unloaded the jars and pallets.
Later in the week I saw grandpa building a storage cupboard for grandma. When
I visited one day during the winter, I saw the beautifully designed cupboard.
And, in one of the other cupboards I saw that grandma had filled the jars with all
the dried foods, berries and grains that she had prepared during the autumn months.
One Winter Day
By Lois Red Elk
Cupboards in grandmother’s house seemed bare as
I watch her open one door after another. They are
bare of cans with pictures, pictures of peaches and
plums, pictures of corn and carrots, bare of packaged
store bought food. Instead I watch her take out large
old glass jars, dish towels bundle up with food, large
tin canisters and old time candy tins. I sit and wonder
at the heaviness and fullness of everything. Those
giant glass jars used to contain mayonnaise or dilled
pickles. They were given to her, empty, by the owner
of the local market. In grandma’s cupboard they are
filled with oatmeal, flour, coffee. Other jars are filled
with dried hominy, beans, dark colored berries, tea
and herbs. I watch as she pulls out a large, flowered
clothe bundle from a lower shelf. She unties knots,
opens the square and I see pieces of dried deer meat
tumble to the table. The one white lumpy sack, I had
wondered about, hanging from the wall, is filled with
slices of dried, white colored turnips. She pries off
the lid of a large canister and scoops out dried pieces
of squash that are sliced evenly into little square pieces.
I’m waiting for her to open the tin with the picture of
the little blond girl eating candy canes. But there is no
candy in the tin. Instead, grandma scopes out a small
handful of dried wild onions. I see her put everything
into a pot, fill it with water and set it on the wood stove.
Always she is humming, sometimes a woman song
sometimes a children’s song, but always in the heart
beat to keep up with her busy times. I watch her hands
move small logs of wood from the porch to a bin close
to the stove. Her hands are large, strong and fearless
from lifting her axe to split logs or split deer bones.
She stokes the fire with a black iron poker and adds
more wood. Again she opens the cupboard and takes
down the large mayonnaise jar full of flour along with
several small jars of powdered ingredients. On the
bottom shelves are her large mixing bowls. She sets
one of the bowls on the table then opens all the jars.
Into the bowl goes cups of flour, two fingers of sugar,
three fingers of baking powder, a dash of salt. Both
her hands slowly sifts and mixes everything. Finally
she adds dippers full of water directly from the cream
can. The large square board she uses to press out her
dough is stored behind the yellow canisters on the
counter. Soon steam begins to rise from the cooking
pot. She lifts the lid briefly. I can smell deer meat
and a hint of corn floating through the house, All her
baking tins are stored in the pallet cupboard next to
the wood pile. She pulls out one of them and lays it
on the counter. The stove seems hot as grandma
opens the oven door. She waves her had through
the opening above the racks, feels the air, and says
the oven is just right. All the dough is rolled out on
the board then biscuits are cut out with the lid of a jar.
After they are laid out on the pan, she puts them into
the oven. As she turns, she catches me watching and
smiles lovingly. Her cheeks puff and her eyes squint.
She reaches in her pocket and pulls out some candied
June berries, motions for me to come and spills the
sweet fruits into my hand. Always there is something
for me in her busy day. I don’t remember how she
made the fruits, I never saw that, but today as I think
about it, she probably had me in mind and hid the
fruits high up somewhere on the top shelves. Again,
another aroma filters through the rooms, the smell
of hot, fresh biscuits. Grandpa will be back soon.
We will all sit down together, eat, enjoy and laugh.
