Over the Stove
At the end of a long day when the last of the diehards were ready to call it quits and retire for the evening, Grandpa would always tell us, “You boys bes' haul in a few knotty ones and toss 'em in the fire, they'll burn hot for the rest o’ the night.” He was referring mostly about the locust and the osage and the hackberry burls; too tough to split and too precious to discard.
In the morning, Grandma would tell us to go grab two or three of the big chikuns’, the mean nasty ones, the ones that like to ‘chase ya and peck at ya when you play round the coop.' We were all petrified of actually actively seeking a confrontation with the brood, but orders from her were non-negotiable so away we went.
One of the more creative cousins suggested using a fish net to subdue our feathered opponent. I thought it was a stroke of genius, kind of like inventing the wheel or something. A different cousin -‘the rule follower’- thought we’d better go ask permission first. "The last time anyone ever used that net was to catch a ‘possum in the corn crib. Nobody cares,” I said. “Now go get it, it’s in the tool shed.”
It didn’t take long after that before we’d accomplished our given chore; all you had to do was pin ’em down long enough until somebody whacked ’em a few times with a wooden fence post. Grandma didn’t bother to ask, she was just happy about being able to put supper on the table later for a couple dozen folks.
So the lesson learned from those days many years ago while visiting the homestead on weekends was to prepare, to think ahead, and to make good use from everything the good Lord gave ya.
Today is the start of ‘Soup Day’, the day when large batches, about 12 quarts each I reckon, begins. It’s an all-day event sometimes – occurring over many days; the cutting and cooking and peeling and the portioning. And it’ll continue throughout the month of November and into December, when the weekends allow more free time from outdoor duties and the temperatures start dipping into the ‘nippy’ neighborhood.
The packages will identify themselves as ‘Young Free Range Springers’ or ‘Second Year Steer Grass Fed Angus,’ but those aren’t the ones I want. Oh, they’re good and worth the money; wholesome and tender and delicious. I want the ones that even though may perhaps advertise youthful vitality and wholesome marketability; no, instead I want the big dead rooster lookin’ package or the cut of beef that’s gnarled and grainy and capable of being used for a tire block.
A crock pot and/or a large kettle, put on low so it can simmer for a good chunk of the day – maybe two days, until it breaks down, separating muscle from muck and bone, fatty flavor interwoven into every fiber; those are what
I want and was taught as a youngster. Given the proper amount of time with a healthy pinch here and a subtle pinch there of seasoning and spices and vegetables, you’ll have a hearty robust meal that’ll stick to your ribs and get you through the darkest coldest winter’s night.
The menus consist of Chicken Noodle, Beef Stew, Ham n’ Bean, Beef Barley and the occasional Seafood Chowder, portion controlled in leftover plastic whip cream or margarine containers.
“Mmm,” she says. “That’s wonderful. Thank you, sweetheart.” “You’re welcome!” I reply excitedly. “I could sell a bowl of that in Omaha or K.C. along with a loaf of hot French bread or sour dough for $17.95… easy," I proudly and confidently say. "And I got eight meals outta that last batch; only cost me 20 bucks to put together! I should be on television.”
"You should just relax and finish the rest," I'm told. "Fine fine!" I say a little indignant. "Grandma would be proud."
