Thanksgiving Day, 1949

During all the times that I can remember from the time I was born until I left home, my mother always prepared a delicious dinner (the noon meal) for Thanksgiving Day. The food for the occasion was dependent upon our family's financial circumstances, but usually included a roasted chicken, Mama's wonderful cornbread dressing, home-grown green beans with bacon (no ubiquitous Green Bean Casserole back in those days), candied carrots, ambrosia (fresh oranges and coconut), yeast rolls made from scratch, cranberry-orange relish, and a pie or two -- a mincemeat pie (Mama and I especially liked mincemeat) and a pumpkin pie. It was a meal to which we all looked forward, mostly for the pie, which we did not have very often.

However, the Thanksgiving Dinner of which I have the strongest memories bore no resemblance whatsoever to the feast described above. Herein lies the tale.

I was 15, a sophomore at Central High School in Albuquerque, New Mexico. My best friend was a classmate named Betty J. We spent much time together at school and visited each other's homes regularly on weekends.

In mid-November, Mrs. J. invited me to go on a picnic on Thanksgiving Day (weather permitting) with their family - Mrs. J., Betty, and Betty’s cute brother, Dan. Their destination was the foothills of the Sandia Mountains north of Albuquerque close to a (still) small town of Bernalillo (burn-a-lee’-yo). We would leave around 10:30 in the morning, drive to the Bernalillo area, find a suitable picnic place, have our lunch and return home early in the afternoon. Mama wasn’t too enthused about my missing Thanksgiving dinner with the family, but after I begged and pleaded, she gave me permission to go with my friend. I was ecstatic!

The day dawned bright, clear and very crisp, as a November morning in New Mexico should be. The trip took only about 30 minutes and we were soon unloading the picnic basket and the blanket/tablecloth onto a hillside that was surrounded by piñon pines. The air was filled with the scent of pines, dry earth and rocks. (Do you know that rocks have their own smell -- especially in large quantities? At least, I think they do.) I was excited by the prospect of being able to pick piñones (peen-yo’-nes), otherwise known as pine nuts. Pine nuts, which are very, very tiny, are most often roasted, which causes their shells to become brittle and easy to crack, revealing the sweet, sort of rosin-tasting nut within. However, raw piñones also are delicious, even if getting through their shells is a bit more difficult (one does it with one’s teeth.) Not everyone likes pine nuts, but I really, really like them, raw or roasted.

But, I digress.

After we had explored for a while, and had picked a double-handful of piñones, Betty’s mother called us to lunch. I had no idea what she had brought in the picnic basket, but I soon learned. Our Thanksgiving meal consisted of a jar of sweet pickles, a can of Vienna Sausages, and a large can of pork and beans. 1-2-3. The end.

The pickles and sausages we could eat with our fingers (napkins were provided), but Betty’s mother had brought no plates or bowls and, as it turned out, only one (1) spoon for the beans. I well remember that we passed the can of beans from one person to another, sharing not only the can of beans, but a spoon, as well.

When I got back home, I’m sure I made a bee-line for whatever was left over from my family’s Thanksgiving dinner. As you might expect, I have no recollection of what my mother had prepared, but I will never forget eating cold pork and beans with a shared spoon on Thanksgiving Day.

I leave you with these words from W.E.B. DuBois

"Give us thankful hearts...

in this the season of Thy Thanksgiving.

May we be thankful for health and strength,

for sun and rain and peace.

Let us seize the day and the opportunity

and strive for that greatness of spirit

that measures life not by its disappointments

but by its possibilities,

and let us ever remember that true gratitude

and appreciation shows itself neither

in independence nor satisfaction

but passes the gift joyfully on

in larger and better form."

Wishing you a blessed Thanksgiving Day -- even if it's pork and beans.

Yum! Yum!

Lemon-Pear-Basil Tart

This past Sunday afternoon, I accompanied Gardening Daugher, her husband and 16-yr old daughter to my sister's home in Hot Springs Village.  Sister had asked GD and hubby to assist in realigning some closet doors which had jumped the track.  She and brother-in-law are, like me, getting a bit physically challenged when it comes to manhandling stuff.

Mission accomplished, Sister served us a delicious late lunch/early supper of Portugese Kale Soup and bread, followed by a heavenly dessert.

The base of the tart is lemon cake, made from a mix, topped with sliced firm, but ripe, pears (Bartlett's, I think - Sister will let me know), covered with a thickened lemon sauce (juice of one lemon, sugar, cornstarch and water) and then chilled.  The unexpected and utterly delicious additon to this sweet was fresh basil leaves, shown, and the expected whipped cream (not shown.)  Basil, lemon, pears and cream in combination made my taste buds sing!  I had a second bite and would have had thirds, but all those present at the table thought it was wonderful, too!

Your pear tart is a winner, Sister. Are you making another one anytime soon?

The First Meal I Remember - Post 4

One of the newly discovered blogs that I visit every day is that of The Pioneer Woman http://www.thepioneerwoman.com . On her "Cooking" site today, she asked for comments on favorite meals. Just as certain words may trigger my poetry muse, the phrase "favorite meals" immediately called to mind the first meal in my life that I can actually remember: Homemade yeast bread, fresh-churned butter, translucent strawberry preserves, and buttermilk.

Background and details:

My father's mother, Mary Varches Woodall Griffith, a widow, lived on the family farm outside of Fall River, in Elk County, Kansas. I think it must have been the practice of my father, her only male child, to spend a few weeks each year going home to help out his mama, and his sister, my Aunt Minnie, who lived with Grandma. At the time (pre-WW II), we lived in Las Vegas, NM. Daddy worked for the Civilian Conservation Corps, a sort of Job Corps organization which the government formed during the depression. They built dams and worked in forests, among other things. He was a supervisor in a CCC camp north of Las Vegas, the location of which is buried in my memory at present (well, I was only about 5 years old at the time, and can't recall ever visiting the camp.)

Anyway, this particular summer, Daddy had taken with him myself and and my younger sister, Meg, who would have been around 3 years old. I cannot imagine!! Aunt Minnie, who did all the real work on the homestead, I suspect, was probably horrified to think she was going to have two under-6-years-old children running around the place.

As I recall, Daddy's chores for that visit were to paint the barn (I still like the color barn-red) and to install electricity in the farm house. The REA (Rural Electrification Administration) had just run a main line on the county road which ran in front of the farm house; if one wanted electricity to the house, that sort of work was on your own, I suspect. At the time, after the sun went down, all the Griffith family had in the way of lighting was kerosene lamps. I remember that Aunt Minnie carried a lamp from the kitchen to the dining room table so we could see to eat supper. I know beyond doubt that the family ate three meals a day, but I don't recall any meals during our stay except this one.

At the time of this visit, which I think would have been the summer of 1940, Grandma was almost 72 years old (she was born in 1868). She was a tiny, tiny woman, very thin, and less than five feet tall. (More about Grandma being tiny, tiny in a subsequent post.) However, Grandma still made every bite of bread that was served in the house, and it was the very BEST bread I have ever eaten -- ever, ever, ever! *** My younger daughters come pretty close with their homemade bread, but they have several years of bread-making to get under their belts before they top Grandma! ***

Grandma and Aunt Minnie evidently kept a milk cow, because Grandma churned some of the cream to make butter. She didn't use a regular churn, one that sits on the floor and has a dasher that one pulls up and pushes down. Instead, she used a very large Mason jar; it must have been at least a 1/2 gallon jar (I also remember that the root cellar was full of Mason jars full of canned vegetables.) Anyway, Grandma would almost fill the jar with sweet cream, screw on the metal lid, then sit in the kitchen in her rocking chair with the jar, wrapped in a dishtowel and lying on its side, in her lap and ROCK until the cream had turned to butter! I remember standing by her side watching the cream turn to butter! I thought it was magic!

After the butter had been gathered, the remaining liquid, either still in that jar or in a new jar, was lowered into the well to cool. (No electricity, remember? Ergo, no refrigerator. I can't recall that they even had an ice-box.)

Daddy worked outside until it was too dark to see, so supper was after dark. We ate in the dining room by the light of a kerosene lamp. I can still see in my mind's eye, the red-checkered oil cloth-covered table and the glow of the lamp on the strawberry preserves. A very simple supper, but one I will always, always remember!