February 2011 NewsletterJim Casada
Web site:
www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com February Figurin'
I haven’t actually gone back to check, but I’d bet the odds are fair-to-middlin’ that I have at some point over the five or six years I’ve written this newsletter, used the same title as the one above for a previous February offering. Blame it on Grandpa Joe, a quaint and quair (Smoky Mountain English for odd or eccentric) character who was a wonderful part of what I now recognize was a privileged boyhood. Not privileged in a monetary sense, mind you, but rather in the time and place in which I grew up, the freedom I enjoyed in terms of being close to the good earth, and in the mentors who introduced me to the worlds of outdoors and learning. In the latter context, incidentally, I recently had an interesting and somewhat heated exchange with a local high school English teacher who writes an occasional column for the extremely liberal daily newspaper in nearby Charlotte (The Charlotte Observer). After reading her latest column, which dealt with problems in exposing today’s youngsters to literature and a love of the written word, I was troubled enough to send her an e-mail. It dealt with what I considered stylistic problems in her column. They were things which had been hammered into my head in school repeatedly—avoiding prepositions to start sentences, split infinitives, inconsistencies in use of the upper case, and the like. She took great umbrage at my remarks and in one sense at least should have done so inasmuch as I said her piece was “riddled” with errors. It was a poor choice of words on my part, although the piece did, at least from the way in which I view “proper” writing, contain plenty of stylistic problems. I actually was blaming shoddy proofreading at the newspaper as much as I was the columnist, but rest assured my well-intended efforts were distinctly unwelcome. So much was that the case that the columnist, in her spirited response, thrice used the word dinosaur to describe me and my ideas of what constituted appropriate literary expression. I’m afraid that in some ways her rebuttal was, as much as anything, a commentary on the state of education in today’s world (and that’s in no way a condemnation of her, because I’m pretty confident she is the cream of the crop among today’s pedagogues). I might also note that I contacted her a second time, indicating that I had written in a spirit of being interested and supportive. I also apologized for any offense I might have given. The fact that there has been no further exchange probably says enough, and doubtless I’ve been cast aside as a hopeless, hapless, and bothersome dinosaur. Our contemporary newspapers typically want writers to offer material on a seventh- or eighth-grade reading level, and as I learned at a recent writers’ convention, there is even a software program which lets you determine the level of a given piece of material you have written. For my part, it will be a day when the heart of every witch exudes warmth before I begin punching buttons which tell me how to go about “dumbing down” my scribbling. That’s all a roundabout way of saying that maybe you’ll forgive me if I use the occasional example of what old Thad DeHart, one of those teachers who “rode in on a dinosaur” (the abovementioned columnist’s phrase, not mine), called a ten-dollar word. For my part I look back on his tutelage, including being the recipient of “six of his best” at one point when I had been guilty of a serious breach of classroom decorum, with great fondness. He was a wonderful teacher, and permit me to offer one more aside in this rant which is connected with Mr. DeHart. “Six of his best” involved, as I hope is obvious, corporal punishment. I don’t remember what I did in terms of misbehavior, but I am certain of two things. The punishment was richly deserved and, since I am writing about it a half century after the fact, the whipping was obviously memorable. He used a razor strop for such occasions, and that tool of the teaching trade was kept in a partitioned-off cloakroom to the rear of the classroom. Some spark of inspiration led me, while Mr. DeHart was out of sight getting his razor strop, to tuck a Duxbak cap into the seat of my pants. Haste made waste, because I clearly failed to hide it sufficiently to escape detection. Far from easing the burden of the blows, Mr. DeHart laid into me with a will. My boyish behind (and I was a small lad) took a frightful six blows and showed ample bruising. Of course I didn’t dare say anything about it at home, because there would have been a second course of punishment pie. Today there would be lawsuits, a ruined teaching career, and local scandal. Yet I look back on this teacher with great fondness. It tells you just how much things have changed, and I’ll indulge in the right of those who are showing some grey in their sparse hackle and some length in their remaining teeth to state that I’m not at all certain the changes in our public education have been for the better. We seem to throw money and a mess of administrators at problems rather than taking a straightforward, no-nonsense approach of the type Mr. DeHart employed. That’s my monthly diatribe and I’ll now turn, lovingly, to thoughts on the month of February along with fond remembrances of what it has meant to me over the years as an outdoorsman. My paternal grandfather, Grandpa Joe, didn’t really care all that much for February. He would complain of “the miseries,” a sort of catch-all term he used to describe various aches and pains. Mostly I think he was just tired of gloomy weather and the necessity of spending a lot of time indoors. In other words, he had a case of cabin fever or what he would have called the “mullygrubs.” That’s another word from Smoky Mountain English. It means being depressed or down in the dumps. As a boy I was too exuberant to be afflicted by the mullygrubs for more than a passing minute or two. As I’ve aged though, with arthritis making some insidious incursions into my joints and one grey day after another having a tendency to leave me as gloomy as the skies, I have a much better grasp on Grandpa Joe’s perspective. Yet he never let the mullygrubs bother him for long. Grandpa had far too much spirit, too much boy in his old man’s body, for that. He would mention all the aches and pains of age, but within minutes he would be deep into what he liked to describe as “dreamin’ and schemin’.” That might involve warm reflections on his hunting or fishing activities in younger years, some planning for outdoor adventures once the water moderated, or getting to work on any of the endless projects he always seemed to have in mind. Perhaps sharing some thoughts on “dreamin’ and schemin,” along with probing “figurin’” (as he styled projects designed to ward off the mullygrubs), might be appropriate as we enter the month of February. Incidentally, Grandpa always claimed that the real reason February was the shortest month of the year was that “a body just could not stand any more of it than 28 days.” Grousing, griping, and groaning aside, Grandpa Joe actually had a way of turning February into a dream for a youngster. So, for that matter, did Grandma Minnie, although her contributions came almost exclusively from the kitchen. She could cook like nobody’s business, but while setting a mighty fine table she preferred that “menfolk” (and her description included adolescent males) keep out from underfoot. Here are some of the ways they made my February days memorable. We’ll start with projects undertaken with Grandpa Joe, efforts that have just as much relevance and are just as enjoyable today as they were more than a half century ago, and then conclude with some thoughts on late winter fixin’s which were regularly found on Grandma’s table.
While these “doin’s” and others were in progress, Grandma Minnie invariably had something scrumptious cooking in the kitchen. During the winter the kitchen, which was at the back of the house and only a few steps from the cannery, a separate building where not only home-canned foods but other comestibles were stored, was always warm and filled with wonderful smells. The fare was simple, filling, but most of all wonderfully flavorful. Grandma was a splendid baker, and she would no more have served a breakfast without fresh biscuits than she would have tolerated Grandpa walking into her kitchen after having just come from slopping the hogs. Winter meant hearty foods, with pork being the main meat item on the menu (except on the Sabbath, when we had, as Bobby Bare sang in a song of that title, “Chicken Every Sunday Lord, Chicken Every Sunday”). There was always bread, with the biscuits from breakfast being countered by cornbread at dinner (the mid-day and main meal of the three we ate). You could have your choice of cold leftover breads at supper, and for me it was a toss-up between a hefty chunk of cornbread warmed in the oven and crumbled into a glass of milk or a couple of cathead biscuits surrounding either a piece of fried streaked meat or country ham. Mention of streaked meat (in other areas of the country variously known as side meat, seasoning meat, or fatback) and country ham brings to mind a staple of dinner. That was dried beans of one kind or another. Most frequently it would be October beans Grandpa had planted in amongst the rows of field corn, but it could also be store-bought pintos or what we called “soup beans” (Navy beans). Grandma would put them in a big pot the night before and cover them with plenty of water. Any beans or leftover chaff (and that often existed with the October beans we had picked, thrashed, and winnowed by tossing them in fall breezes as they lay atop a bunch of tow sacks which had been loosely sewn together) which floated to the surface would be removed. By the following morning the beans would have absorbed most of the water, expanded appreciably, and be ready to cook. Grandma would get them started as she prepared breakfast, bringing them to a rolling boil and then backing off the heat to a slow simmer. She would add seasoning in the form of a couple of chunks of streaked meat, a ham bone, or the trimmings from country ham. Also added to the pot would be some hot pepper (Grandpa dearly loved hot pepper and would even parch pods and then steep them to make tea). Little if any salt was needed because the meat which had been added already had a lot of salt in it. Those October beans, especially when accompanied by turnip greens with little bits of turnip cooked up in them, along with a pone of cracklin’ cornbread, made for mighty fine eating. Another favorite which I greatly miss is Grandma’s fired pies, and hers weren’t any of these insipid productions you buy in today’s grocery stores. They featured dough she made, and had centers filled with either apples or peaches she had dried the previous summer. She would stew the fruit until it had cooked down to a suitable thickness, roll out a circle of dough, pour the fruit on half of it, fold the dough over to make a half moon, crimp it with a fork, and fry until brown on both sides. Covered with a pat of home-churned butter, a fried pie hot from the cast iron spider was pure heaven. Here’s a recipe if you want to try it, and I would stress that stewed filling made from dried fruit is the key. GRANDMA MINNIE’S FRIED PIES1 pound dried fruit Cover the dried fruit with water and allow to soak overnight. Drain any extra water and cook slowly until completely tender. Mash the fruit and then add the other ingredients. Stir well and allow to cool. Make a pie crust but use less shortening (Grandma used home-rendered lard from the hogs we had killed in the fall). Cut in circles, add the fruit, and ready for the pan as described above. Fry in piping hot lard, turning only once. Drain on paper towels and serve while still warm. If desired, you can sprinkle with cinnamon or cinnamon sugar. Fried pies warm over quite nicely and they also make a wonderful dessert for a field lunch. Final ThoughtsFrom Grandpa’s perspective February was for figurin’, along with ‘dreamin’ and schemin’, while Grandma, who was as practical as her husband was given to flights of fancy and endless indulgence in wistfulness, leaned toward the fixin’ side (not only in the kitchen but when it came to sewing, quilting, or other important aspects of what Grandpa described as “wimmin’s work.” Mind you, he never used such terms within earshot of Grandma Minnie. For me, as a boy and now as a man, it is a month which mixes projects and preparation, with my compass needle as regards the latter pointed towards spring and all its manifold glories. That’s as it should be. Thank you for subscribing to the
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