Less is More

 B–Grateful--

Saturday mornings in the summer our mother took us to Kuna to spend the day with her mother. As we got older she guilted us into making the trip, reminding us Grandma would not be around forever, or promised that we could practice driving on the country roads that looked the same from one to the next. The miserable heat in the car was slightly alleviated by the poor air conditioning system– the 4-55– all four windows down while driving 55 miles per hour. The wind whipping through the car droned louder than the staticky music the A.M. radio occasionally tuned in to and crackled through the small dashboard speaker.

The small, rural town of Kuna offered little reward for our journey. We were entertained by the spider-like water skippers jumping in the irrigation ditches, creating jittery reflections in the water. We took a few thigh-scorching trips down the tall metal slide baking in the sun at the playground and launched ourselves from the high-flying swings hanging by chains. The water skippers eventually lost their appeal and the playground equipment was removed, regarded as unsafe for children.

Time stood still inside our grandparent’s house. They had a small TV our grandfather did not allow us to watch and it was before home computers and cell phones. The tick of the antique clock counted away the day, its tolling hammer emphasized each hour spent with nothing to do.

We looked for ways to amuse ourselves while our mother and grandmother canned vegetables harvested from the garden. Making due with having less during the Great Depression, canning food was necessary. Food they grew over the summer was “put up” for use over the lean months of winter. They cooked vegetables to ladle into Mason jars closed with lids sterilized in a pan of boiling water. After time spent in the pressure cooker, the jar lids would seal with a satisfying ‘POP’. This process made it hotter inside the house than it was outside.

On these hot days our mother sent us to the country store with a handwritten list, even though the items we bought each time were usually the same– liverwurst or olive loaf sliced by a butcher, wrapped in waxy, white paper secured with tape, plain white bread, Lays potato chips, and Pepsi. Other days Grandma cooked lunch. We helped by peeling potatoes that she would cut into strips and fry in an iron skillet. Grandma browned hamburger in another iron skillet, stirring cornstarch into the grease drippings to make a paste. Adding milk, it became country gravy. She also made “a mess of greens”. Exaggerating her enjoyment of each savory bite she would ask, "How do you know you don’t like ‘em if you’ve never tried ‘em!” To us, they looked like a pile of slimy weeds that sprouted up throughout the yard. We set the kitchen table with buttered slices of home baked bread and tomatoes still warm from the garden vine. This meal was typical of what our grandma served at her kitchen table. The only garnish– the ceremonious ritual of our grandfather saying Grace and the rare treat of homemade ice cream.

Every meal was home cooked with garden-fresh vegetables when seasonally possible or with the canned goods stored in the root cellar when not. Grandma’s cooking style was by taste and texture to create the best meals for her family with few ingredients and little waste. Our mother’s favorite food growing up in Kansas was bread pudding made from discarded scraps collected in a tin by the sink. “When she had enough stale bread, Mom made bread pudding,” (JB). Edna Furnish continued this way of providing for her family for the rest of her life. She saved bacon grease, made sandwiches with stale bread and leftover greens, and occasionally served a meal with whatever was left in the refrigerator before it “turned”.

Even though grandma has been gone since 1993, she is still with us. I think of this kind, simple country woman when I hang my sheets to dry on a sun-bathed clothesline, when I make the drive to Kuna and see how much her old house has changed, and when I try, and fail, to grow tomatoes like she did.

Mostly I think of her at family gatherings hosted by my sister. We have more food than ever seen at one time on Grandma’s kitchen table– perfect mashed potatoes, tender smoked pork, savory spinach dip, peppered deviled eggs, and all the ingredients needed to build-your-own desserts to name a few. Just as our grandmother before us, we cook by texture and taste. Our grandfather’s blessing is absent, but Grandma is surely there, shaking her head with amazement at the abundance of food at our kitchen table. We were too young to appreciate the fleeting time we spent at Grandma's kitchen table or that the times when we had less would come to mean so much more.