8.1 Food on the Table, Part 1

by Anna Doris Shanks

January and February in Flora, Illinois were better spent inside than out, dreaming dreams of days to come. Ice and snow covered soil under a leaden sky, but colorful seed catalogs were arriving. Evenings had Irvin and Frances sitting close to the Warm Morning stove leafing through pages extolling to virtues of this variety of vegetable and that. Frances picked one kind after another while Irvin nodded his assent. Planting the garden sitting in easy chairs with pictures in the catalog is fun!

Frances' order list grew longer as she suggested they try growing improved strains of old favorites. Irvin nodded. Soon her list was complete, and she sent off the order. At the same time Frances and Irvin were preparing for that year's supply of poultry. 

Mom had acquired a casket crate from the local funeral home. It was built from redwood and she had thought the lumber might come in handy. But Daddy immediately saw the possibility that it could become a chicken brooder. I don't know how many baby chicks they brought home. It seemed like hundreds of yellow, furry little creatures, but I suspect the real number was about 50. Daddy got sawdust from the lumber yard to cover the floor of the box. Heat lamps were set up. Food trough and waterers were prepared. 

The watering was my responsibility. Quart jars were cleaned, filled with fresh water to which vitamin drops were added. I carried the cleaned, filled jar to the garage where the 'brooder' was housed. Then I got to perform my favorite action. I turned it upside down and the water gurgled into the water fountain well that would continue to replenish drinking water for the chicks until I repeated the whole process that evening. I thought that gurgled flow into the rimmed cap was the coolest thing, especially since I could turn it upside down without spilling a drop. About three trips provided sufficient water for all of the chicks.

The chicks remained in the casket-crate brooder until they had feathers and have grown too big for the space. Then they were moved to the chicken coop where they could go outside and run around on warmer days. I still watered them, but now I didn't get to use the jar fountain with it's delightful gurgle. At about seven or eight weeks of age, the chicks had reached fryer weight, near three pounds, more or less. Mom and Daddy had rented a frozen food locker at Tigo's Grocery and the plan was to fill it with provisions.

By March Daddy was hard at work every evening when he got home from his day job with Shell Oil Company. He needed to clear stubble and gett on the schedule to get the garden plowed so he could prepare the soil to receive all those seeds Mom had ordered. But everyone knew about the grisly chore looming. Fried chicken has a price, you know. It's just a good thing there are very few grown chickens that are endearing. 

Finally the sun was shining on Daddy's day off, and early that morning he announced, "Today we will take care of the chickens." 

The dreaded day had come. Daddy started the water heating to a boil. Mom got organized in the kitchen. I took my place on the back steps and waited. Daddy chopped the chickens' heads off and scalded the corpse in boiling water. I started picking feathers off. I usually got behind and Mom or Daddy would come catch me up. What a nasty, smelly job!

But Mom's job was worse. She removed the entrails. Yuk! She packaged each chicken, sometimes two at a time, for deposit in the frozen food locker at Tigo's. While Mom was doing all these things, she was also saving all the feet. I knew we were going to have chicken foot soup, and that anticipation somewhat dulled the stench of scalded feathers. We only had chicken foot soup on the day of the 'Great Chicken Killin'. What great stuff!

Nothing beats sucking the pads off the well-cooked toes. To make this delectable concoction, scald the chicken feet and remove the tough outer skin. Boil the feet in a pot full of water with a large chopped onion, a couple cloves (minced) garlic, some salt and black pepper. Add a few chicken bullion cubes for more flavor. Boil for an hour or so. Add some finely sliced carrot and celery, along with a handful of pearl barley. Continue to cook until the barley is tender. Oh Boy!

A similar soup can be made with the mostly de-nuded carcass of the Thanksgiving turkey substituted for the chicken feet. After boiling, cool the turkey carcass. Remove the meat left on the bones, chop and add to the soup. This soup is good but can't compare with the eccentricity of chicken foot soup.

Mom and Daddy were relieved to get that nasty job behind them. It was time to concentrate on the garden. The seeds were soon planted. Daddy had a strawberry patch, a stand of rhubarb, herbs, as well a grape vines. He worked in the garden every evening and every day off work through the summer. Daddy and the neighbor lady both aimed at July 4 for the first ripe tomato. It was a friendly rivalry, but deadly serious.

As July advanced, vegetables began to mature. If the rains didn't come, we carried water from the pump outside the back door.

That trickle of ripe produce soon became a roaring flood. Mom canned what needed to be canned, and she prepared mounds of packages to store in the frozen food locker at Tigo's. The kitchen was a constant flurry of activity as she cooked meals, peeled this and squeezed that. She canned green beans, beets and tomatoes -- grape juice, sauer kraut; she made pickles -- bread 'n' butter pickes, sweet pickles and dill pickles. My job was bringing jars from storage and washing them sparkling clean. Mom always told me I was the only one who could do it because I could get my hand inside the jars for thorough cleaning. Being made to feel unique is sure to tweak the interest of a kid.

Sure as time runs out, so did Mom's patience. Sooner or later, she was going to blow, "There he comes with another basket of tomatoes (or beans or cucumbers)."

"He plants and plants and plants, and every single thing he puts in the ground, grows!" she wailed.

He would answer, "Throw it out." He knew she never would. But the 'excess supply' wars were on. Every evening Daddy would bring more ripe produce to the kitchen and Mom would rage on and on. About this time Daddy would start taking ripe vegetables to local grocers. He hated to do that, because everyone else had vegetables to sell and the price he was paid would be miniscule. But when he got fearful for his life at home, it was the lesser of two evils.

I might point out that through all these stormy times, I never heard him remind her of those January evenings when she enthusiastically planned the garden.

We were all glad when she got the food chopper out to take care of the last vegetables in the garden. I got to grind peppers, carrots, cabbage, onions and whatever else struck Mom's fancy. Mom's piccalillirelish was without peer, and it was a sad day when she no longer made it. She didn't have a recipe to pass on to her children, but after many years of searching, I found a reasonable substitute when I planted zucchini squash and had an excessive harvest.