This past summer, I had some long-time friends drop in to see me.
Their intention was to pick up a singing canary to keep the attention of an aging grandfather whose ability to walk was faltering. The cheerful sound of a bird in song was popular in the age of those pre-television. Its happy song and lively movements, I’m sure, would bring back long-ago fond memories, as many mothers and most grandmothers had one way back then.
Mother and daughter showed up as pre-arranged and joined me on the front porch while I finished eating a toasted vine-ripened beefsteak tomato sandwich for lunch. We discussed and chatted about many things, including the length of time since we first met, and one of the things was a date-square pie that they had brought as a gift.
As two of the Danish woofers were just coming in from weeding in the garden, I handed it to them, requesting that they set it in the fridge, eat what they wanted, but save me a piece. But, in fact, I entirely forgot about it until I was subtly reminded about it late in the afternoon.
The woofers, having stopped for a break, had just sampled the date-square pie. Now, I’m not sure that English words can express good, good, good with a tinge of Danish accent, but they strongly recommended that I grab a piece before it all disappeared.
This pie was in a double 12-inch foil pie plate, necessary to support its weight, and without a doubt creeping close to two inches deep. It had been cut into eight pieces, and I am not going to tell you who, with a glass of milk, ate two of them. Um! Um! Good! If I were to hand out sample tastes, and the address of the maker, she, I well know, would have a path worn straight to her door.
This undoubtedly shows the changing trends from generation to generation. Or perhaps it could be better explained as the generation gap. I grew up in make-and-take times, when feelings were felt and genuine, while today the tendency is go buy and give, and the choice is more often than not a quickly-grabbed bottle of wine or a case of beer. Where lies any pride or deep set feelings of appreciation in that?
I can remember in growing-up years when, on occasion, my mother would ask me to take a pie or a just-out-of-the-oven, still-warm loaf of bread over to Mrs. So and So, and “you be careful not to drop it.” This happened quite often in the summertime, as the run-down farm we had bought had a long-neglected orchard that my dad was able to prune, repair, and bring back into production.
In the spring, out of the summer kitchen’s wood stove oven, first came the rhubarb pie, then strawberry. By mid-August came the yellow harvest apple, followed by the striped red Dutch apple. Then grouped in late fall came the russet, the snow apple and the spy, all winter keepers, but each with its own distinct taste. These of course were intermingled with pumpkin pies by the dozen.
I’m not going to tell you that I’m sitting here idly smacking my lips just thinking about the flavours, but then again, I know that most of you older readers have already guessed that.
In those way-back days, our type of farming here at Westwind was referred to as mixed farming with crop rotation, but modern-day lingo seems to refer to it as diverse farming. I have no quibble with that.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105