| A Word Edgewise by Mary Joe Clendenin |
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| A Word Edgewise by Mary Joe Clendenin |
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MOTHER WAS A "MAKE-DO" ARTIST
The cake broke in four or five pieces when mother turned it out of the pan and on to a big plate. She didn't say a word. Didn't even stop her whistling as she looked at the impossible pieces. She set it aside to cool and went on with her other cooking, getting biscuits ready for the oven, washing the pieces of chicken.
First thing she had done that morning was go out to the big evergreen partially shading the sink drain where the chickens gathered to stay cool in the heat of the day, get the fishing pole with the big metal hook on the end, slowly slide it under the evergreen among the chickens. They looked at it, considered what action to take, but decided none was necessary and stayed still. Mother picked the fryer she wanted, slid the hook in the proper position, then gave a yank. Hooked securely around one foot the fryer squawked as she brought it to her. Quickly, she grabbed its head, took the hook off and with two twists slung the headless body about ten feet into the yard.
While the chicken flopped in the last throws of death, mom went to the back porch for her ready pan and butcher knife. In ten minutes she had the chicken skinned, gutted and cut in frying size pieces.
Considering the cake cool, she spooned thick, thick sweet cream off last night's milking of Old Johnnie the Jersey into a bowl. Using a rotary beater she soon had whipped cream to which she added a generous amount of sugar. Back to the mutilated cake. She pushed and patted until it had a semblance of round, generously spread it with the whipped cream, took fresh blackberries from the refrigerator and placed them one by one, liberally, over the cake.
What could be better than fried chicken, biscuits, gravy and a scrambled cake for lunch. Not much of anything.
Mom was no magician. She fell a little short of achieving elegance and perfection, but she always made something out of the impossible. I don't quite know what her dreams were--she never said--but I think all of us fell a little short.
When I was about six years old, the hair style for pretty little girls was bangs and short bobbed hair, just above the earlobes--for people with big ears like mine--and brushed slick--not much different from some of todays' cuts. Armed with the hair brush and Brilliantine, she smooth and slicked my obstinate hair, demanding that I "be still"--as if I could be otherwise clamped between her knees. Finally, she would loose me with a half-smile on her face, and away I'd go, wearing Roman sandals that had four or five buttons, black leather with the shine encouraged with Vasolene. I was far from elegant in the pretty dress, knees with thick scabs covering the latest skinned areas showing beneath the skirt--and it was not ten minutes before the carefully smoothed hair had sticking out places above the ears and at other contrary sites. Nevertheless, she smiled as she led me to the car.
Mother wanted a gold fish pond in the yard, so she built one. Hi Martin helped get the cement ready and did some of the bottom and side work for the ten or twelve inch deep pond, about five feet square. Then she used another wheelbarrow of cement to carefully place petrified wood on the exposed side and top. She had her a fish pond where she placed a few lilies, a sage-like plant around it, and introduced the fish. (Even now, when I smell a crushed bit of that sage-like plant, I look for tadpoles.) The leak was slow. Didn't bother much since a faucet was right there.
The biggest hindrance to the fish and pond was us--the kids of the neighborhood. Toads made great ropes of frog eggs stringing down into the water, many more than the fish could eat. We lifted them for inspection almost daily until they turned into millions of tadpoles. Then we were really busy catching them for inspection to see when the tiny legs began to sprout. The dropping of the tails seemed magically to evade our curious eyes. One morning we would go out and the ground would be alive with thousands of toads about the size of dimes.
How can a yard be elegantly decorated with a beautiful fishpond when tadpoles and kids hid the beauty. Mom just went on whistling and rattling pots and pans.
Always, on any project, substitutions had to be made. Maybe if we had lived in town where stores were handy, the correct ingredients could be had for recipes and projects. Like as not an intended orange flavored icing for a cake, turned out to be lemon, or vanilla. Depended on how long it had been since the Watkins or Raliegh man had been there. One sold the best orange, the other the best vanilla, and we were always out of something.
Mother was a "make-do" artist. She was a master of making something out of nothing and not letting her dreams interfere with what she could realistically do. She wadded chicken wire to make flowers stand in an arrangement. She cleaned and bandaged injuries and sores with worn out sheets. She kissed the bruises and said, "Now, go play. It's all well."
I guess perfection and elegance are hard to come by in this life. I wouldn't even recognize them if they nudged me on the elbow. This cook even has trouble following a recipe when I have all the ingredients. I keep wondering, "how would this taste if I used honey instead of syrup." Or "If almonds are good, why not pecans?"
No, elegance would be lonely around our house, but if you want a good dinner served in the kitchen, you're welcome.