by David
Adams
Growing up as a young boy in a small
Wisconsin town, Sunday dinners and 'get- togethers' were a tradition.
It was a family ritual passed on generationally, and natural in its
relevance. My Mom would cook on one Sunday and my Grandmother would
take the next weekend shift with her sisters as willing helpers. In
the summer, we ate at a picnic table outside in the fresh air. In the
winter, we broke bread in the small confines of my Grandparent's farm
home or in the dining room of my parent's ranch style house. Back then,
life in the 1950's was simple and we Baby-Boomers were the unconscious
recipients of things amazing: color TV, Howdy Doody, air conditioning,
jet travel, American Bandstand with Dick Clark (I give it a 7! I liked
the beat!). If you were there, well then, you get the picture.
My Grandparents were the forerunners
of the 'Greatest Generation.' They were the simple stock that produced
the children of that generation blessed with a work ethic and values
unparalleled in the history of the country. In a sense, they were the
pioneers that you read about in history books.
My Grandfather, Walter, was born
in 1876. Like my Grandmother, he was the 'salt of the earth.' In his
youth, he worked as a lumberjack in northern Wisconsin, as a 'Gandy
Dancer' (spike driver) on the Green Bay & Western Railroad, as a
skilled machinist who learned his trade during America's rising industrial
age in the early 1900's and, eventually, a hard working farmer who owned
a small piece of the heartland. He nurtured and cultivated that land
as though it were his own child, and he did it well. Black Angus and
Brown Swiss cattle, bountiful cornfields, apple orchards (with wild
strawberry and raspberry patches along side), and hordes of chickens
were the products of his labor.
My Grandmother, Clara, was born
in 1882. She came from a well-bred family. Her father (my great-grandfather)
was an established 'country doctor' who traveled in his horse and buggy
tending to his patients (I still have some of his medical instruments,
including his 'cocaine syringe' to this day) They were deeply proud
of their family roots and their French-Canadian lineage could be traced
back to 1672 when my ancestors came from France (family name, DeMarais)
and founded and settled the Province of Matane (later Quebec). Granny
descended from Pierre Marquette, who with Louis Joliet, discovered and
sailed both the St. Lawrence River and the entire length of the Mississippi
River. Some of her family would later migrate to Louisiana and become
part of the culture we know today as 'Cajun.'
I remember so well that while a
delicious chicken and dumpling or roast beef dinner was cooking on the
stove in my Grandmother's kitchen, she and her sisters, Nina and Marie,
would be 'quilting' and bantering back and forth between English and
French-Canadian. All the while, my Grandfather would be sitting in his
rocking chair, reading the paper, and saying "Time to check on
the Heifers, Gals." Pardon the expression, but what a heritage
I've inherited!
During the Great Depression, my
Grandmother and Grandfather were no less the 'salt of the earth.' It
was a hard time for all America, and Granny and Grandpa did all they
could. Many a homeless or 'lost man' would come to the door at their
farmhouse looking to work for a meal. They always obliged the less fortunate.
There was certainly wood to be cut, apples to pick, or corn to be harvested.
In the winter, it was a little more difficult, but snow could always
be shoveled and the barn could be cleaned. No one was ever turned away.
It was nothing for Granny to fry up some bacon and eggs with fried bread
for these occasional 'men of misfortune.' After all, my Grandparents
knew that we had to pull together as a country and feeding the less
fortunate was a way to get the country back on its feet, not to mention,
a charitable obligation that was instilled in them by my Great-grandparents.
They listened to FDR's Fireside Chats on the radio and took them to
heart. Everybody helped everybody. Shoot, even Al Capone donated to
the soup kitchens in Chicago! Who says crime and cooking don't pay?
But, I digress. Now, Granny's Depression
Era fried bread was, also, known as Granny's Fried Pants. Years after
the Depression, this was a term christened by my brother and I as Granny
would cut the fresh bread dough into the form of a pair of pants just
to tease us. The results were always the same; warm, delectable, and
rich in homemade goodness. We'd often savor this doughy, 'trouser' treat
with preserved jam from Grandpa's orchards or fresh butter (Granny churned
her own). Served with fried eggs and bacon, we savored the deliciousness
of her kitchen that many a 'homeless man' savored two decades before
in the 1930's. I believe that they went away happy and thankful to my
Grandmother for her cooking skills, as well as, her generosity. Granny
left us in 1957, but her 'Fried Pants' recipe bespeaks of a bygone American
age and one that is treasured in this family. In keeping with that,
I pass this treasure (and heritage) onto you.
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