Today is May Day. Warm, sunny days are almost here, and soon, purveyors will bring their produce to sell at local farmer’s markets.
It’s a good day. Also felicitous, it’s Gramma Simons’ birthday (rest her soul), which means my brother and I will revel in something reminiscent of Gramma. Usually for me it’s creamed peas & potatoes; for my brother (a serious tea-drinking, philosophical hippy-type) it’s Brigham tea, which grew like weeds when we were young, but oddly enough, is now a high priced commodity sold to serious tea-drinking, philosophical hippy-types. Not kidding.
Any weekend visit to Gramma & Grandpa’s farm was a culinary delight. I remember the flower bed in the front yard and the vegetable garden around back, sort of between the small, green-trimmed white house and the big, red barn. It was abundant with sweet peas, tiny strawberries, dark red raspberries, squashes and melons. I also rememeber a cherry tree, an apricot tree and some kind of nut tree, I think it was pecan.
Sunday dinner meant crispy fried free-range chicken with smashed potatoes and homemade gravy. For lunch, there was always homemade bread and jam, plus whatever was fetched from the garden - peas & new potatoes to simmer in cream or corn on the cob to slather in butter. When in season, the strawberry or raspberry patch became a “help-yourself-dessert-buffet” – walk your bowl out to the garden, fill it up, and take it back to Gramma, who would pour fresh cream over the top and hand you a spoon. For some reason, Gramma always gave us a half-glass of tepid 7-Up in the afternoon. Either that or, as my brother describes it, a cup of honey with a little Brigham tea in it. Funny, the things you remember. On special occasions, like our visit, she would whip up a batch of applesauce chocolate chip cookies, made just the way you liked them (with or without nuts or raisins, extra chips, etc.). At Christmas time Gramma Jo made her infamous Santa cookies, hand-painted with rosy-red cheeks, raisin eyes and a coconut beard, which seemed, I kid you not, big as my six-year-old head. But of all the gastronomic memories of Gramma’s house, nothing will ever compare to waking up to the smells of breakfast on the farm. Deep, coffee-scented Postum, warm oatmeal with “sug,” and smoky bacon. Corn Flakes with “sug” and ripe bananas – too ripe for my taste, but oddly enough, exactly the way my kid likes them. The highlight was homemade brioche-like bread toasted and smothered with homemade strawberry jam, and accompanied of course, by hot chocolate in a pink rose tea cup, just in case you wanted “to dunk.” That particular combination will instantly take me back to the best memories of my childhood – it’s what love tastes like. During the early days, a few animals lived on the farm, which meant there was always something to see... and smell. But my favorite activitiy was pole swinging. Every year Grandpa would re-paint the poles that held up the awning over the front porch, it seemed, just in time for my little sister and I to visit. We would swing around and around and around the poles until the new paint came off onto our hands. That is, until Gramma caught us in the act (for the ump-teenth time) and shooed us to literally go “play in the hay” or a long ride in the back of Grandpa’s truck. We’d ride all over the beautiful countryside breathing in the warm summer sun, gazing over the fragrant, green farms and the huge, periwinkle mountains. Those truck rides lasted well into the afternoon, probably until Grandpa couldn’t take it anymore and needed a nap. Then he’d pawn us off on Gramma, who’d want us to read a Disney book, play pick-up sticks or Old Maid. My brother (you know, the scotch-drinking, cigar-smoking poet) was always really good at those quiet activities. Missy and I just wanted to swing around and around and around and around. May Day is a good day. Thanks for letting me reminisce.
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