FOOD
Inseparable, Family and Food
When I think of food I think Ewing’s. My Dad’s family is food orientated to the point of making it their compass of life. For Ewing’s, all events lead to food. As a member of the family, you must have at least one recipe you do well. Get-togethers involve huge pot lucks with food lovingly and competitively prepared. Grandma Ruby’s homemade chicken and noodles with real mashed potatoes. Aunt Tiny’s homemade bread and pies. Aunt Ruth’s creamed veggies. My Mothers salads and deserts. Comfort food on a level bordering on illegal. Spread across the counters and tables, a work of art produced every Sunday.
As a child, the gatherings were after church. Aunt Tiny and Aunt Ruth shared hosting duties rotating the events between their homes. The gatherings could be small 10 people or large 50. Everyone brought a dish. Tables were spread throughout the large farmhouses. Every room became a dining room. Real plates and silverware were set. A compromise of paper napkins. The kitchen stove was covered in large kettles, the oven was filled with goodies. Everyone found their spot, waiting for silence to be called so grace could be said. The “Amen” — the signal to get in line and get chowing down.
My Father had been a cook in the Army for his last tour of duty in Korea. He had returned home and worked in a bakery for a time. His cooking skills were impressive. Everyone speculated on what my Dad had cooked up for the Sunday get-together. It could be a Salmon dip, perfect roast beef, pickled fish, Lox, smoked fish, a dressing made from raccoon. His repertoire was vast, an adventure in food. He baked, pickled, grilled, roasted, canned, and experimented with it all.
He and Mom were both avid chefs. Dad finally built a kitchen in his garage so they didn’t have to fight over the one in the house. They both loved spice and heat. Food was never plain, never dull and always colorful. Mom’s homemade jelly rolls were beautifully executed. Apple bars the taste of sweet fall. My father could take any cut of meat, wild or domestic, and turn it into mouth-watering joy.
As good as my Father was there were major disasters in his kitchen from time to time. During the muffin craze, he tried a giant muffin which ended as a rock on the outside and lava on the interior. He was an avid fisherman and hunter. The number one rule: eat what you kill. This philosophy lead to him trying to bake a Gar he had caught. The cartilage inside the fish swelled to amazing proportions as it baked. If you thought the Gar frightening in life you should have seen it when Dad was finished.
The number one rule: eat what you kill.
There was an early morning call, Dad had had a heart attack. I rushed the 20 miles to the hospital and arrived in time to say goodbye. After we headed to our parents' home. There on the stove in his garage was a kettle of soup he had put together early that morning. The Ewing Red Potato soup. Our last ritual with our father was the sharing of this soup. Each of us tasting for last time his cooking. His farewell gift.
We still carry on as best we can the tradition of shared family time and good food. We share the family recipes. As we gather for holidays each is assigned what to bring. Dad’s Chex Mix, spicy and three times the butter called for. His Salmon ball. His turkey and dressing. His Oyster Stew. It is like having him with us. We pass this on to our children and grandchildren. This gift of family and food. The ritual of loving preparation and sharing. The tastes and smells that trigger a flood of remembering. We give them the taste of their past and the smell of it. They in turn will pass it on to the next generation with love.
© Vicki Price 2022
