“Strawberry shortcake part of June in ‘good old days’” from the June 9, 1977 Door County Advocate
By GRACE SAMUELSON
Strawberry shortcake part of June in ‘good old days’
By GRACE SAMUELSON
All of a sudden it’s June, and things are crowding in on us all at once — weddings, showers, graduations, gardening, vacations, summer sports and barbeques. But when I was growing up family barbeques were unheard of.
Sometimes we’d cook wieners or toast marshmallows over an open fire, but no one had an outdoor grill, at least not until about the thirties. Then, it was likely to be an outdoor fireplace in the back yard. Picnics usually started about Memorial Day and then there would be strawberry socials, ice-cream socials, Sunday School picnics and shortcakes. Shortcakes! How we looked forward to that!
We used to go out to Larkin’s to pick berries. You picked every other day; usually from 7 til 11 a.m., when the patch was all covered. For this job we were allowed to wear overalls since you crawled along between the straw-filled rows. You took the rows in turn, one on each side, but we were happiest when we got to pick on the “fertilizer” rows as they had the biggest berries.
Berries were usually ripened by the end of June — close to 4th of July — and then there was a wait before the cherries were ripe. Once in awhile, if it was very hot, we were permitted to go in swimming, in the afternoon and our modest bathing suits covered us well.
Mama always ordered a crate or two of berries and then it was a family project to sit out on the porch and hull them for canning or eating. No Certo then; the berries were cooked down, with equal amounts of sugar, and tested for jelling in a saucer.
We always hung around for tastes, and loved to watch the jeweled-colored jam being poured into the glasses, then covered with melted parafin. Mama canned some berries for sauce, too, and in our family we liked the sauce on our French toast.
Then, at least two meals a day during the season we had “berry dishes,” sugared, and with pour-cream — thick, yellow, and luscious. We hadn’t heard of cholesterol then, and didn’t worry about the richness. Mama’s shortcake was the baking powder biscuit kind; feather-light, and heaped with berries, and cream over the top. M-m-m-m!
I always thought Mama’s shortcake couldn’t be surpassed; that is, until I was married, and heard from Stanley how they had shortcake at home. And when I saw and tasted my mother-in-law’s shortcake I agreed-it WAS super. Hers was biscuit dough, too, but she made hers in the large sized cake pan, split the layers carefully, buttered them, piled berries and more berries on the first layer, topped that with the second layer turned cut-side up, so the juice would soak in; then more berries, and whipped cream.
Carried in on a huge blue platter, it was a sight to behold, and pure joy to eat. Once, when I entertained my circle out on the farm, Grandpa brought me a case of the huge berries from his patch on Strawberry Lane, and Grandma helped me serve shortcake to the group. Our own strawberry social.
At one time when we were growing up Mama thought it would be nice to raise bees. Papa had a sweet-tooth, and honey was always enjoyed. So she got a hive and learned how to handle the bees when they swarmed, and to get them in another hive. There were some old sayings — whether true or not, I can’t say, but we used to hear these jingles: “A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay. A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon. A swarm of bees in July is not worth a fly.”
When the bees swarmed it was up to Mama — or someone — to dress in veiled hat, gloves, sleeves and overall legs tied close, and with a bellows-like gadget to smoke them and quiet the bees. But somehow it seemed that often when the bees swarmed Mama was at church and then Verna would don the bee-keeper’s garb, follow the swarm to tree, or wherever they flew, find the queen bee, and get her and the rest into the new hive. We stood by at a safe distance, wishing we were brave enough to do that.
June was a time for making chains with dandelion stems, or, holding a dandelion bloom under the chin, “to see if you like butter.” Time to lie on the grass and watch the clouds sail by. Then we used to see swarms of “Green Bay flies” everywhere — store windows plastered with them; the streets and sidewalks so covered they’d crunch under the cars or people’s feet. The real name, I guess, was May-flies, but for two or three weeks every summer you’d see folks picking them off the windows or street for fish bait. Mosquitoes had made their unwelcome appearance and we swatted and scratched. Spiders dropped down on us unawares, and we said they were bringing a message.
During the summer months we spent a good share of our mornings in the kitchen watching or helping Mama, as we took turns with upstairs or downstairs chores. One of the things that always fascinated me was her terms of measurement. When she was giving a “receipt” she’d say — a pinch of this, or a smidgeon of that — a scant, or a heaping tablespoon; butter, the size of an egg; a couple of shakes of flour — salt to taste — a pint of clabbered (sour) milk — a quart of flour — a little nutmeg — break two eggs in a cup and fill cup with sweet cream. Then, the tests — bake in an “afternoon” oven — (one that had been allowed to cool down after the heat used to prepare the noon meal.)
Cakes were tested with a broomstraw or toothpick; I used to watch Mama take a pan of yeast biscuits from the oven, separate a row, and with her finger, test to see if the dough would spring back from her finger. Then she’d dip a small piece of cloth in sugar water, brush it over the rolls for a lovely glazed top.
Squeaking was a test, too. Bread should turn out good if the dough squeaked when you kneaded it. Hair squeaked when it was really clean, while shampooing. We were always fascinated when Mama made boiled frosting to see the syrup spin a thread. When we made fudge we tested the candy to soft ball stage in a cup with a little cold water.
Some of the things we learned in Home Ec. we brought home to Mama. Most housewives made cream sauce, or cream gravy by mixing a little flour with water, stirring that into the milk, and adding butter — the size of a walnut. At school we were taught to cook butter and flour together, then add the milk, and stir till smooth. And we were taught the proper way to level off a spoon or cup of flour, and to be exact in measurements. Everything was made from scratch, so meals had to be started early enough.
When the garden was ready we might have peas or beans, or lettuce very day, since no one had freezers to take care of the surplus, and canning vegetables at home wasn’t advised, until about the thirties, when pressure cookers were on the market. But the fresh vegetables tasted so good we didn’t mind having them over and over. A favorite with green beans was what Mama called Slumgullion: beans, new potatoes and little onions cooked with a chunk of ham. We’d be sent down in the cellar to bring up a couple of eggs and a pitcher of milk, and Mama would stir up a cobbler, cottage pudding, or fruit-cup puddings in a hurry. It was almost as much fun to watch as to eat.
We hadn’t heard of vitamins but seemed to get them in our diet somehow. And we were open to the new methods as they came along. Our families discussed the merits of creamery or dairy butter. You bought bananas by the dozen, not the pound; we didn’t have hamburgers, but meat balls. I was so fond of those that Mama said she’d get extra meat so I could eat all I wanted, and it was almost a year before I could eat meat balls again.
And I remember a birthday party I went to when I was eight or nine, all dressed up in my checked linen dress, wearing white stockings and my patent leather slippers. We had homemade ice cream, and what was supposed to be a patriotic birthday cake, only it turned out to be a red, white and green cake. I heard the women discussing it, saying the egg yolk must have turned the blue sugar-coloring green. But it was a delicious, fluffy cake, with piled high frosting, and nine pink candles on top, even though the colors weren’t those of our flag.
When I tried to relate my good time at the party it seemed as if the other girls always broke in with some of their news. Finally, disgusted, I said, “Mama, make them stop butting out” and how they laughed at me. But I can recall debating whether it was “butt in” or “butt out.”
Mama’s forgetmenots and ferns grew thick around the north side of the house, and I’d sit on the outside basement steps and ponder why I always said the wrong thing. Mama didn’t allow any fighting and she always told us, “Never let the sun go down on a quarrel.” One day when I'd been over at Genevieve Jacobs’ all afternoon she wanted me to stay for supper. I was spunky. I said, “You never come and stay with me.” I flounced out of the house and down the street toward home. But I was facing into the sunset and Mama's rule haunted me. So I turned back and how they all laughed at me.
June is the month for Father’s Day. We hadn’t heard of Father’s Day when I was in school. So Papa didn’t get any special notice, but he was always special to us. A quiet, serious man with an unexpected spot of humor, but the precepts he taught us were the rules be lived by; security in the love of family; honest at all times; friendliness to everyone. “You can always be nice to people.”
He never promised us anything for doing a chore, but I can still hear him say, “Well, now, I think a little girl deserves something for doing such a good job on that lawn.” I loved to listen to the stories he made up about “Mamie-go-wan, in the North Woods.” But best of all, he was a FRIEND, and we were proud to call him Papa. And weren’t we lucky?
Courtesy of the Door County Library Newspaper Archive
Articles by Grace Samuelson
https://doorcounty.substack.com/t/grace-samuelson
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