Lois written 1/08

LOIS 1-5-2008

Lois, my ex-mother-law taught me a lot about the kitchen and the garden. It was natural to her. Every movement instinctive and economical in that white brick Iowa farm house , salt-box shaped, a hundred years old, they said. Tall windows look out to treeless land. Miles of flat corn and beans in perfect rows to the horizon. There was always wind enough to blow the screen door open and whip dry the clothes on the line.

Lois was made to be a farm wife it seemed. She was plump with short freckled legs that showed beneath her house dress and home made bibbed apron. Sensible brown shoes, size 4 1/2 from the boys department at J.C. Penny’s in town were topped with boys brown socks turned down like anklets. It was a no nonsense uniform for the work she needed to do. About canning, gardening, cooking for the men, she was serious. It had to be done and done quickly, without waste, tasty and healthy, and in summer, always fresh.

So, on our frequent visits to the farm in the early years of my marriage to her oldest son, I followed her, partly out of boredom with farm life and partly out of awe. I ran after her to collect the eggs – out to the chicken house – no sentimentality for these fowl. Hand under the hen, grab the egg, next hen box, grab the egg, dodge the hen’s beak. Work fast ‘til the bucket was full of warm, lovely brown eggs. Quick walk back to the porch, change buckets. Run-walk to the garden, squat to pick the strawberries, mindful of where your feet are . Don’t pick pink ones or even medium red, only dark ruby red – heady, sensuous strawberry juice staining fast fingers. Did she notice? No words beyond “Be careful with the plants, careful where you step.” I hear, “These are my family jewels,” as valuable as diamonds to some, more valuable to her.

Now rush back to the kitchen. Wash the eggs and carton them. Refrigerate. What rich man could have such fresh brown, perfect eggs in his strawberry shortcake? Or such strawberries, minutes from the garden – juice dripping as she shows me to slice each berry in half with the knife she always uses for this task, catching berry juice in the same 1 quart yellow mixing bowl that she uses for this purpose every summer. Love the bowl, love the berry, love the egg – flour – love the God who provides these after your hours of labor. She said all of this without even a word.

Break the egg on the side of the bowl like this. No words. Drop the egg into the hole you made with your wooden spoon, like this. No words. Stir sparingly, leave lumps of flour, egg, butter, like this. No words. Do it all with the fewest most efficient moves possible, all while you are remembering the roast in the pressure cooker with potatoes and carrots and onions, while you make the jello with ice cubes to hurry it along. Shred carrots and celery from the garden and apples from the root cellar, add to the slurried jello. No words, spare movements.

Now set the big kitchen table with plates, glasses and stainless steel ware. Remember the giant iced tea glasses for the men who will come thirsty from the field with drops of sweat carrying black Iowa soil in rivulets down their foreheads. These men with their thirst and their hunger, are the reason for all our actions today and every day. No words.