Saturday, December 17, 2016

Fireplace Cooking - Part One - Pot Roast Season


Fireplace Cooking

Part One

Pot Roast Season



            We’d just started out after having the snow tires mounted and
            Mailing the mail
            Out.

            The tires had waited and it weren’t gonna snow
            Today
            Anyway.

            The post office line
            Actually
            Went just fine.

            “So what are we having for dinner”
            “Leftover (homemade) Kim Chi Soup (Korean)”.
            “It’s gonna be cold tomorrow; wicked
            Cold”.
            “Seems to me
            We should be inside most of that day.”

            “I know what I was going to say
            If it’s really going to be that way:
            Pot roast.
            Cooked in the fireplace
            All day.”







            We were headed up the coast so looked at a chuck roast... a small one... at the Waldoboro Hannaford’s; “$3.00 OFF” meat manager’s special.  But we saved our purchase for Wiggins Meat Market in Rockland.  He’s a local fella; as if buying your meat from a local lobster man ‘right off his boat’.  He had two chuck roasts ‘put up’ ‘himself’ “Two hours ago”.
            “Good-ah-nuff” for the larger “five pound” one.  Put it in the cooler in the back seat.  We always have a cooler in the back seat for such emergencies.  Then we went to the rest of our day ‘cept for having to get a chicken “somewhere”.  Wiggins’ whole chickens “HAVEN’T COME IN YET.  THIS MORNING”. 
“Cold enough that the damn chickens WILL come in.”
            “Oh they’ll BE along.”
            Wiggins said.







            After it got to be the next day at dawn and that being a Maine below zero (“Minus six at my place”) dawn... starting the fireplace kitchen seemed quite a natural thing to do.  Our pot roast “begun”





            To be cooked.  The cast iron pots; one of two; a larger and a small, come in from a shed “late fall”.  Now the large one was washed off and air dried sitting on top of the dishwasher’s load rack.  The chuck is “sat out” on a platter and “salt and peppered”.  Then the chuck was “browned” in the iron pot on the gas range.  The spice bundle and “use ‘em up” “lots of” small onion go in the pot too.  And water “to feel” (not too much not too little).






Then that whole pot with the lid on tight “goes in” “the fireplace” for the rest of the day.  “Turn it (the pot) when your going by”.  Keep the fire “up” but never TOO ‘up’.  And not “down” either.  Its an art.  Right?







            Don’t forget to bake your breads.




After lunch or so... put the carrots in.  We have a lot of a lot of carrots ‘put in’.  If you don’t care for ‘a lot’ of carrots cooked “right” with your roast... that’s your problem.  If your new to cooked carrots; they go good with the ‘a lot’ of small onions already “put in”.  I promise.







            Most of the day and the rest of the day have nothing to do with the pot roast
            Cooking
            In the fireplace.






            At supper time we take the iron pot out of the fireplace and put it on a damp towel on the counter.  We open the lid and “fork” the roast onto a platter and
            Slice off a sample “end” “to SEE if it’s ANY GOOD”.  Then each eater cuts a slice to suit and puts it on top of their bowl after putting ‘bow tie’ cooked noodles in the bowl bottom and ladling onions, carrots and “the juice” over those noodles.  We have a “green” of peas too.  The meat goes on top... sort of.  I like my meat ‘sliced up a bit’ and ‘pushed down in’.
            It gets dark early right now (December 16th) so we eat in the light from the Christmas tree
            And television.








Friday, December 16, 2016

Cold Black Coffee - Rambling-Round


Cold Black Coffee

Rambling-Round



Cold black coffee:  Rambling-round.
Cold black coffee “So black a spoon ill standup in it”.
            “YOU STILL GOT THAT (early New England – Maine made - lead glazed earthenware) REDWARE JAR (‘stew pot’) YOU HAD TO THE FORT (local flea market)?”
            “NO.”
            “SELL IT?”
            “NO.”
            (Pause).
            (sip).
            (Pause).
            (Eye contact).
            “NO.” said again.
            “Where is it?”
            “Give it to go to PORTSMOUTH (antiques dealer’s show/sale) LAST WEEK.”
            “Did it go?”
            “Believe so.”
            “You’d think you’d KNOW if it WENT by NOW.”
            “Not this time of year:  Went on to his DAUGHTER’S.  She’s NOW moved BACK from that GEORGIA.  DIVORCED.  MOVING TO NORTH READING (Mass.).”
            “Oh...  Been there... Some.”
            “I picked along there too... Bedford.  Arlington-Lexington.  Good area.  Used to be.”
            “Where’d you find that jar anyway?”
            “Your neighbor’s garage sale.”
            (Pause).
            (Sip).
            (Pause).
            (Eye contact).
            “You still got all your ammo?  You still HOARDING it?”
            “Shut-up.”
            “That new economy trickled down to you guys right away didn’t it.  Seems to me you guys might be the first ones to have been screwed by him.”
            “Shut-up”
            “Nice of him to get to you first.  He drained your swamp didn’t he.  What you do’en ‘bout it?”
            “Let’s put it this way:  I ain’t buying any anymore.  I got my lifetime supplied.”
            “And the junk guns?”
            “Oh I’d gotten rid of most of those this last summer”.
            “Old ten dollar guns not worth ten dollars anymore”.
            “Right.  Where’d you find that jar anyway.”





            “I told you:  Two doors down on the right.”
            (Pause.)
            (Sip.)
            (Pause.)
            “That place don’t even HAVE a garage”.
            “Nope.  PORCH SALE actually.  I always like them PORCH SALES anyway:  Halfway into the house when you start.  Been asking ‘em for old guitars, records and ‘cook where’ I’s CALL IT.  That’s working.  They all got it:  Got that COOK... WHERE.  Jesus.”
            “Cookware?  I seen you with all that.  That sells?”
            “Who cares.  Just throw it out if it don’t.  But.  Jesus.  They all got it.  Boxes of the old shit.  Every which way in there.  Downstairs-backstairs-cellar-attic-garage-shed out back-sister’s house up the street and THEN they take you through their grandmother’s place too.”
            “Works... huh.”
            “Works huh harder than your lazy ass ever has.”
            “What’s that then... you find that jar along doing that?”
            “That’s the whole point:  Get in and GO.  LOOK AROUND STUPID.  I don’t know what they got and THEY DON’T KNOW EITHER.  Next thing I’m back in the truck cab with that old pot and a sip of cold coffee.”
            “How much you gonna get out of that?”
            “The coffee?  It’s cold but black as tar.  I like it that way.
            “No.  What you got on that jar?”
            “Just a here and there.  I don’t want too much; buy a MESS.  Don’t make ‘em a MESS.  Get a little goodies along and get out.  I come back a month later and ... ‘low and behold’... they DO ‘got more’.  I said to one of ‘em “WHERE’D YOU GET ALL THIS (cookware)?” .  The fools BOUGHT IT.”




            “Christmas is on SUNDAY this year.”
            “Yeah I know.”
            “So that does that.”
            “Does that for the whole damn WEEK.  Be TUESDAY January THIRD before I can do anything.”
            “I won’t even TRY.  Just sit around at the FLEA (flea market) and eat cookies.  They got that New Year’s day (antiques) show.  You ever do that?
            “No.”
            “Some say they do pretty good”.
            “I don’t think so; not too much money around that morning (New Year’s day).  Same old – same old.  Seems to me.
            (Pause).
            (Sip).
            (Pause).
            “Didn’t you do something with that Mildred Calihanny’s place one New Years.”
            “Yes.  After the fire.”
            “Fire?”
            “She had a chimney fire New Years eve.  Nothing.  Stomped all around her place pretending to be putting it out.  I went in the attic with Bud.  Shined the flashlight all around in the attic.  No fire there but Jesus was it FULL.  So I went right to her and talked cash.  Went back the next day.  That was New Years.  I’ve known her along time.  Since her sister’s DOG drowned at Kettle Pond.  We were just out of high school then.”
            “Her mother lived a long time at the Benjamin Hardy place.  Housekeeper for the Hardies.  She out lived ‘em all.  Tough birds that family.”
            “Didn’t make cookies?”
            “No:  No cookies there.”
            “What’s happened to all that stuff anyway”
            “Last I heard it was still in Hastings’ barn over across the river.  Sold the (Hardy) place couple years ago.  Wouldn’t ever let me in.”
            “You can’t get Hastings to let you in?”
            “I can get in but it ain’t his to sell.  Was piled right up there; the whole kit and caboodle.  When I seen it.  STILL ALL THERE as far as I know.”
            “You’d think they’d do something.”
            “Oh they will SOMETIME.  Not this week.  Turned cold too.  Can’t get ‘em to stand in a barn ten minutes unless your handing ‘em hundred dollar bills.  I’m not gonna do that.  Wait it out.  Plenty of stuff around.  Anyway.





            “What do you think:  Santa’s gonna come and make it all right?”
            “If he could just put them louvers in my new shed I be happy”.
            “You didn’t stick those in?
            “No... the fall got away from me again.”
            “Get the ladder and go out there.”
            “Yeah... standing on a ladder holding on to galvanized eight pennies (nails) with my finger tips: I’ll just get to it right now.”
            “Come on; winters not THAT bad yet.”
            “I'd rather go down in the basement and...”
            “Count your bricks of twenty-twos.  Count ‘em up and send Uncle Donald the bill.  You know: ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS from SANTA’!”
            “You think he should wear a red suit and go around in a sled?  Toss everyone handfuls of money?  That ah get him the damn Popular Vote.”






            “You gonna be at the flea Saturday.  Suppose to snow again.”
            “Farmer’s Market will be there.  Sort of.  Anyways.  I’ll be there.”
            “BRING along that Bennington (Vermont pottery made blue decorated stoneware) crock:  I’d like look at that again.”
            “Look at it or buy it?
            “You know; talk about it.
            “It’s perfect and it’s great.”
            “Yeah but you got it priced
            It’s gonna sell.  That’s what I’ve been selling:  Collector grade.  Real antiques with obvious quality.  Attractive.  Perfect condition.  Classic heritage, classic history, classic design (art history).  Stand alone decorative appeal.  You know: “I want that in my home”.  Mostly American made; New England.  They’re decorating with things that are stand alone ‘real good’.  YOU... don’t have anything like that to sell.”
            “Now just wait”.
            “No you don’t.  You don’t.  All you got for sale is old crummy stuff.  They want ‘real nice’ perfect and real.  Collector grade.”












Friday, December 2, 2016

Roughshod - Part Six - "Dependence"


Roughshod

Part Six

"Dependence"



            Now that I have presented the old fools... who feel that old New England antiques be those found as core and source finds... in old New England homes... with those homes being a requisite undisturbed (original) state (no ‘sanded floors’) and including as many ‘same family’ dependence as a timeline will allow...:
            Oh... I said ‘this is horrible... harsh and... simple” (Part Five).
            And now say it is wrote in... your... own blood too.
            That is right:  Blood in the old New England home and in their old New England ‘things’ (antiques).  The blood as the street is surveyed from the front doorway.
            In the sun
            Shine. (Part Five).







            Does the sun shine on all of this?
            Not really.  It is ‘around’ for three seasons of the year.  And is “hot” for the forth season.  A porch rocker will suffice for this forth season... “in the shade”.  The summer season in not the ‘good time’ to ‘go in’ and ‘look’ at the “antiques”
            “IN THERE”.
            No.  I like February.  And your (the reader’s) efforts to collect antiques are not around then either.  Did not notice that... did you.
            I do.






            When a door is closed... or actually locked... with its key kept in the lock... and all may ‘see their breath’ in the room that is locked by the closed door... is that room exactly the way it has been... historically... in the ‘this old New England home’ with its blood (hot blood?) dependence there too?  Do these hot blood dependence actually STEAM in that room on this one closed door New England February morning... when I have been “called” “to account”?
            By proxy?
            By vote?
            By summons.  Usually.
            Very strict rules:
            “GOD”
            “Good taste”.
            “I know”.  (Part Five)
            “GOD
            It is cold today”.





            That is when an English... American Federal Period... Neoclassical looking glass... is taken off the wall for the first time following a same family registration of two hundred years.  I lift the looking glass off the wall for the first time in two hundred years.  I carry it outside through the front doorway and across the frozen lawn to my truck cab and “PUT IT” “behind the seat”.  That was a dirty deed.
            Wasn’t it.






            Then we talk about the Strawberry Festival in July.
            And how Elmer Mason is about to die.
            The old home’s furnace sings its song
            It is cold today so that’s not wrong
            The church was cold last weekend too
            But there was nothing anyone could do.






            It is horrible... harsh and simple?
            No.  It is the way it really is with the ‘old things’ in the old New England homes.  That is (exactly) how it happens.  No riding roughshod.  No phony sophistication that bandies “I LIKE” as a judgment of taste.  No; the museums ‘like’.   In this world; in this realm.  Where one sees the breath and feels hot blood.  It is honor.
            It is privilege
            It is
            Good taste.





            Now then... return and look for yourself.  YES... YOU... this time ...go BACK to that room and LOOK at the wall and SEE the... light vertical rectangular spot... a light SHADOW that shows there was... long... a once ‘hung there’... right there... now missing excepting the single tack ‘there too’.  And say nothing
            AT ALL
            About what ...YOU... see:  KEEP YOUR FOOL MOUTH SHUT.  Have the ‘good taste’ to do that.  And your not going to own that looking glass either.  You will not buy it.  It is...
            “Too expensive.”
            For you.
            You don’t know what your looking at.  You don’t know what it is.  You don’t “I like it” anyway.  You don’t.
            You sand the floors... instead.
            And never hear that Elmer Mason... is... “finally”... dead.








            After the roughshod imperative is an ‘endeavored to be applied’ by a smattering of ‘those idiots’... it is shamefully denoted that they are not speaking of ...or even noticing... the light shadow blank space on the wall of the cold dark... locked... room.  No.  They have not ever reached for a looking glass.  But they do have a “drawer full” of their ‘table linen’ that, well, they “never use”.  Seating furniture is never used either.  That would require them to chase the BRAINS out of their ‘my butt’.  That’s right:  Just breeze through the dining room.  You wouldn’t decorate it that way... anyway.  I know; you’d “let the sun in”.  The old rug is taken out to be hauled away?  No.  I get that before anyone does that; I am the ‘taken out’ and ‘haul away’.  You never notice; never see this.  You see the floors of course, and amplify that “They are not that bad in THAT ROOM (the old dining room).  “The floors in some of the (cold dark locked) other rooms are even better”.
            “Once those rooms are cleaned out”.







            We get that done; the cleanout crew.  We said ‘take fourteen days’ but were done in ten.  We knew that before we started; that we’d get it done... “early”.  Or do we?  What if the selling of the old looking glass ‘keeps it (the old New England home) alive’... one more year.  Just that nominal remittance... keeps the old New England home full of old New England antiques... “alive”... “ONE MORE YEAR”.  It is a dirty job... but I do it.
            I arrive and find the dependence all self-tied (bound) to the mast of this sinking ship.  Will I share the (hardtack) biscuits and moldy cheese?  DRINK THEIR WELL WATER too?  Of course I do.  Actually relish it.  The little storied jokes of Elmer Mason’s life now creep into conversation.  Let me just say that he was well known for his ‘too much interest’ in one of the postal clerks.  That went on for forty years.  “Everyone knew about it”.  And it is funny... because Elmer was “ a little funny”
            Himself.








            I stand on their threadbare rugs and do not wipe my feet (Part Four).  They never look at my boots anyway.  They are the dependence... on me.  This visit we are in a room that I don’t recall admission to excepting one time, two decades ago... the we did ‘walk through’ the ‘this room’.  I recall.  “Porcelain” I hear my self saying.  “Silver Plate”  I say.  “This here though; perhaps this is a little something here.”  I feel the hot blood.  I see the steam vapor.  This room is “quite cold” today.  It is a “water pitcher” I am saying.  “Made in New York”.  “Coin Silver” “Not sterling”.  “It is too old to be sterling.”  “Eighteen forties probably”.  “Brought it home on the ship”.  “It was a present for his wife”.
            OH NO I DO NOT SAY THIS LAST.  I KEEP MY FOOL MOUTH SHUT.  NO need to anchor the water pitcher as family.  As dependence.  No... just brush by that ... “is obvious”.  No one wants to hear that.  It is cold in this room today.
Where is this room... Anyway?






            “Twelve hundred you said”.
            “Yes.”
            “That will suit us just fine”.










            “It is from one of the finer families of the village.  Very few things like this turn up.  I look for them.  In there; these old homes:  The things in there are better than the homes.  The homes just hold them.  Hoard them.  I know these homes well.  I can spot these homes very easily.  I know what to look for.  And how to manage what I see.  It is done with good taste.  Good sense.  Everyone agrees of course.  The other options are ‘vile’.  And have ‘bad taste’ (crass decorum).  On the next Sunday the eldest sister goes to church.  No one knows ‘a difference’.”