Tag: nostalgia

Mother’s Recipe Box

Sarah Russell8 Comments

My thanks to Your Daily Poem for publishing my poem this morning as part of their Poetry Parade for Poetry Month.

Mother’s Recipe Box

Friday night baked beans with salt pork, molasses, 
and just enough water to keep them covered, 
simmering in the bean pot her mother used. 

Refrigerator rolls, dusted with flour, punched down, 
rolled out to rise again as doughnuts, cloverleaf rolls 
for company, hamburger buns for picnics. The dough 

kept a week in a big bowl covered with wax paper 
that took up most of a shelf in the icebox, its recipe card 
with Mother’s school teacher penmanship, splotched 

from yeasty hands and buttered fingers. And oh my, 
the Jello concoctions—celery, slivered carrots 
and pineapple in jiggly lime or orange with a mayo 

and sour cream topping. And the congealed 
Christmas staple of cranberries from the grinder 
with orange bits and that ubiquitous celery. 

Some of the cards have friends’ names—Hilda’s cherry pie, 
Wilma’s meatloaf. Some have culinary graphics in a corner—
wooden spoons, checked aprons, Italian chefs winking. 

My daughter asked for the box awhile back. It blesses 
her kitchen from a high shelf. I doubt she has ever used 
the recipes, but she knows its legacy, its secrets.   


 

Invitation

Sarah Russell43 Comments

We found a stream that night
away from everywhere but us –
water voices whispering,
the honey of first times,
wind feathery on urgent skin.

Perhaps a folly, our rush
into together and tomorrow –
forever’s promissory note
before the debt of everyday.

Let’s go back
and lie beside the stream again,
listen for the water voices,
feel the wind’s breath

before we disappear.

– Sarah Russell
First published in The Houseboat

July 4th Memories

Sarah Russell5 Comments

My friend John Ziegler posted this nostalgic look back at July 4th celebrations on Facebook.  Hope you all enjoy it.

As kids we were keenly aware that the Fourth of July, had been federally designated to celebrate our nation’s independence so first thing that morning we put on our  shorts, white tee shirts and Keds, ready to run fast, make noise and eat ice cream. Teddy and Frankie came to the back porch with green carbide canons, tubes of Bangsite, and strings of fire crackers Teddy smuggled from Canada during a fishing trip. We had sparklers and candy. There was always candy involved. Mr. Mallory’s Corner Grocery had glass cases dazzling with penny candy, so our pockets were sticky with sweet, colorful wads.

The next door neighbor had a vintage ice cream maker, with rotating wooden barrel, chain driven, filled with ice and rock salt that surrounded the steel canister of ingredients, cream, sugar, cherries or strawberries. The process started in the morning with the ice cream finally ready at dusk.

Eagerly awaited, this was a day of adventure. After a bike ride to the vacant field behind the Masonic Temple we lay in the warm grass watching clouds evolve. Out of curiosity and a rasher of bravado, Frankie laid a fire cracker across his sneaker and lit it with an Ohio Blue Tip. The fuse sparked, grew short, disappeared and when the little red tube exploded, Frankie jumped three feet and bellowed like a mule. He walked with a limp the next few hours but recovered by the time foot races began with Albert Cassone.

Albert Cassone was an odd man of sixty something who lived in a brick row house a couple of blocks down Franklin Street. Black business pants, pressed white shirt open at the collar and wing tip dress shoes he arrived in our back alley with a pocket full of coins to challenge any and all in a foot race to the third black tar line, for a dime. Everyone got in line, everyone ran faster than wind. Everyone got dimes.

Late in the day the parents whistled the family signal to come home for the picnic. We easily ate three or four loaded hot dogs from the charcoal grill, along with macaroni salad, baked beans, carrot strips, black olives followed by a couple of kinds of cake and finally the home made ice cream. We hardly ever threw up.

When the sky finally grew dusky, fireworks lit up the fairgrounds, loud and bright, concussions shook the air, clouds of smoke softly disappeared in the dark, the whole world drifted in a dream and the country was secured in independence for another year.

 John Ziegler