By Rick Houser-
As spring arrives and moves forward, with summer being its goal, much transpires. The world has gone from a frozen tundra to a black and white setting, which is very bleak. The world then one day wakes up and flowers bloom and the trees display their leaves and the grass not only becomes a dark green but begins growing at a pretty rapid pace.
Yes, the world comes to life and delivers us from the stark world we were in. We are so lucky as spring comes every year and saves us one more time. Spring is the time to plan, to make plans for flowers to plant or gardens to grow or even a farm to do all of the above and much, much more. We see lawnmowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors cutting grass and reminding us that we are now in the growing season. From my earliest memories until today, each year is reminiscent of the years that preceded and they have always been a great memory.
As we prepare to plant as the spring moves on there comes a time when we begin to harvest. In the later part of May the strawberry plants ripen and the time to pick them has arrived. Here is one of Mother Nature’s true pleasures, to taste that first ripe strawberry. That sweet and juicy taste that came from our ground is a hard one to beat. (Actually, the first taste of any fruit that you grew is unbeatable.) I guess my Mom thought so and in a big way as we raised a lot of fresh fruit. In our garden, we had a patch that measured 250 feet in length and 15 feet in width. I am not sure how my Dad farmed them but whatever he did to help them along seemed to work as we had a large quantity of strawberries every year.
When that first group of berries became ripe it seemed as if the entire family was there to help pick them and as Mom prepared them in the kitchen, it also seemed that we all were there to help in the consumption of those same berries.
Mom would stem them and the big ones would be cut into smaller pieces and she would give each of us a bowl of equal amount. She then would set out a pitcher of cold milk and as always in the middle of our table was the sugar bowl. We would pour some milk over those berries and then sprinkle some sugar over them, sprinkling to the desired taste. That simple way of eating the first bunch might possibly have been the best way. (Very hard to top garden fresh you know.)
The first bunch of ripe berries isn’t a huge amount but the next two or maybe even three pickings were huge. As much as we all wanted to pitch in and help that first time, it seemed that the larger amount to pick caused reluctance from us in helping Mom pick those berries. Just like pulling tobacco plants, when you pick strawberries you have to assume the bending position. Also just like pulling those tobacco plants staying bent for most of a day caused a person’s back to ache. Even though you still had that great taste from the first batch that was all sugared up and so very tasty, the memory of backache seemed to move to the forefront of our thoughts.
Here is where Mom moved from leading a crew to pushing a crew across the patch. As she was handed an excuse why we couldn’t help she became deaf to them. She would get us over to the garden which was across the street from our house and place us in the patch where she felt we would best serve the cause. Even though she pushed her crew, she placed herself in the middle of us and I think this was for us to see she wasn’t slacking and she also could see all of us from that position. It seemed like we would pick for an eternity and the older I got and the more I could pick, it didn’t seem to make the time go any faster.
However, when we were finished we would have picked many gallons of strawberries and along with a sore back, we would be proud of what we had delivered. Here is where I would see I had only helped do part of it. Mom would begin prepping all of those strawberries to preserve them all. For a few weeks, we ate strawberries until I thought I could last a lifetime without ever seeing another one. Mom made a lot of strawberry preserves and very good ones to be sure. The kitchen would become her canning place until berry season was over, Aabout a month at the longest.
With cook pots and stockpots and what looked to me like every other pot and pan she had and with all the burners ablaze, Mom was making preserves. She had the jars and the paraffin and most importantly she had a huge supply of sugar (her secret ingredient was always more sugar.) I know one year she made 125 quarts of strawberry preserves. On top of that, she also froze many quarts of just berries to thaw later and we could eat them spread out over a piece of cake.
One time Mom got the recipe for the strawberry pie that Frisch’s served and we as a family most certainly grew that May. I do mean we all got bigger. Mom put that recipe out of sight and only used it for a special time. Even though Dad, Peg, Ben and myself felt, there were many special occasions she wouldn’t use that recipe. I can only say that it was really good.
When the strawberry season arrived, it was received with mixed feelings as sore backs are just that but what my Mom did with those strawberries made up for the aches. For years I took it for granted that there would always be strawberries on our table and I got to where I didn’t eat very many of them.
However, those days are all gone. Mom is gone and so is her strawberry patch. I have no idea of where that pie recipe is either. Although I got complacent and grew tired of seeing the preserve jar always in the center of the table, I must tell you all I would give anything to have one more slice of toast all covered in those preserves.
Rick Houser grew up on a farm near Moscow in Clermont County and loves to share stories about his youth and other topics. If you might want to read more of his writing, he has two books that are for sale. You can contact Rick at [email protected].