Mom's Kitchen
Written and illustrated by Rita Y. Chiavacci

          Mom's profession was a homemaker.  She was an excellent cook.  Wonderful smells emanated from our kitchen. 

She baked her own bread and made her own pastas.  Several times a week a large wooden board occupied the pantry counter.  All kinds of dough had their birth on this board.  A permanent groove was cut into the edge.  Numerous noodles, pirohi, (pockets of dough filled with cheese potatoes, cabbage or prunes) and such had been cut.

          Soups and stews simmered on the stove with regularity.  Saturdays saw a variety of desserts being readied for Sunday feasting.  A cake, several pies, and ethnic treats lined the pantry counter.

During the summer months, my mother spent many hours, over a coal stove, canning.  The kitchen felt like a furnace.

          I had the chore of washing the canning jars.  They came out of the basement where they had been stored once they were emptied.  Very carefully, my Mom would run her fingers around the rims of the jars to be sure there were no nicks in the glass.  Perfect jars ensured a tight seal.  Washed jars were placed in boiling water in a large oval vat to be sterilized.

          Bushels of tomatoes were scalded and peeled.  Some were canned whole.  Others would be combined with celery, peppers and onions and turned into chili sauce.  A large conical colander was used to puree the tomatoes that would be used for spaghetti sauce.                   
          My dad picked wild blackberries, raspberries, and blueberries.  He loved the outings into the woods where the berries grew.  Some of these berries were canned in tact, for pie making, while others were turned into jelly.  The jelly was poured into glasses or a variety of small-recycled jars.  The jars without lids were sealed with paraffin, then covered with a waxed paper cap secured by a rubber band.  The hot wax always intrigued me as it lay atop the jelly and hardened to seal the jars.

           Daddy also picked mushrooms that grew wild in some local wooded areas.  He knew his mushrooms.  My mother, too, canned these.  Traditionally, Mom simmered these into a soup that was served on Christmas Eve.  I hate mushrooms.

          Baskets of cucumbers were sorted.  Small ones became pickles.  Larger ones had to be sliced into bread and butter pickles.  Beets, too, were scalded, peeled, and sliced.  The smell of hot vinegar pierced the air as pickling was made to pour over the waiting jars. 

          Peaches and pears were peeled and sliced into jars of their own.  Hot syrup was carefully poured over them and lids were screwed tight.

 Green and yellow beans were cleaned and snapped and filled into jars.  I can still vividly here the ping of the jar lids sealing as they cooled.  Very rarely did Mom have a jar that did not seal.

          When she was finished, hundreds of jars, pints and quarts, of food were taken to the cellar.  As the shelves were filled, the various colors and container sizes made a kind of patchwork.  I remember her satisfaction as she stood and surveyed her hours and hours of work. 

          The snows could come for she had made ample preparation.

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