Every once in a while he asks people to submit responses around a topic, to fill up the weekly newsletter.
Last week it was guys and their first cars -- I don't care much about cars, but my fellow male graduates did themselves proud. Didn't do much for me emotionally, but I understand that for "guys" cars are more than transportation. [Now if he had asked for contributions about the back seats of cars ... oh, my heart!]
This week's topic is for gals -- their babysitting jobs; I've always been a libber type, and this topic held much more personal interest.
Here's what I submitted; I thought my fellow FLDGs might want to chime in with their first cooking experiences:
Hi Kent:
You're doing a great job with the newsletter; thanks so much for all you do.
You might enjoy this memory of a guy babysitting:
I was the oldest of seven kids, and after we moved to the farm from Fort Atkinson in 1941 -- when I was five -- I did quite a bit of babysitting of my younger siblings -- until 1946 or so when I reached the lofty age of 10, and was above such duties -- I was then full time in the barn. [In truth, my sister Mary was old enough for Mom to trust with the baby sitting duties.
]I learned to make oatmeal, and prepared many breakfasts consisting of milk from the dairy just down the hill -- Dad did the miking in those days, Quaker Oats, a bit of salt, and some sugar (which I knew cost a dime a pound and was terribly expensive). Most days, the kids got honey which our own bees made and was "free"; other days it was black strap sorghum -- Mom kept it in a gallon jug to make the awful medicines go down, but we all loved it and I'm sure it made some of my awful cooking go down pretty well as well -- and on really special occasions, I would let the other kids have a spoonful of white sugar. Big, big concession -- or so I made them think.
On Sundays, I was able to fry eggs -- also from down the hill, but these Mom brought up to a cold case we kept on the porch. Bacon fat -- we raised Hampshires [or Old English or Thin Rind, if you prefer -- the black pigs with a wide white belt around their front legs]. I wasn't trusted with bacon, mind, but I was able to use the congealed bacon fat to make those eggs really sizzle. [I cringe today as I remember how I loved to make them so hard -- now it's slow cooking at 140F -- and watching like a hawk to be sure they are just perfect -- the whites slightly hard, the yolks just congealed -- and ten seconds more would be inedible. I was much tougher then.
]And with the eggs, pancakes, made from scratch, often too much baking powder, but after all they were just kids and what did they know? Maple syrup, of course, Grade C, the type I still love the most. Our own trees, all but one poor producers -- but one -- furthest from the house of course -- produced three times as much sap as all the others combined.
Other duties I remember: Changing diapers, cloth of course, smacking them down if they didn't behave, happy to see Mom or Dad come in, and tell them everything I did was absolutely right. One of the best jobs I ever had. Somehow everything I did was OK.
You know, apart from the eggs, I don't think my oatmeal tastes so good, and I'm sure my pancakes are nowhere near as good. Thank goodness I learned that eggs like gentle heat, or I would be totally a worse cook today than I was 60 years ago.
Regards, Bob