The County Line has begun a new standing feature showcasing creative work from our community. Do you have an item (e.g., short story, photo, or poem) to submit? Contact the County Line at 337-4232 or countyline@thecountyline.net.
By GINA RAE | Wilton
At the age of 10, I acquired a role model. A woman of such wit and wisdom that I leaned in daily to hear what she had to say. She was tall of stature and a conservative dresser, but you knew by the twinkle in her eye that she was smart and fun to be around.
My parents had bought the farm from the county years before, and the property held 21 buildings, all of them rickety and completely packed full of stuff. Dick Buelow loved nothing more than an auction, and though he didn’t have much to spend, he never went home empty handed. Rumor has it that he’d haul home anything to be had for a dime or less, which turns out to be quite a lot of stuff, he since he couldn’t take it with him, it stayed in “the sheds.” All of the “sheds” had piles of stuff in them. Tin pails, wooden boxes, assorted rusty containers full to the top with nuts, bolts, utensils … imagine emptying the kitchen junk drawer a thousand times over, except that junk was different then. It stewed quietly in earth tones, no plastics. I spied the green rim on an enameled saucepan, so I lifted straight up on a chipped teacup, an empty paint can and a sealed, rusty oil can balanced on top to slide the pan out. Shaking out the leaves and dirt that had gathered inside, I enjoyed the heft of it and the luxury of a handle. It would do nicely. I dipped it into the stream, and it released a thin stream through a hole in the bottom as I walked to my kitchen.
My kitchen looked like an outhouse, but it didn’t smell like an outhouse. The door hung from its lower hinge and it had never been painted; the boards were light grey and not quite soft with weather. Inside, one hole was a bit larger than the other, exactly as the burners on a stove are not quite all the same size. I began to assemble my supplies around it. I lined wooden boxes up beside the kitchen, extending my countertop work space. The tin breadbox opened like an oven in my mind’s eye. I carried every chipped cup and cracked plate I could find, washed them in the creek and stacked them proudly on my shelves.
Next, to assemble ingredients. The farm had plenty of dirt, sand and gravel, the basics for baking. I collected seeds from thistle heads, timothy and coneflowers for decorating cookies, cakes and pies. I laid out my utensils, battered muffin tins and cookie sheets. I was in business. I began to pour and stir, patting the batter into tins. As I slid the first batch on the oven, I didn’t feel the satisfaction that I thought I would feel. I looked around the kitchen, and it occurred to me that she always faced her audience. All of the boards on the kitchen were loose, easy for a young baker to handle. I pulled off four boards behind the stovetop. It changed my view completely. I was able to look out at the wildflowers with the creek flowing through. My heart swelled as I began in her singsong warble, “Pattycake, pattycake, baker’s man! Today we are baking cakes on The French Chef.” The theme song began in my mind as my audience turned their heads. Black Angus are incredible listeners. They walked closer, bending their heads only to pull another mouthful of grass — chewing, chewing. Blinking their big eyes. So patient. I worked through the steps: mix the batter, pour the mixture, pat it in, decorate with a flourish. “Bon appetit!”
