Food is Relative

When we were youngsters, we ate the food put on the table. And liked it all as we cleaned our plates. Food then was different. No buffet. I first ate spaghetti at age 10 when my Aunt Rebecca brought Chef Boy Ar Dee in a can. I fell in love with the sweet taste of the sauce. Our pasta was macaroni with tomato juice added. My dad hated it. We had pork chops or thin steak for breakfast from animals that we had grown and butchered. As a child, my brother Roger adopted a calf which he named Sam after a Walt Disney animal. Sam was trained to pull a sled and come at Roger's call. Well, Sam grew and reached his purpose. He was made into steak and roast. They broke the news to Roger who was devastated. But that night at supper as the platter was passed he said "You might as well give me a piece of Old Sam".

My dad and brothers shot, scraped and butchered the hogs but cows were taken to a professional. In the early 60s, WWII veterans received a bonus for duty. My parents bought a freezer with his $500 used to store meat and garden produce.

Along with the farm animals, Dad and brother Larry hunted for game. And fished. I have held the hind legs of many rabbits and squirrels as their skin was peeled away from pink flesh that was crisply fried. Parts were parts until it came to the squirrel brains. I once told my Ohio friend Deb that we fought over who got to eat the brains. She is still laughing. That food was delicious but I guess we have out grown most of it. Except for chicken livers and gizzards which my husband can fry into a delicacy. Imagine my own shock when we went to Tiro Tavern with friends and found that they were featuring a Coon Feed. Who eats coon?
I will never fish. My dad and brothers went to pay lakes in southern Ohio. When we moved north, they thought they had found the mother lode in Lake Erie. Each Sunday they sat on the pier at Huron patiently waiting for a bite. One Sunday I was made to go. The sunburn lasted for a week. The boredom a lifetime. They were proud as they walked off the rocky pier showing off the buckets of their catch. I don't know how my mother stood it when they arrived home late with fish to clean. Today I am repulsed by a fish scale or bone.

As I listen to the rooster crowing down the street in New Haven, I am reminded of how often we had chicken dinners. My mom or grandmother were swift in capturing a young fryer or a fat stewing hen from the pen or under the shrubs in their dusty hideout. A quick jerk broke the neck or the sharp ax took the head off.
We laughed as the beheaded chicken flopped about the yard under the big dishpan. Not so as we plucked the scalded feathers that created an unforgettable odor. My sister Carol gagged and was excused from the duty. Then we watched as my mother singed the pin feathers over the flame on the gas stove. She or my grandmother cut the chicken apart in no time and unlike take out chicken today you could tell the thigh from the breast or back. Sometimes the hen had a partially formed egg which was thrown in with all the other parts to cook for the fat used to make dumplings. A great dinner on a hot Sunday after church.  We had to take turns on who got to eat the gizzard or liver. Grandmother always said she liked the feet-yes, they were cooked too. But I think that was the part left for her as she strived to feed hungry children. Mother never ate chicken.

Nowadays we serve chicken fingers, fish sticks, nuggets, pizza, tacos and calamari. No kid eats pork, fried chicken or wild game. They have not been hungry.