Taste of Summer Childhood Captured
My father is captured in a Polaroid photo standing over his rotisserie BBQ. His left hand he is cupping a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon and a cigarette. A white muscle shirt and his wide smile are part of a relaxed day of summer, circa 1972.
Dad was the grill master, when he would soak steaks in vinegar, overnight. These were days before bottled marinade when reduced-priced steaks came on styrofoam trays wrapped in plastic with red stickers indicating they had gone past their sell-by date and they needed vinegar and salt to rub off the slime and make them tasty.
Most of our summer cooking took place over the grill at the back of our house, where willowy asparagus and borage grew. My brother and I would sit on the stoop of three cement stairs; shirts off and barefoot, with our faces pushed into watermelon halves, the rind circling to our cheeks and ears. Our bellies caught the sticky juice that would be sprayed off with the hose. As teenagers, with shirts on and less messiness, we would shoot watermelon seeds at each other and a hose drenched chase always pursued.
Mom’s favorite dish of summer was fried chicken, soaked overnight in buttermilk, dipped in egg and bread crumbs and fried crispy. The square electric skillet with melted Crisco held sizzling chicken that she carefully turned with her red handled tongs. It would be served room temperature or cold, in Tupperware ready for a picnic or outdoor patio service and always with coleslaw.
When blueberries were plentiful, a blueberry picnic cake topped with a thick layer of streusel was served. Mom baked it in an aluminum rectangle pan early in the day and we would walk past it all day sitting on the kitchen table anticipating dessert. My mouth waters thinking of the buttery crumble and the plump berries clustered in the yellowcake.
Over the years, each of us kids has tried to recreate the blueberry cake recipe, with little success. Her recipe reads as cryptic sentences rather than actual measurements: “...a handful of sugar, a stick of butter, a good amount of cinnamon and a pinch of nutmeg... cream the sugars with your hands until well blended and save half for the topping…”
Cherry pie was another favorite summer dessert. Dad planted a tart cherry tree that produced loads of cherries. With a bowl on our laps, a paring knife in hand, sitting on the stoop, we would pit cherries for cherry pie. I have not tasted a cherry as good as the ones from my childhood.
Gardening was dad’s project; he grew peas, beans, tomatoes, potatoes, and rhubarb. The rhubarb was cooked lightly with just a tad of water and a scant of sugar; it was more of a savory sauce that I’d go to the fridge eating one spoonful at a time from the bowl.
At the edge of our property was a compost pile. A small grove of lilacs and an apple tree shaded a scattering of painted rocks marking the graves of goldfish, a turtle, a cat, and two dogs. That was my sanctuary. My dad taught me that their bodies would decompose and bring new life to our garden. I’d stand watch over the rocks wondering how that could happen with a bit of sadness, missing my favorite dog, Sam.
Behind the yard was the old Milwaukee Road train tracks straight from our suburb to downtown Chicago. It stopped running and dad was the first to rescue and repurpose the railroad ties. He framed our yard with three high beams for raised beds and made a walkway with the creosoted timbers. Then he went on to build us a log cabin with carefully crossed beams for a 2 story fort.
There were perennials like hollyhocks and black-eyed Susans and a patio with small white stones covering the ground. Dad cut out leaves with his jigsaw and he painted them black and nailed them to the wall as art and a representation of shadows. It was here, our outdoor room, with a grill and a bucket filled with sand, painted with a sign that said “Park Your Butts Here,” where July and August were lived and meals eaten.
Hamburgers and hotdogs were often served, especially on Memorial Day, July 4th, and maybe the last day of summer, and always with chips and pickles and potato salad. Corn on the cob was saved for the special day when dad grabbed a bag from the farm stand on his way home. The pot of water was put on as soon as he came home to catch the sugar before it turned to starch. We stripped the corn, (where else, but the stoop) and as soon as it came out of the pot we swirled it around on a stick of butter and a good pinch of salt, served on little corn plates as the main course!
These are images of my childhood summers. I can feel the watermelon melt away under my tongue, leaving behind a mouthful of seeds. Or it could have been grapes, and if it wasn’t grapes, it was the stones of the cherries. Each mouthful was carefully targeted to spit the seeds as far as possible. What happened to those watermelon and grape seeds? How about half-priced steaks, needing a rub of salt and a soak of vinegar to wash away the rancidness? I don’t miss the watermelon seeds, just the playfulness they brought and the flavor of the grapes, the sour skin and pure essence of grapiness that is just not found in commercially grown grapes without seeds. And where oh where are cherries that tasted so good? Food traditions and methods have evolved; some were more sophisticated and some, like grapes and cherries, lost the essence of flavor for modern conveniences. Cherries that ship and hold well over time, with the great cherry flavor seems lost forever. And vinegar and salt have replaced thousands of marinades while we have become so phobic of sell by dates, that meat is no longer sold half price. As I bring in these food memories of summer, I wonder at our modern changes.
Recalling the images of my youth, it is all melded together at one time, each with its frame stopped in the reel of youth. I have become a person who cherishes flavors, textures and moments around food. The marinated steak sizzling on the grill or the drumstick crisp and perfectly cooked with mom’s attention is what captures summer cherished memories.