NEWS FROM THE HILLS
A wayward wind blows the yellow poplar leaves from the trees and scatters them on the still green grass of August. It is a mixture of summer and fall, with steamy days prevailing.
Gardens are winding down, with the tender vines of cucumbers and squash slowly dying. The hot summer sun has taken its toll on much of the crops, although there are many vegetables left for the gleaning.
As I picked a mess of late half runner green beans, with almost half of them shelled out, I thought of daddy and his love for the “last mess of the summer.” It was his favorite, served with a thick slice of “striped” tomato—the pink and yellow ones.
The first mess of the season is what I like best—young, tender beans that are more hull than bean. Nothing can compare with homegrown food picked fresh out of the garden and cooked country style. No wonder some of our fondest childhood memories are about the food “that Mommy cooked.”
The jar flies are singing their song of summer all day long now. My cousin Katie wrote to inquire about katydids and jar flies, and wondered about the difference in them. Katydids are related to crickets and grasshoppers, but they are easy to recognize. They are bright green, with long legs. Their quarrelsome cry is heard in late summer and fall until cold weather.
Their nocturnal call of “Katy-did! Katy-did!” tell us that summer is on the wane, and fall is approaching. Country lore says that when you hear the first katydid, it will be six weeks until frost, but that is not true. Still, their cry comes slower and slower as cold weather approaches.
Jar flies are heard through hot, drowsy days, a monotonous sound that sounds mournful to some, but is soothing to me. They are a cicada, just as the seventeen year locust is. If you’ve ever caught one, and felt the vibration of their wings, you will know why they are called a “jar fly.” Mom lumped them all together and called them “fall bugs.” They sing continuously now.
I hope Cousin Katie won’t mind if I share her poem with you, as it carries the very essence of autumn.
MOUNTAIN MAGIC
By Katie Samples Khan
Fields of purple ironweed, with a sprinkling of goldenrod,
And enchanting green hollows of deep silence.
We walked the valleys and climbed the hills
For breath-taking views of ruffled blue ridges;
Seven layers deep.
Then Indian summer with leaves turning
And acrid air quickening our senses,
We couldn’t breathe deeply enough.
Foggy mist rising from the river;
Mystic coves charged with spirit,
Drew us into the harmony of presence.
How could anything this beautiful end?
You never know when someone will come along
And pull you to them.
Immersed in the splendor and magic of creation;
How could we not be changed?
Yellow and purple fields during the day
And a symphony of katydids at night~
Mountain air wrapped us in place . . .
For that season ~ for that love.
We mentioned the old haystacks of yore in a recent column, and got a reply from John and Nancy Smith. He wrote that the last one they saw was south of Burnsville off I-79. It was there until about 1980, a pleasing countryside scene of peaceful sights and sounds. There was a church bell ringing in the distance, and the tinkle of cowbells. The soft twitter of bluebirds completed this idyllic scene that remained in their memories.
Betty Austin of St. Albans was reminiscing about a song that her grandmother sang to her when they sat on the porch swing together. She could only remember a few of the words. I remember my own mother singing the same song, and can hear the melody clear in my mind.
When I looked it up, I was surprised to find there were only a couple of verses to it. It is the type of song that you wish had a dozen verses.
OLD SPINNING WHEEL
There’s an old spinning wheel in the parlor,
Spinning dreams of the long, long ago,
Spinning dreams of an old fashioned garden,
And a maid with her old fashioned beau.
Sometimes it seems that I can hear her in the twilight
At the organ softly singing “Sweet and Low,”
There’s an old spinning wheel in the parlor,
Spinning dreams of the long, long ago.
We are trying to catch up on some of our requests, and are thankful for the reader response to these. Evelyn Baldwin of Summersville sent words to a recently requested song, as did Eleanor McKay of Ravenswood. Jeannie Fowler of Sissonville is looking for a recipe for wilted lettuce dressing. (Did you know people down south call it “killed lettuce?”)
I make it a lot, but don’t measure anything. I start with bacon grease (or oil), add vinegar, sugar, and a little salt. Heat and pour it over leaf lettuce. If anyone has accurate measurements, we need them.
Veronica Johnson of So. Charleston is longing for the fried apple pie recipe that her grandmother, Golda Mae Hudnall, used to make. She adds that the apple pies were not actually fried—baked maybe?
J. C. Stone is wondering why we don’t raise green black-eyed peas here in West Virginia. He grew up in Texas where this vegetable was a common dinnertime item. He has tried farmer’s markets here with no success, and finally raised them himself. They sound good—we ought to try them.
David and Phyllis Pauline need a pickled corn recipe, and this is simple. Cook fresh ears of corn about three minutes, then cool. Mix 2/3 cup of canning salt to one gallon of cold water; pour over corn in churn. Weigh down and wait.
Connie Miller of Pinch needs the purslane gumbo recipe that appeared some time ago, as purslane is thick in their garden. This herb resembles okra, and is healthy and delicious.
PURSLANE GUMBO
1 tablespoon oil
1 ½ cups purslane tips
2 cups chopped, skinned tomatoes
1 ½ cups corn, cut from cob
2 small green peppers
½ cup chopped onion
¼ cup uncooked rice
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 cups beef broth (or chicken broth, if adding chicken)
l bay leaf
Heat oil in skillet and cook purslane until just tender. Put in soup pot with other ingredients and simmer gently until rice is tender. (Add I cup diced chicken or beef if desired.)
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