My mother grew up on the Smith Family farm in tiny Vass, NC – where our ancestors settled in the 1700s. The Smiths raised chickens and pigs – but also tobacco as a cash crop. Pecan trees grew in the front yard, we could gather the nuts right off the ground, cracking them on the front porch, eating the meats carefully to avoid any bits of bitter shell.
They were poor but didn’t go hungry as they grew corn, tomatoes, okra, green and butter beans and something called “dewberries” – a kind of blackberry that made good pies and jam.
But my most vivid memory was of my grandmother Mama Cattie’s strawberries – she grew huge, sweet dark red berries– we could eat the berries right off the vines out in the fields, no sugar needed–as we kids “helped” pick. We ate all we wanted, with no scolding to wash them first. Before organic was a thing, the Smiths were skeptical of herbicides and pesticides.
My grandfather John William Smith was one of 10 children and somehow that modest farmhouse housed them all. The long rectangular table seated at least 10 or 12. It was covered with a red and white checked oilskin tablecloth, threadbare in parts, that had a distinctive smell. Not a bad smell, but one that reflected absorbed grease from the kitchen’s big black cast iron stove where Mama cooked. Another distinctive smell I liked was the stand-alone freezer that sat on the screened in porch and held the vanilla ice-cream. I loved opening it up, putting my face in the cold cloud that emitted as I looked in to see what it held.
John William & Cattie as newlyweds in 1914 and as grandparents in an undated photo.
I was only 7 when Mama Cattie died but I remember her cooking –and all the work that went into it –very well. It was so fun to follow her around. Especially I loved going to the little wooden hen house with Mamma Cattie. She’d lift the latch and we’d go inside, the only light was through the cracks between the planks of wood. She’d reach under the hens to pick out enough eggs for breakfast and let me carry one in each hand while she carried the rest in her apron. Her scrambled eggs, heavily peppered and flavored with sausage grease in the large cast iron pan, were the best I’ve ever tasted. I’ve tried to recreate them but can’t.
Her strawberry jam had whole strawberries in it. We’d break open her steaming biscuits to top with butter and that mouthwatering jam. Molasses was an interesting sweet that the adults also put on their biscuits. I was fascinated with the molasses in its tiny pitcher with the sticky green top that opened up when you squeezed the handle. My older sister didn’t like molasses, so I made a point of saying I did and being more grown up by eating it on my biscuits (even tho of course I liked the strawberry jam better).
Her biscuits were good cold too as they were stuffed with farm-grown and cured ham. Mama Catti would get the ham by heading to the smoke house with a knife and lopping off a big hunk from the giant ham that hung from a hook on a rope from the ceiling.
Then there was Mama Cattie’s famous 1-2-3-4 Cake. Her cake got its name from the recipe’s measurements: 1 cup (each) of butter and milk, 2 cups sugar, 3 cups self-rising flour, 4 eggs, slightly beaten, plus a dash of vanilla. (Mix and pour in pan. Bake at 350 degrees til a straw in the middle comes out clean.)
Interestingly, Mama Catti saw nothing wrong with children eating her cake hot, in the middle of the day, instead of saving it for dessert. We’d smell its vanilla aroma, waiting impatiently. “Oh go ahead and cut it now if you think it will taste that much better hot,” she’d say, saving her the trouble of frosting it. My mom said being allowed to eat Mama Catti’s cake hot was one of her favorite memories too, to heck with the rules that said you had to wait. And that cake recipe yielded a lot of cake. She made it in a pan much bigger than the standard 13 x 9, so there was some left for dessert.
One oft-told Smith Family story about Mama Catti’s cake was the time Aunt Dot came to dinner as a young mother. The family had just enjoyed a huge meal served around that long table. The 1-2-3-4 cake was cut and Grandpa Smith doled out pieces on dessert plates. He gave Dot a HUGE piece and piled it high with whipped cream and fresh strawberries.
Aunt Dot: “Oh my, doesn’t that look good! But I’m so full, I can’t possibly eat all that!” but he set it before her.
Just then the baby started crying and Dot went off into the other room to tend to him.
While Dot was gone, my grandfather reached over with his fork and in one swipe took most all of her cake, sliding it onto his plate, leaving just a small corner for her.
When Dot returned, she ate that one bite of cake.
The others smiled and Grandpa Smith said, “Dot, won’t you have just a little more?”
“OH my goodness, no! Didn’t you see the SIZE of that piece I just ate?”
The whole room erupted in laughter.
I think of that story especially when I’m full from a good dinner but my sweet-tooth still wants dessert.
Sometimes just one savory bite can satisfy you –for just a fraction of the calories–and no tummy ache.
I try to remember that lesson from Aunt Dot every Thanksgiving when I am so stuffed I know I don’t have room for dessert… but maybe for just one bite. 🙂
My mom, Lois Smith, tying up dewberry vines on the farm.
susan goewey 