Starving the Old Year Feeding the New

There are several New Year’s menus that I remember distinctly. My mother Sybil Miner Beck always served was pork and sauerkraut for New Years’ Eve. I was told that it’s an old German tradition to eat pork and sauerkraut to ensure luck and welcome in the New Year. The type of pork wasn’t traditional, but with Mom it was usually a pork roast. Other meals I’ve eaten the meat was sausage, kielbasa, or even hot dogs.

My wife Cindy Morrison Beck and I often shares meals with Cindy’s best friend, Deborah Detar and her husband Bill. We sometimes spent New Year’s Eve at each other’s homes to celebrating. Cindy’s menus were more “traditionally” flavored foods, while Debbie always added sugar to all of hers. Her sauerkraut was brown, heavily flavored with brown sugar and her mashed potatoes were one teaspoonful shy of being candy. Even the sour cream dips she made for veggies and chips was more like dips served with fruit. Her kids carry on that sweet tradition.

Sometimes Cindy’s parents Bud and Retha Morrison would share homemade sauerkraut with us. It was a veritable feast with freshly its canned flavor. This year I helped make sauerkraut and can hardly wait to share the flavor with my kids.

Another menu that remains firmly established in my memory bank are the meal my dad and grandparents Ray and Rebecca Miner made for New Year’s Day. Dad would buy several cans of oysters, tiny, round soup crackers, and vanilla ice cream. My grandparents had a farm and provided milk, cream, and freshly churned butter to make the oyster stew. Gram always baked an apple pie or two. While we waited for the oysters to stew, we would often play games like dominoes, Pachisi, or my uncle Ted’s favorite Sorry on the dining room table.

Gram’s house soon filled with savory steam from the stew simmering on her wood fired, kitchen cook-stove. It merged with the spicy aroma of the pies still in the oven. Hungry eyes of the older members huddled around the dining room table would occasionally stray into the kitchen “wondering if the soup was ready yet?”

Finally Gram would put the games away. She’d set the table with shallow bowls. Dad would carry the stew pot to the table; steam often obscuring sight through his glasses. The rich broth was ladled into the bowls and cellophane package of crackers passed from hand to hands until everyone had some. I Soup spoons clicked as we slurped the broth. The flavor was remarkable. The meal ended with slices of still warm pie and melting ice cream. It’s a deliciously full memory.