Traditions
It became a tradition for our family to go to our grandparents Miner’s house for a meal on New Year’s Day. It wasn’t the traditional New Year’s Eve foods of pork and sauerkraut; it was something a lot less traditional. My Dad Carl Beck would buy a couple of cans of oysters and a gallon of vanilla ice cream. He’d also buy the little wafer-like oyster crackers.
Granddad Raymond Miner had a small farm with cows providing fresh butter, cream, and milk. He made lard from the pigs he butchered and Grandma Rebecca Rugg Miner canned apples and would bake two apple pies. Her crusts were nice and light from the lard that she used and the apples were seasoned just right for the filling.
As soon as we walked inside my glasses would steam up, assaulted by the cinnamon-spicy aroma of the pies and the warmth of the coal cook stove in her kitchen. There would be the scent of percolated coffee adding richness to the festivities. The ice cream would go into the freezer and the oysters would go into a large pot with creamy farm milk, home-churned butter and salt and pepper. Nothing else was needed to make a rich light soup. All we had to do was to wait and waiting was hard for us kids. The pleasantly warm smells made our stomachs growl.
Grandma would get up occasionally to stir the pot. We would all watch in anticipation for her to nod that the meal was ready and were disappointed when she returned and sat back down. When it would seem I could wait no longer, Grandma would say, “Let’s eat.” There was no need for a second call when the oyster broth was cooked and ready to be served.
Grandma would use a large ladle and lift out steaming broth and a few of the meaty oysters into bowls; smaller ones for us kids, and larger ones for the adults. When the savory soup was placed in front of me I would take a deep sniff, wanting to just have a taste of it, but I knew that all had to be served and grace needed said, the crackers would be passed around to spill into our bowls.
I always wanted to lift the bowl and drink it right down, but I would take one spoonful at a time makimg it last as long as I could. I knew the soup was steaming hot and it would have scalded my throat. Grandma would continue to ladle the soup until the pot was empty.
The adults would sip coffee and talk. Kids would squirm in our chairs wishing the apple pie and ice cream was already in front of us. But as children, we couldn’t ask and had to wait to be served.
Eventually Grandma would rise and fetch the pies. My mom would get the ice cream. Our eyes sparkled in anticipation. Apple pie and ice cream was never a common occurrence. Grandma placed a large wedge on a saucer and Mom would scoop a heaping mound of the ice cream on top of the pie.
We drooled until everybody was served and then dove in with gusto. Barely a crumb was left on the plate when we were through. Tummies full and appetite sated we cleared the table to play dominoes or Parcheesi. Some sadness would creep in. We’d have to wait another full year for the oyster stew and apple pie.