Mother's Kitchen Stove

It wasn’t always referred to as mother’s stove, but in reality it belonged to her. She was the one that picked it out after the former house burned down in 1942. She presided over the gray granite behemoth with all the authority needed in our black and white enamel painted country farm house kitchen. Everything is our kitchen was built by hand, in place, by my dad. It was serviceable and sturdy, designed by my mother to fit the needs of our family.

The fire-breathing cast iron cook stove stood in our narrow kitchen, at least narrow by today’s standards. It stood just opposite the sink with its pitcher pump, facing the east window. Mother tended the creature, sometimes with tender care and other times like a villain when things didn’t go just right. Both seemingly could be vengeful at times. Mother usually was usually the winner in these contests. She carried the whip and knew how to use it.

There were six lids on the top of the cast iron stove. This top was occasionally cleaned with some sort of wax or fat to make it look like brand new. Usually this was done when the stove was not hot. For some reason it seemed to last longer that way. I don’t rightly know what the lids over the oven were for, perhaps to clean the ashes that could drift over there from the firebox.

On one end of the stove was a rack, just a metal rod that attached to the end of the stove, from front to back. On this rack were hung wet dish towels, wash cloths or any other item that needed to dry. The other end had a water storage tank that had a common side to the firebox. This kept the water cistern hot for cooking or use in washing dishes etc. All the trim pieces were nickel coated to make them shine like silver. It truly was an impressive and intimidating piece of household necessity. It held court there in our farm kitchen for many years. Mother beamed and called it, “her pride and joy”.

Above the working surface of the stove, was the warming shelf or warming oven as they were often called. Some stoves had just a metal shelf about two feet above the flat heating service. Our closed metal storage units were used to keep food warm before meals. The heat rising from the cook top would warm the compartments and keep things warm until serving time. It was always a joy to check these warming ovens for some saved goodies or to seek the tools to care for the stove.

One long tool that hung from the back of the stove was a long heavy wire implement that had a flat metal blade a little bigger than a domino playing piece at the end. This was used to scrape out any extra ash that could not seem to fall into the ash drawer. There always seemed to be some that would fall around the edges and had to be scraped out separately. The emptying of the ash drawer was another of the jobs for us younger boys. If the ash drawer was really hot, mom or dad would take it out and empty it for us. The ashes were sometimes fun to play in if you were building roads for playing cars etc. Using a little water and a little dirt made terrifically sturdy roads.

Right in the middle of the stove, prominently positioned, was the oven. The dial on the front would always indicate the temperature inside. It was quite a feat for our mom to know which wood to use to get the right temperature and how to keep it there, when it came to baking, especially those wonderful angle–food cakes. I guess I never was privileged to see any of the disasters and I am sure there must have been many learning to use the equipment. I don’t know what she did with them. Maybe we ate them and didn’t know the difference.

One incident I remember about the stove was doing dishes with Louis, my next older brother. He preferred to dry and I always opted to wash. I don’t know how we arrived at that arrangement but it worked for us. One evening I had a large dishpan of hot soapy water full of supper dishes. I was working from the left side of the stove. This kept the water hot but not exactly over the fire box.

It never has been clear to me what happened next. Perhaps, like most boys we were horsing around, in any event the pan of hot soapy water full of supper dishes came off the top of the stove, crashing on the linoleum floor. Hot soapy dish water spread out over ninety nine percent of mom’s almost spotless linoleum kitchen floor and every dish in the pan, with the exception of one small plate, broke in more pieces than could ever be glued back together. Mom didn’t punish us much or often. Sometimes the silent attitude was the sure sign to be quiet and stay out of the way, which we certainly did that time.

As young boys, my brother and I were given the “job” of filling the wood box. Keeping it full was not only necessary but required in order to keep the household running smoothly. There was always that threat hanging over our heads that something dire would happen if it ever got to the point of “being empty”. The proverbial wood shed stood outside our back door and to the left. It was a cozy little building with an actual closing door. There were times the trip to the woodshed to get wood for the stove, seemed a very long way indeed. The snow in winter was the most difficult. It came close in comparison to the summer time when we really wanted to be outdoors and had to be inside taking care of the wood for the stove. The journey seemed to be endless when we were in a hurry. It all depended on how we felt at the moment.

Louis was always more anxious to keep the wood box full than I was. Perhaps because he was older or was it that he had had some experience with the “empty” box that I was yet to have. I never was able to figure that out but he seemed obsessed with his diligence of keeping the fuel ready for mother as she cooked or kept the kitchen warm on those cold days and nights.

In winter the last thing done before going to bed was to see that the wood box was full. Mom always made sure the fire in the stove was banked for the night, and the drafts closed just right to keep the fire alive while we all slept. When it came time to start the fire in the morning it was essential to have wood at the ready when mother agitated the ashes out of the firebox and encouraged the cooking fire for breakfast.

My dad and the hired man were the first ones up in the morning. There were chores to be done, milking and cleaning out the barn. When the weather was really cold, the cattle were fed and kept in the barn. That meant a lot of feeding and a lot of cleaning to keep things tidy in the barn. This work started early in the morning. Mom was up early too, making coffee for the men and seeing that the house got warmed for our arrival down stairs when she called us to come to breakfast.

There was a lot of eating on the farm. Seven full or partial meals were not unusual while everyone was hard at work, especially in the summer. It all started with coffee and perhaps a sandwich or roll as the men went out first thing in the morning. Mom was gifted at keeping up with the good food. After the men went out the door to the barn she began her duties in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. She knew they would be back in about an hour and a half, ready for the real deal.

By the time the men went to the barn the kitchen was fairly warm and the stove was in full form. The little lattice framework in the front of the fire box was dancing with light and heat. The lids were emitting a hot smell that comes when the firebox gets really hot. The lids didn’t exactly dance, but they seemed to be ready to do some sort of gyration to help with breakfast.

Mother usually had cooked cereal with homemade bread, toast, sweet rolls and once in a while there was some sort of pie. Somehow I never cared for the pie but the sweet rolls were always a favorite of mine. There was always plenty of real butter, jam or jelly to fill any extra cracks in the offered bread or perhaps the tummies of the hungry boys/men.

Canned fruit was brought up from the basement storage shelves. I hated going down there especially at night. If I had to go down at night I always backed up the stairs so I could see if anything was following me. I just knew that someone or something was going to get me if I just walked up in a normal fashion. If I was really brave I would run up the steps to the kitchen. This stairway did not have a railing, but was open in all respects. Even the underside of the stairs was open giving the feel of going up through open space.

There was a landing near the top of the stairs where the stairway made a right angle and went on up to the kitchen. This part of the stairs was closed in with walls and a short rail to use to pull ones self along if needed. This dark landing and the short five steps to the kitchen door were always the most difficult part of that dark and foreboding journey. I always managed this part of the experience with haste after making sure the kitchen door was left somewhat ajar for easy entrance.

We did have one light bulb in the full and open basement. I would hurry up and out, close the door, then reopen the door, reach out and flip off the one security light. It certainly wasn’t a journey made for fun but only out of absolute necessity.

It was a terrifying adventure for one so young, especially one teased so badly by an older brother. There was a constant fear something was out there going to get me in the night. I even slept with only my nose out of the blankets so nothing would see me and get me. My sleeping partner-brother, had honed his art of teasing and had become really good at it. My unfounded fear was very real to me at the time, and often the iron bed frame seemed to quake with my shaking as I tried to settle down for the night.

On those bitter cold winter nights, I would prefer to take the miserable walk to the freezing outhouse than use the facility in the basement. There was always the “thunder mug” for emergencies that was tucked under my parent’s bed downstairs. That is another adventure story for another time.

Sometimes pancakes were offered with sorghum, butter, jam, syrup and/or fruit sauce. These special breakfast were always served with coffee for the adults and milk for us boys. The big round oak table seemed to groan with the heavy food spread out before us. As I look back now, I often wondered why my dad and the hired man didn’t seem to gain weight. Now I know, they simply worked it off. Eating all the real butter and thick cream never seemed to affect the weight of the men but it was often the wives and moms that benefited the most from the great food. There was an unmentioned motto that a skinny cook could not be trusted. Mom would have fit right into the category of a great cook.

Winters seemed to allow the men folk on the home place to gain back some of the summer’s weight loss. This was a time for sitting around jobs like mending harnesses, repairing, sharpening and oiling tools and on occasion making wooden games for us kids (and adults too).

I always marveled at mother’s ability to whip up such good meals in such a seemingly short time. My young mind twirled around getting the wood box filled and not how the food got from the kitchen to the table. I do remember her using a type of wire whip to blend in the wheat flour into the boiling milk to make my favorite whole wheat cooked cereal. We never had store bought cereal. In fact I don’t remember ever hearing of any or of seeing any in Ramlow’s Grocery store in town. Everything we had we made ourselves and food was no exception.

Mom did buy flour, sugar, shorting (by the five gallon tin) and other staples. Spices were bought from a traveling salesman that came by a couple times a year. All those brightly colored tins & bottles with interesting sounding names and even more tantalizing aromas were always a huge source of interest to this young boy. Yes the Watkins Man was an important part of mother’s good cooking too.

The Watkins Man was easily spotted. The large sign in his back side window of his 1940 something Chevrolet told his trade and he was always welcomed. Usually mom had some delicacy for him to sample and he would make suggestions for some of his products. Tapioca for tapioca pudding, cinnamon for mom’s wonderful cinnamon rolls and for another of my favorites, bread pudding. The Watkins Man was well respected in our household.

Breakfast was not the only meal of the day. As I have said before, there were about seven meals and lunches during the day. They came in somewhat the following order:

1. Snack before going out to do the chores first thing in the morning.
2. Breakfast following feeding and cleanup in the barn, between six and seven.
3. Mid morning lunch about ten. (Often this was taken to the field or wherever the men were working. Other times they came to the house. Hot drink and sandwiches with some sweet included.)
4. Dinner at noon.
5. Lunch again about three with hot drink, sandwich and sweets of some sort, usually where the men were working; spring, summer and fall.
6. Supper about six with all the trimmings. entrée, salad, vegetables (either canned or fresh, depending on the time of the year) with hot drink or milk.
7. Snack offered about nine in the evening or just before bedtime.
8. A light lunch was always offered whenever anyone stopped by and for any reason.

Looking at all the food preparations for the day, it was always amazing how any visiting or shopping ever was done. I know it did exist because I was along when it happened. As I look back from my lofty age, it was incredible what mother got accomplished during the day.

The old gray granite Monarch performed its roll admirably, sometimes doing double duty as clothes warmer in winter along with frozen hands, toes, mittens and boots.

One day the old stove was hauled out to the grainery where it resided for many years, used for a sort of storage unit. One day it was sold to a neighbor who used it to burn trash. What a come down from the glory days presiding over our farm kitchen. The grand old cook stove was replaced with a cold, white enamel electric number that had dials that would turn on the heating elements to do the cooking, baking and warm the hands (a bit). No warmth on its side for dressing in the cold winter mornings.

The stove just sat there in its pristine white purity, waiting a hand to turn the dials. Its dark enamel oven inside looked foreboding and foreign. There was no warming shelf, no water storage and certainly no character. It never won my approval but we managed and I am sure that mom appreciated its convenience. Somehow it reminded me of the doctor’s office equipment with all its sterile atmosphere. This was the advance of technology? No more wood box to fill, no more jobs for us boys. No more character either. But we advance don’t we?

I still miss the smell of a wood fire, especially in the early morning, with the coffee, at the ready, sitting at the back of the stove, ready to be moved quickly to the hot spot for an inviting cup of coffee to any one that should chance by.

At times the aroma of mom’s extensive cooking still provides me a great deal of pleasure, set off by some delicate smell that by chance passes my nose. It provided truly great food for her family, neighbors in need, charity or for those fun times when visitors came in the evening. I will always miss the huge wood burning cook stove, but I guess what I really miss is mother’s wonderful, creative and necessary culinary expertise.