Mother at the Stove

By Leo Racicot

     “Memories hold the key not to the past but to the future.”

Corrie Ten Boom

Our mother wasn’t Julia Child but she was no slouch at the stove either, and when she, at a young age, found herself a widow and bereft, she, nevertheless took her maternal responsibilities by the horn and saw to it that Diane and I were fed, and fed well. She downright mastered the food stuffs of the day, plain fare by today’s standards but nourishing and good: her forte was Shepherd’s Pie, an always welcome sight when I’d come home from school to find bubbling in the oven. A variation on this was a dish I believe has disappeared from the American table, scrambled hamburg, which, when served with sides of mashed potatoes and another vegetable, usually peas or green beans. provided a not-unpleasant sensation for the palate. It was the habit in the ’50s and ’60s to mix different foods together, as when my friend and library co-worker, Fran Grady, used to make what she called “garbage soup”, where pretty much anything you have at hand, leftover beans, meats, a stray soup bone or two, were tossed into the pot, a not entirely attractive mess but tasty and “Hey”, Fran would say, “It’s food, isn’t it?”

For a quick, satisfying lunch, our mother also liked to feed us fried baloney sandwiches. She’d fry the slice in tons of butter, serve it up on bread, potato chips beside it on the plate (usually Royal Feast which were out-of-this-world potato chips — the longtime company whose ramshackle headquarters was located on the same stretch of Route 110 that included Cathay Garden – went suddenly under, no warning. I miss its red, white and blue chips bag and the blue bucket we’d bring the chips home in. I don’t know that I’d eat a fried baloney sandwich today. There is the possibility it would trigger Proustian moments of our mother’s kitchen or maybe it would make me retch, for the saem reason I stopped eating sausages, hot dogs and Spam — I simply don’t know what’s in them and probably don’t want to know.

One day, I walked in from my Saturday wanderings and found – mirabile visu! — that Ma was trying her hand at making donuts. A newly-acquired fryer was on the burner. I delighted in watching her place the circles of pasty, beige dough in it, listening to them sizzle, one by one turning magically a golden brown. They were and are still the best doughnuts I’ve ever had and I could tell Ma was pleased she’d succeeded in this, for her, new culinary attempt, pleased, too, seeing how much Diane and I enjoyed them.

Another staple of her kitchen table was pork scrap (scrapple) which Ma learned to make from her French-Canadian sisters-in-law, who lived next door. Pork scrap was so satisfying, spread between thick slices of French bread. When she didn’t have time to whip it up, a quick trip across North Common to Cote’s Market on Salem Street, did the trick. They also sold the best homemade pork and chicken pies, and the world-renowned Rochette’s beans, a Saturday meal favorite of ours. I liked going to Cote’s, liked seeing the couple who worked the kitchen there. Both were small, stout folks and due to the smallness of the cooking area, seemed to walk in tandem, as they served up the food. The Mister had a pronounced limp, due to one shoe having an orthopedic lift. I liked watching him hobble, in his cooking “whites”, aprons stained with meat juice and butcher’s blood. He gave character to the colorful shop. I could be wrong but I think their names were Wilfred and Gertie Levasseur. Their son, Roger, a good-looking, friendly fellow, was often a presence in the store. The “mom and pop” quality of their shop provided a reassuring contentment to a curious, hungry, young boy.

I don’t know that I, or any kid, for that matter, could appreciate all that my mother did for Diane and me. The after-meal clean-up — doing endless sinks full of dishes, scrubbing the oven and stove (no Easy-Off in those days), keeping the kitchen floor spotless — these daily grinds had to be hard for our mom, struggling at the same time to navigate the loss of her husband.  I, myself, have learned I don’t like seeing dirty dishes piled up in a sink. I’ve actually learned to like doing them. Kitchen chores (working for the Sheas in Cambridge, working for Marriott Dining Hall Services at Wheaton College) and here at home, have given me a new appreciation for what our mother (and most housewives and mothers of her time) did for their families. Let’s face it — I’d rather be doing most anything (reading, shopping, watching a movie) than chopping vegetables, a deadline looming on the horizon. I’m sure Ma would’ve to. My hat’s off to her gutsy determination to carry on, a single woman with two kids to feed, clothe, rear. I hope it helped heal her soul a little knowing her two children were fed, and fed well.

Cote’s Market

Fried bologna sandwich

Homemade plain donuts

Pork Scrap

Royal Feast Potato Chips

Shepherd’s Pie

Wilfred Levasseur