The Lexington dispatch. [volume] (Lexington, South Carolina) 1870-1917, 1896-05-13
THE DISHES OF CHILDHOOD.
Amos Cummings Recalls Some Of tho Pal
ate Ticklers He Used TO Like.

You may forget whatever tickles your
intellect, but you will never forget the
tickling of your appetite. Sitting in my
room in the glow of a CRATE fire, with
dim old pictures hanging on the walls,
the dishes of my beyhood days come
back to me.
remember one supper above all 9th
ers. My father was a clergyman. There
was protracted meeting in Honesdale,
Pa, where we lived. I was about 9
years old, and every night was forced to
seek salvation at this meeting. 1t was
bitter cold winter. In addition to his
clerical duties, my father was the jew
eler Of the village. Twas employed at
the shop until the services began. They
were held in what was called the Berean
hall, above the jewelry shop. l was al
lowed to 20 over to Goldsmith's oyster
saloon and get plate of keg oysters for
supper. My father had the same We got
about dozen oysters in those days for
1s1a cents-a Spanish shilling. From
the oyster saloon we went direct to the
protracted meeting. 1t would be called
a revival meeting in these days There
was plenty Of hell fire in the exhorta-
tions, and a dozen or more sinners went
up to the altar, or "anxious seat" on
the night in question. The services held
OH until midnight. Then I had to walk
about three-quarters of mile across the
canal and up a hill to my home. 1t had
showed in the meantime. The snow was
a foot or more in depth. The wind was
blowing a gale. My father wore a long
broadcloth cape cloak lined with wool.
My brother and I ran along at his side
with our heads and bodies buried in the
cloak. Our fingers were numb, despite
the woolen mittens, held together by
string hung around our necks, and our
toes ached with the cold.
When we arrived home, my mother set
out to cook the supper, as all of Us were
hungry. It was plain supper and hur-
riedly gotten, but Of the best. 1t was
boiled mackerel and potatoes. The mack
erel was A No. 1-you never see such
mackerel nowadays. The meat was the
color of the finest sauterne, and the belly
as white as snow and as fat as butter.
The potatoes were as crisp as new flown
snow, and we mashed them and ate
them with knife and not with fork.
Of all the dishes that I have ever seen
since that time, in odor, taste and dl-
gestion, that was the finest.
There is always a laugh when man
talks about his mothers cooking, but
that cooking was the best I had ever seen
before or that ] have ever seen since.
The keg oysters had been good, but
the mackerel capped the climax. Of the
0,00O, 900 Of people now in the United
States I doubt whether more than 1O,-
600 ever have tested the old keg oyster.
It acquired a favor from the wood in
which it was packed. Itwas a peculiar,
delicate flavor that touched ones mid
riff. The oysters in those days were
carried to Honesdale in sleighs from
New York. The last time ever tasted
a keg oyster was at Lackawaxen. A
good many years ago, just after the
branch road to Honesdale was built, Z
went into restaurant, and there stood
keg of oysters, with bottle Of pepper
sauce by it's side The train stopped
there about ten minutes, and in that
time three-quarters Of the keg disap-
peared. Since then Frank Thurber has
sent me a keg, but it was years ago,
and the oysters lacked the peculiar fla
vor Of the old ones.
A word as to the knife and fork in
the olden days. I never saw man use
fork in conveying food to his mouth
until was 10 or 15 years old. Men
could use the knife in those days skill
fully and gracefully. Indeed, the use of
the fork was impossible, as forks were
then old fashioned, two pronged affairs,
not wider than your little finger. I saw
an old timer the other day. He was en-
joying meal in Fritz Reuters restau-
rant in Washington. He used the knife
with exquisite grace. AS gazed at him
and saw the rare tidbits disappearing
from the blade, the old feeling came
over me, and I tackled my meal in the
same way. found out that lacked
the experience of youth. tackled an
egg fried on one side. 1t was little
greasy, and as I was about to snap it
from the point Of the knife, it slid to-
ward the handle and landed on my
shirt front. I had lost my ability to
handle the blade properly. J.
Cummings in Twentieth Century Cook