Gladys Taber

"November 1952"

This Thanksgiving we take a trip back fifty years for a glimpse of the Holidays at Stillmeadow, an excerpt from "The Diary of Domesticity" by Gladys Taber of November 1952. Gladys' thoughts and words have held up over the years, and are as timely now as they were back when... For Recipes see below from "My Own Cook Book" and the "Stillmeadow Cook Book."


The rain falls. It falls hard and heavy, and absolutely straight from a flat moth-gray sky. Dodging out to the kennel, I feel as if I were at the lower end of a waterfall, a cascade overwhelms me. The branches of the maples shine dark as ebony, the slender needles of the pines are threaded with water.


The pond brims and we hope the dam will hold this time. If it does not, we have to build it back again, and by then, there will be no rain at all and the pond shrinks like a poor piece of cloth.


There is never anything equable about our climate; whatever we have, we have a lot of it. Now the rain fills every little hollow and, we hope, will raise that mysterious thing called the water table. Having only a surface well, we often open the top of the well house and peer down with a lantern to see just where the water is. In August, when it drops low enough for the old stones to be visible far down, we go on a water-saving campaign. With the heavy fall rains, we wait for a chance to wash everything in the house, curtains, spreads, slip covers. It is a fine feeling to have everything clean at once, even though the next rain means paw marks on covers again.


On a day of dark swift-falling rain, there are a good many things not to do. Washing windows is futile, they fog up instantly. Polishing furniture is hopeless - the damp surface seem soapy. No use to clean floors, for Teddy and Tiki and Sister will be in shortly, small earnest fountains. The best occupation, we find, is cleaning drawers. Nobody is going to wade in, so everything can be spread all over the house. And it gives me a hopeful feeling to find the long-lost key to the front door in with a box of paper clips and my membership in the Bristol Obedience Club.


The second possibility is to do the linen closet, which is just a slanting section under the steep roof. You bend over almost double to get in, and there is not room enough to file things. But some sort of order helps in making beds with the right size of sheets.


My favorite way to manage the sheet question when you have every size of bed is to use colored sheets and match them to the room. We now know the aqua sheets must fit Jill's bed, the stone-blue belong to Cicely, the pink are going to fit mine, and so on. This is well worth the slight extra cost of the colored sheets and pillowcases in our household.

The new sheets come in the loveliest colors imaginable. But if you want to dye some white sheets they dye quite well in the washing machine if you follow the directions on the little dye boxes. We did some Indian-copper ones for Don's room some time ago, and after repeated washings they are still faintly coppery and very pleasant. And I have some soft gray ones which are lovely with blue blankets and spread.


Thanksgiving weekend we like to have a party. Sliced cold turkey, delicate pink slices of ham, the chafing dish simmering with creamed oysters and mushrooms, a casserole keeping hot on the heated tray sweet potatoes and pineapple for this, or curried rice with chopped ripe olives or golden corn pudding. A mixed fresh green salad is good, and for dessert, an easy one -tray pickups such as cheese and toasted crackers, thinly sliced spicecake, and minced tarts. Pots of coffee. A bowl of purple raisin clusters, nuts, clean sharp currants. Nothing difficult to fix, everything easy to serve.


Thanksgiving is such a nice home festival, but it is also a religious celebration. It is peculiarly our own, and should rededicate it to the fine things our forefathers gave to us. For if, in the welter of settling a new land with great travail, in the political and personal battles which were waged, we still established a few ideals which have not weakened, that is a great triumph for our country


Sometimes I think we hear so much about ideals and our country's destiny to lead the world that the words are vague and misty. It reminds me of long Sunday sermons in my childhood when the minister spoke on and on in long rolling phrases and I made up little stories to myself about the Bible characters or held little secret conversations with Jesus, who seemed such a friendly and quiet Being. Perhaps if we put an embargo on all fine-sounding oratorical words for six months, the country's leaders might boil things down.


There is no doubt but that we have more to be thankful for than we probably deserve. That loud knock at the door is only the brush salesman or someone collecting for the Crippled Children's Fund. When the door is opened with no knock at all, we never dive for the cellar, we call out, "we're in the kitchen, come on out!"


We still may read what we like and listen to any radio program. We may "attend the church of our choice," as our local paper advises. Our children may go to private or public school. If they get angry at their parents, they are not going to denounce them, for there is nobody to denounce them to. When we hear a sudden explosion, we stop stirring the soup and say, "George must be taking out another stump up in the pasture." Yes, much is ours.

Also, in my opinion, we have a responsibility, being so blessed above others, to serve the world. I venture nobody would sit at the laden Thanksgiving table and eat if a pallid stark face were pressed against the window watching. If a spindling small child in torn rags huddled on the steps, who is there who would not share? But often what we don't see with our own eyes is not real. Let America take care of itself and never mind the rest of the world, it is isn't our business. This is poor thinking.


November is a very short month probably because we know the next month means winter. When there is a warm hazy day, we drop everything and ride through the valley and up to New Milford. There is a place at the edge of the sky as you come up the long hill from which you see a whole sweet valley, spread far below, circled by fold after fold of steadfast hills. Deep in the very heart is a farm with two great silos, silver in the sun, pearl-colored in the moonlight. The farmhouse is doll-size from our height, the autumn fields roll around it, a farm wagon pulled by toy horses moves along an invisible roadway. The little parking place has a name like a very old poem. It is called Lillionah Lillinonah. As you stand at sunset and look across the shadowy valley to the rhythm of the hills, the world seems like a fresh miracle. And the old lovely words come back to me, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help."


The farm seems like a symbol of all the good things man has built, the fields evidence the richness of Nature and the horizon enlarges one's own. The cool autumnal air makes breathing an excitement.


Driving home again, our own road is violet with evening. The voices of the dogs are a stirring music, Jonquil's high feminine keening, Jerry's robust woofing, the setter's excitable hysterical yell, Sister's small and earnest bark they are all wild with joy as if we had been gone months. One of the nicest things about dogs, I think, is that you are so perpetually exciting to them. Even if you walk to the mailbox the grand welcome is the same.


The November nights are quiet, the earth is still, waiting. The fire on the hearth burns gently. The cats doze, paws neatly folded. The old house breathes to itself, as old houses always do. And the season turns with the turning earth.
 

OYSTERS WITH CREAM SAUCE


OYSTERS:


Poach 1 qt of oysters in their own juice, and cover with cream sauce and sprinkle with chopped parsley.


CREAM SAUCE


2 tbsp butter
1-1/2 2 tbsp flour
1 cup warm milk
Chopped Parsley
Seasonings


Melt butter and stir in flour until smooth. Add milk gradually, stirring constantly with a wire whisk until thick, creamy and smooth. Keep heat low, and season to taste.

WILLA'S CURRIED ONIONS AND RICE


3 large onions
1-1/2 cups cooked rice
¾ cup evaporated milk (or cream)
¼ tsp of curry powder
Pinch of mace
½ tsp or salt or more to taste
3 tbsp butter or margarine


Peel and slice onions ¼" thick; cook in salted water until tender, then drain. Add remaining ingredients and heat well in top of a double boiler. Serve in a casserole and dust the top with Paprika, it goes well with beef, lamb, chicken, or ham. For that matter, I could make a whole meal of it by
itself, any day. GT

 

CONNECTICUT CORN PUDDING


6 strips of bacon, fried until crisp
½ green pepper, diced
1 small onion diced
2 cups corn (fresh, frozen or canned)
½ cup soft bread crumbs
2 eggs beaten
2 cups milk or cream
1 tsp salt
½ cup buttered crumbs




Drain bacon on a paper towel. Saute pepper and onion in 2 tablespoons of the bacon drippings; add corn, bread crumbs, eggs, milk, salt and bacon. Stir together. Pour into a greased 1-1/2 quart casserole. Top with buttered crumbs. Bake at 375 degrees for about 40 minutes. When corn is in season and you have had enough of munching the ears, this is a happy solution. Sliced ham and tossed salad makes it a party supper. GT

HELEN PETERSON'S CHERRY SPICE CAKE


1 cup sugar
½ cup butter
3 eggs
4 tsp sour milk
½ tsp baking powder
2 cups flour
½ tsp cinnamon
½ tsp nutmeg
1 cup sour cherries, drained.


Cream together sugar and butter. Stir in beaten eggs and sour milk to which baking soda has been added. Sift together flour, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg, and mix with the other ingredients. Stir in drained sour cherries. You can use any canned cherries for this but the tart ones are really the best. It can be frosted, but I think that spoils it. GT.

 

A FEW OF GLADYS' FAVORITE READS
"Born Free" Joy Adamson
"The Dog who Came to Stay" by friend Hal Borland
"Testament of Trust" and "Many Windows" by friend Faith Baldwin
Anything by Katherine Mansfield - especially her "Journal"
"Goodbye to a River" John Graves
Anything by Beverly Nichols (My other favorite garden book author).
For a good laugh, Gladys like to read James Thurber's "The Night the Bed Fell Down."
She also mentions Farlay Mowats "The Dog Who Wouldn't Be" and
"Mrs Seawood's Secret Weapon" by Leonard Wibberly.

 

Gladys Taber Links


Susan Stanley's Gladys Taber -Stillmeadow Tribute


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