My great-uncle Jim was a lifelong bachelor and looked the same at forty as he did at eighty. He could have passed for ninety. He was tall and lean with a long face and leathery skin. His daily uniform consisted of a stretched-out dingy white T-shirt and khaki pants circa 1940. He wore a grungy tan ballcap that sat on the back of his bald head instead of on top of it.
He lived on a farm with a dilapidated two-story farmhouse that was deemed unsafe because of the falling roof, rotted floors and uninvited critters. Instead of repairing the house, Uncle Jim renovated the old two-car garage into a throwback version of a man cave. I wouldn’t want to give the impression it was more than what it appeared to be. The highlights: it had a roof and indoor plumbing. The air conditioning consisted of opening the front and back doors. It was a straight shot through with no screens. Adding a box fan near one door created a draft of hot air and encouraged flies and bugs to enter and exit like the humans.
The produce cultivated on the farm was generously shared by Uncle Jim as long as you were generous in sharing the work. Over the years, my family would receive phone calls.
“The corn is ready.” Click.
“The beans are ready.” Click.
“The strawberries are ready.” Click.
We spent endless hours every summer weeding, tilling, picking, and canning crops.
When I was seventeen, an unexpected phone call came from Uncle Jim specifically asking for me.
“Your brothers said you make really good homemade chicken and dumplings. I still remember how good my mama’s were. Can you show me how you make them? I have everything you need. Farm fresh.”
I had a hard time believing he remembered what my great-grandmother’s dumplings tasted like because he was ancient, and she died young, but if he wanted chicken and dumplings, I would make them for him.
“I’d love to, Uncle Jim. To save some time, can you get the chicken ready?”
“Ok.” Click.
On the hot July day my dumplings were to be critiqued, I walked through his open back door to the stifling heat of the kitchen. Although I knew Uncle Jim cooked on a wood stove, I had never actually had the opportunity to cook on it during my family’s previous trips to the farm. He had it fired up and it felt like we were on the surface of the sun. He took time to educate me about the stove. The heat is uneven. There are no timers. Small logs create a hotter, faster fire. Large logs burn slower at a lower temperature.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yes. Just one. I noticed there aren’t any pots on the stove. I thought you said you were going to get the chicken ready?”
Uncle Jim looked insulted with his eyebrows raised where his hairline should have been. “I did get it ready. I caught it, put it in a cage, and sharpened the axe for you.”
Making chicken and dumplings from scratch had just taken on a whole new meaning. A wood stove, a live chicken and an axe? I understood where my food came from and the process it took to get it there. And, if necessary, I might have been able to get the job done. However, as long as there’s a store where I could buy a headless chicken neatly wrapped in clear plastic, sitting on a refrigerated shelf kept below forty degrees, I saw no need to test my frontier survival skills.
“Uncle Jim, if you want chicken and dumplings, you are going to have to get the chicken ready. And by ready, I mean you are going to have to bring it to me without a head and heartbeat.”
He was disappointed I lacked his mama’s resilience, but he took care of the chicken and brought it to me. I should have been more specific. It still had feathers. I decided to dig deep and find my inner pioneer and patience. Uncle Jim beamed excitement as I learned to properly pluck and gut a chicken. I finally put the lifeless beast in a large pot of seasoned water and added more wood to the blazing inferno contained in the stove. Successfully. Without burning myself or scorching my hair.
While the chicken cooked, Uncle Jim said he wanted to see how I mixed, rolled and cut the dumplings. What he meant was, “I am going to tell you what you’re doing wrong and teach you the correct way to make them.”
What should have taken an hour, turned into an all-day event. When we finally sat down to consume the finished product Uncle Jim commented, “These are good, but it’s not the way my mama did it.”
I’m sure it wasn’t. I happily conceded defeat to my great-grandmother’s superior skills. Specifically, those that required an axe.
He lived on a farm with a dilapidated two-story farmhouse that was deemed unsafe because of the falling roof, rotted floors and uninvited critters. Instead of repairing the house, Uncle Jim renovated the old two-car garage into a throwback version of a man cave. I wouldn’t want to give the impression it was more than what it appeared to be. The highlights: it had a roof and indoor plumbing. The air conditioning consisted of opening the front and back doors. It was a straight shot through with no screens. Adding a box fan near one door created a draft of hot air and encouraged flies and bugs to enter and exit like the humans.
The produce cultivated on the farm was generously shared by Uncle Jim as long as you were generous in sharing the work. Over the years, my family would receive phone calls.
“The corn is ready.” Click.
“The beans are ready.” Click.
“The strawberries are ready.” Click.
We spent endless hours every summer weeding, tilling, picking, and canning crops.
When I was seventeen, an unexpected phone call came from Uncle Jim specifically asking for me.
“Your brothers said you make really good homemade chicken and dumplings. I still remember how good my mama’s were. Can you show me how you make them? I have everything you need. Farm fresh.”
I had a hard time believing he remembered what my great-grandmother’s dumplings tasted like because he was ancient, and she died young, but if he wanted chicken and dumplings, I would make them for him.
“I’d love to, Uncle Jim. To save some time, can you get the chicken ready?”
“Ok.” Click.
On the hot July day my dumplings were to be critiqued, I walked through his open back door to the stifling heat of the kitchen. Although I knew Uncle Jim cooked on a wood stove, I had never actually had the opportunity to cook on it during my family’s previous trips to the farm. He had it fired up and it felt like we were on the surface of the sun. He took time to educate me about the stove. The heat is uneven. There are no timers. Small logs create a hotter, faster fire. Large logs burn slower at a lower temperature.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Yes. Just one. I noticed there aren’t any pots on the stove. I thought you said you were going to get the chicken ready?”
Uncle Jim looked insulted with his eyebrows raised where his hairline should have been. “I did get it ready. I caught it, put it in a cage, and sharpened the axe for you.”
Making chicken and dumplings from scratch had just taken on a whole new meaning. A wood stove, a live chicken and an axe? I understood where my food came from and the process it took to get it there. And, if necessary, I might have been able to get the job done. However, as long as there’s a store where I could buy a headless chicken neatly wrapped in clear plastic, sitting on a refrigerated shelf kept below forty degrees, I saw no need to test my frontier survival skills.
“Uncle Jim, if you want chicken and dumplings, you are going to have to get the chicken ready. And by ready, I mean you are going to have to bring it to me without a head and heartbeat.”
He was disappointed I lacked his mama’s resilience, but he took care of the chicken and brought it to me. I should have been more specific. It still had feathers. I decided to dig deep and find my inner pioneer and patience. Uncle Jim beamed excitement as I learned to properly pluck and gut a chicken. I finally put the lifeless beast in a large pot of seasoned water and added more wood to the blazing inferno contained in the stove. Successfully. Without burning myself or scorching my hair.
While the chicken cooked, Uncle Jim said he wanted to see how I mixed, rolled and cut the dumplings. What he meant was, “I am going to tell you what you’re doing wrong and teach you the correct way to make them.”
What should have taken an hour, turned into an all-day event. When we finally sat down to consume the finished product Uncle Jim commented, “These are good, but it’s not the way my mama did it.”
I’m sure it wasn’t. I happily conceded defeat to my great-grandmother’s superior skills. Specifically, those that required an axe.