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| Kitchen / Living room Party - The Good Brothers performed a few acoustic tunes on some guitars that were precisely tuned by Rob Currie following their successful concert on the “Barge”. (Photo by Fred Schulz) |
The Allure Of The Country Kitchen
I know by listening to their fascinating homespun stories, recited sincerely to keen audiences, on each of the many August appearances, they've made, here in Muskoka, that music for them, has been a deeply rooted family thing, as the "Good" name most definitely reminds us.
Our family has faithfully occupied the finest front row seats, in Gull Lake Park, here in Gravenhurst, whenever these country music chaps perform on "The Barge." When they talk about the great memories of the family homestead, these well known Canadian musicians are telling the truth. No doubt about it! They can clearly recall their mother's excitement, preparing the kitchen for one of her favorite family and neighborhood events.
Canada's Country Music Hall of Fame entertainers, The Good Brothers, possess a great and enduring reverence for the their family's homestead……the kitchen in particular.
At concerts around the globe, these homespun gents, offer heartfelt credit to their mother, for instilling these precious family values; that a truly warm and comfortable home, always has a welcoming kitchen. They even wrote a song about it, honoring their mother, for bringing a culture to the kitchen, well beyond its cookery function. The kitchen was, for the Goods, back then, a meeting place for meals, casual get togethers over coffee, and equally, the best room in the house to play their music. They didn't need a conservatory or a modest auditorium in the guise of a recreation room. Just a kitchen and its spirited, kindly atmosphere, with a big table and a lot of chairs. Or you could stand.
From musical instruments, guitars, banjos, and autoharps, to pots and pans, played with a wooden spoon, those gathered in the country kitchen, were invited to join-in, in the wide range of popular music Mrs. Good brought to the table. It
might have been gospel, then country, folk music, then on to the Beach Boys. So the kitchen gatherings were always musically diverse, and joyfully spontaneous.
Admittedly, for the Good Brothers, Larry, Bruce and Brian, those memories of their mother and the casual, welcoming get-togethers in the kitchen, made a lasting life-long impression. They sing about those occasions, with cheerfulness, and it's not hard for the audience to imagine what those sing-a-longs must have looked like, and how compelling they were, to be a part.
This column isn't about the Good Brothers specifically, but it is about the allure of the country, or "old fashioned kitchen,"
as they used to be, in what some might refer to, as the "good old days." In pioneer times, in this country, the kitchen in the log
cabin was more likely to be part of the open living area, and the fireplace or cookstove was the only source of heat, other than from the huddle of occupants crowded near the sparking hearth. The aroma of cooking was almost constantly wafting about the cabin, or the larger farmhouse, giving it the enchantment of food yet to come. It was always a cheerful room in the house, partly because of the warmth associated with hearth and stove, and because of the smell of simmering soups and stews, where leftovers, by the reality of a tough economy, always made it to the next round of the cookery chronicle.
And the kitchen, large or small, rustic or futurisitic, state of the art, earned a reputation of being a good place to congregate. A fine place to anchor to a tableside chair, to talk about the work of the day, to come, or what had already been accomplished before sunrise. It became, over centuries, a place to talk about local politics, and the rigors of the economy. A sort of casual sanctuary where you could cradle a cup of tea or coffee, and linger without the societal burden of conscience, feeling like a slacker, or an artful dodger of chores. The kitchen was a sort of family and neighborhood healing place, where therapy was free, and advice given freely.
A senior friend of mine, the uncle of a girlfriend I was dating at the time, insisted I come with him to his brother's farm for breakfast, one autumn day. He was up to his Muskoka cottage for the weekend, from Toronto, and his younger brother, Peter, had asked him to come over to his house, for what he casually called, "a country breakfast." Now, as a frequent gad-about traveller, being both a writer and antique dealer, I have seen reference to "the country breakfast," many times, imprinted boldly on restaurant menus all over North America, but nothing could be compared to the breakfast planned for us at this Muskoka farmstead.
When Fred and I arrived at the house, in the midst of the most beautiful, sunny autumn day, with many of the hardwoods bordering the pasture still leaf-adorned, with their brilliant seasonal colors, I confess then, to having a huge and seasonally invigorated country appetite. I may have felt I was too hungry for just hot biscuits, or a couple of fried eggs.
As Peter creaked open the big kitchen door, to let Fred and I in, good gracious, my mortal sensory perception went off the chart. Honestly, it was like nothing I had ever experienced. The steam rising in huge plumes,from boiling potatoes and assorted farm-fresh vegetables, mixed with the near intoxicating vapors of frying bacon, and thick cut ham, not to mention the hot cakes in the huge frying pan, was clearly a sensory overload, for a single guy who couldn't cook a single egg, without notice of the local volunteer fire brigade.
The plates were more like platters, and the food was served, rather mounted, onto the harvest table, commanding the serving dishes, like you would expect at a logging camp, an encampment of Civil War soldiers, or a summer camp, where there might be a hundred souls huddled to be fed at once. There were only seven of us, on that Thanksgiving morning, but there was food for a hundred, that's for sure. I was told to "dig in" and make sure I "got enough," to stave off starvation. None of these people appeared overweight. How was it possible, to eat this kind of food, in the volume they seemed to enjoy, and not burst at the waist; or show it in the rear. "You know Ted, they've already done a day's work, in our concept of day to day labors, even before this breakfast. Peter would have been up by five this morning, and out to the barn before six, and he would have been
mad at himself for sleeping in. Then there's the work for the rest of the day. It might seem like a big breakfast, but it's part of
the farm culture." All of a sudden I wanted to retire from writing and become a farmer. They just shook their heads, and laughed. In their eyes, I was definitely not farm material. I assumed they knew best.
What food I didn't take for myself, was without my consent, loaded onto my plate by family members, apparently worried I wasn't getting my fair share. "In the farm kitchen, you've got to have a good reach, and a determination to get what you want before someone else takes it. The so called 'boarding house reach,' but adjusted to the prevailing farmhouse ethic. Good manners are important, and so is getting fed. Come on, eat up, there's more sausages ready to go." It was a cookery
history lesson I will never forget. But more than this, in fact, I will fondly remember the good conversation, and commradery around that old harvest table, that had accommodated so many of these family occasions. I was their guest but on that morning, I was treated like a family member, and entitled to all the wonderful fare going around the table, from food, to opinions welcomed.
As far as Suzanne and I travel, in miles and in companion research, to understand cookery heritage, the allure of kitchens and
the recipe books shelved within, for posterity, there is nothing so enlightening, as any occasion to share a breakfast, lunch or dinner with kindred spirits, in the heart of the home, whether apartment, condominium, townhouse, lodge, farm, cottage, mansion or bungalow.
These are special times, in a special place, that endear us without any extraordinary effort, to the chronicle of cookery heritage, celebrated the world over. What generates in this warm room of any dwelling place, is a sense of prevailing goodwill, and
hospitality, that immediately makes us feel as if we have arrived, from out of the storm, into a place protected from all adversity. We can sit awhile and cradle a warm drink, in our hands, and with or without companion conversation, feel at ease from the turmoil prevalent everywhere else in our daily lives. We can immerse in gentle debate or casual gossip, and fear nothing will be expected of us, other than congenial kinship, and a willing ear if required of the moment. As for lending a hand to do the dishes, well sir, that's a commonplace of being in such a sharing place.
The kitchen has been a gathering place for enterprising cooks, country philosophers, would-be bards, the politically savvy, and
those hungry for inspiration. It has been a pleasant venue for musicians and singers, cookware drummers and other cautious mumblers, but most of all, a room in our respective abodes that never pushes forth, at entry, any aura of stylish arrogance, or culinary snobbery, at least that can't be rectified in a heartbeat; a host's handshake, and pat on the back for a weary traveller, invited without pretense, to sit awhile by the warming stove. A mere mortal looking for casual comfort, and a place of compassion, to embrace the mood of the moment. It doesn't take long inside a kitchen, true to its heritage and tradition, before the thunder of that other world becomes a nothing more than a muffled, tolerable din.
I would like to have been there for those impromptu concerts, in the Good family's country kitchen,… their mother leading the sing-a-long. What a great song, her boys wrote, as a tribute. Now that's a chapter on its own, in the chronicle of Canadian kitchen history.
Homestead Pleasures in Muskoka
If you have never before had the time honored pleasure, of sitting in that soot-ingrained patina, of a creaking old pine chair, at hearthside, and been comforted by the gentle cadence, and smooth traveling of rockers over a wooden floor, heard the snapping of dry cedar, and inhaled good and long, the tantalizing vapors of a simmering country stew, then you have missed a wondrous part of social-cultural, and yes, culinary history.
Within that iron workhorse of the farmstead kitchen, the roar and crackling of fire, warming the house on cold spring nights, was what in essence and practicality, kept humanity going on this rugged frontier of Upper Canada; known for its abundant rock and dense forests, short seasons, and wicked winters. The profound sense of isolation, in those pioneer years, seemed at times over-powering. A gathering of weary souls, next to that wonderful iron stove, may have for awhile, soothed away the angst of frontier life with embracing warmth, and the permeating aroma of a simmering soup.
It was that fire the farmers, the loggers, the travelers, the young and old came home to, out of the storm, to be caressed by its waves of heat, tantalized to near intoxication by the amalgamating scents of cooking meat and gravy, newly harvested carrots and potatoes; modest in portion but appointed with all the good graces of a proficient homestead cook, short of supplies yet with a firm hand and home crafted ladle. The homestead cook made do with what was available and conserved from the past harvest. It was creative cookery at its root. It was filling and sustaining to a strained body, forced to labor on another day, another year, another decade for the sustenance provided by yet another modest harvest. The old cookstove evokes so many recollections of the simple pleasures of the gathering place; the kitchen, where a day’s chores were rewarded, adventures regaled, stories told and retold, kin and friends held steadfast by food, hot drink and warmth of hearth.
If you’ve had the pleasure of sitting in such a room in the company of an old cookstove, a fire within, then you will find this series of columns on cookery heritage of some interest. With nostalgic reflections of old kitchen values and traditions, including the curious provenance of the old handwritten recipes that your grandmother, or mother kept folded for safe keeping in the cupboard above the cluttered counter. The old and gnarled piece of paper, with the beautiful handwriting, that after all these years, still carries the aroma of the spices she gently dispensed into the yellow mixing bowl, with the rest of the spring cake in creation.
In 1974 I began collecting old bottles. It’s what I could afford at the time. My investment was what you might call "sweat equity." I did all the work, and there were a few tangible rewards at the end of the dig. I dug-out old glass and pottery remnants from the depths of long grown-over dumpsites, throughout the Muskoka region. I had an insatiable appetite for discovery, and there was a real adrenalin rush when a torpedo soda bottle or an intact cobalt-blue vessel poked through the debris of the ages. It was hard work and you could cut yourself badly if you weren’t careful in these debris fields. I liked to work alone and it was amazing how a day would fly by when it seemed only a few hours spent on-site.
While still studying history at University, in Toronto, and on a baloney and mustard diet, the starvation budget students know well, I found that in heart I was willing to sacrifice food money to invest in history. I went on to collect oil lamps and although I couldn’t afford a bullseye lamp or a nice vintage blue or green lamp base, there was no shame on this student’s budget, to acquire a nicely conserved farm lamp, at auction, that was made for utility not decoration. I’m still this way today, when I chase down antiques and collectibles that were critical homestead pieces, versus items that were pretty much for decorative purposes moreso than critical practical function. I still have about fifty old lamps in operation, and this spring I’ve been heating our kitchen, livingroom and two bedrooms upstairs, with only five lamps, employed for six or so hours a day. In fairness it hasn’t been too cold yet but I could ramp it up to six lamps if needed. This is slightly off topic of course, which I’m famous for!
I’ve collected chairs, quilts, photographs, books, old paper, cameras, old glass, hockey cards, nostalgia and just about anything else that reminds me of times past. As an antique dealer, who occasionally puts profit ahead of acquisition, my collecting and selling has always been influenced by supply, demand, and the competition in my bailiwick; which at present is more aggressive than I can remember, since opening my first antique venture in Bracebridge back in 1977, shortly after graduating from York University. I took that degree in Canadian history and applied it to antiques and collectibles, when truthfully, sensibly and for profit, I should have used it as a ledge to reach for a teaching degree.
I gave up job security for a career in adventure and speculation. My business and life partner Suzanne is a teacher, so I live vicariously through her classroom situations. Alas, for my own constitution and impatience, I think I made a good career choice. I would far sooner be out on the hustings, hunting through flea markets and antique shops, than lecturing disinterested students on something they don’t care about. I was a terrible student, and I hated to be confined. It was the making of a career hunter-gatherer!
As a result of fierce competition out on the antique trail, I’ve had to change disciplines many times in order to meet the needs of both business and budget. I’ve simply had to divert my attention away from quilts and furniture, oil lamps, vintage glass, and books due to price increases, and general shortages of supply. In part of course, caused by too many dealers and collectors fishing from a small pond. There were many, many more auctions when I began my business than there are today. I have always found auctions to be more fruitful than the cross-region antique sweep. I could fill a van with auction finds but come home with only a few found items even after a several hundred mile buying trip.
From the perspective of a book dealer, who frequently purchased upwards of twenty or more full boxes at estate auctions, it was typical to quadruple my investment when all was said and done. Not only could I find a dozen big money books but there were other treasures within. It was common to be able to find historic documents, photographs and war-time letters that I could sell over and above the books themselves. This was the buyer’s bonus. I used to find lots of paper collectibles and nostalgia tucked neatly into the texts, put there for safekeeping over the many decades they belonged to the family. (I have returned many documents to family that should not have been included in these job-lot acquisitions, and I have donated other important found articles to museums). Suzanne reminds me that we’ve often made more money selling the found pieces, old movie and sports programs, hockey and baseball cards, war letters, postcards, and stamps than from the books themselves. In the case of old cookbooks we found jammed into the boxes, it wasn’t uncommon to come upon a selection of gnarled handwritten recipes.
Sometimes we’d find up to a hundred jammed between the pages of the larger cookbooks. There really wasn’t much of a market for them but I decided to set them aside until we could figure out what to do with the small collection. Our pile of these cookery relics started to get pretty impressive and interesting, and curiously the more we found, the more attention we paid to cookery heritage itself, almost as if we had discovered something quite by accident. There was something more significant about these simple handwritten recipes, so we began researching the intricacies and subtleties of the pioneer kitchen. A general eagerness to seek them out at sales initiated an unanticipated momentum that has led to this current research project. Many collectors can attest to this manifestation of interest that can happen quite by accident, changing an otherwise steadfast collecting mission in favor of another....which could be a complete opposite from anything you’ve pursued previously. As my wife and I were both fond of kitchen collectibles to begin with, and knew how to market paper nostalgia, it wasn’t a far stretch to then realign ourselves to old recipes. As a collector you’re always in a wee bit of a quandary, as to why it took so long to adopt a collecting interest that seemed so naturally suited.
Every year we add several hundred more finds to the pile and most recently we decided it was time to invite others into our handwritten recipe adventures. So here it is. What began as old paper with sundry fingerprints, leftover icing, chocolate, scented of spice and sugars, tumbling out of old books into our laps, has become one of the most interesting collecting ventures we’ve ever enjoyed. It is a fascinating study of ethnicity, religion, cultural and social traditions, regionalism, nationalism and everything in between. While many take little notice of these handwritten treasures, once you understand the provenance attached, and appreciate the heart, soul, and necessities of the specific writer (cook), they clearly become important links in culinary history. You can tell a lot about home cooks by the company of recipes they keep.
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