The last lights are hung and our house is ready for the Christmas holiday to begin. The scent of pine is in the air from the fresh cut pine tree that my grandson helped me saw down, and the candles that the wife has lit. But I made the decision that there will be no turkey in the home this year. I guess I've never been that overly fond of turkey, and I'm going to make a eastern shore Christmas dinner for the family. They seem anxious to go along with me, though I can't tell if it's because they look forward to the change of menu, or they're just humoring an old codger.
There was never a turkey on the table at grandads house, as grandmom had her own way of feeding the family on the holiday. It was always a feast of what they raised themselves, from the waters of the bay, and some livestock on the side. In the fall was always a hog butchering soon as the weather turned cold. Several of the nieghbors who has all went in on the hogs would shoot and butcher them, and divy up everything but the squeel. Christmas was ham time.
Not your run of the mill wimpy store bought honey glazed ham that was a weak imitation of the real thing, but a real country cured ham. Grandad took special pride in the ham that was baked for the family, and rightly so, as grandmom took special pride in the oyster stew she served to start the dinner. And that was not the typical oyster stew that they should be ashamed of serving in the resturaunts.
Tonging oysters was backbreaking labor, so it was with deep appretiation that we looked at the eastern shore oyster stew. During the drive down to the shore it was something we thought about the whole drive, in addition to the joy of being with family again.
My try at tonging the oysters was a memory of misery. First you go out on the bay to where the oyster beds are. I never realized how much colder it was on the water than dry land. Even with a thick oiled wool sweater over a wool shirt, and a rubber coated jacket and bibovers, the wind across the water had a biting edge that went to the bone. The thermos of strong hot tea helped, and grandads hired man, Jackson kept a pot on the gimbaled stove up in the little for cabin. But the cold would not last once you started to tong.
Oster tongs were like two 20 foot long steel tined rakes hinged toghether like a overly long post hole digger. You lowered them hand over hand to the oyster beds in the 12 to 15 foot water and took a good bite, then hand over hand hoisted them up and dumped the load you had on the deck. then they were shoveled onto the table midship and sorted with a metal template for leagal size. The small ones were tossed overboard. Grandad did the shoveling, and I had the template, and Jackson tonged. I remember the humbling experiance when in a fit of dullusion, I asked Jackson if he needed me to spell him. I wondered at the time the smiles grandad and he had as he handed me the tongs. I got a couple of loads up, then had to pause to take off the jacket. A couple more tong loads and I had to peel off the sweater, hoping the cold wind across the Chesapeake would put out the fire that had started between my shoulder blades and lower back. I was pround that I made it a whole half hour before with trembling arms I handed Jackson back the tongs, and "relieved" grandad at the culling.
Grandad had hired Jackson because he himself was getting on in years and could not do the heavy work like he used to. I had renewed respect for Jackson that day, as well as how hard it was to tong oysters. Thus when grandmom served up a steamng bowl of her oyster stew, I knew what went into it. It was a thick creamy, buttery dish with celery, crumbled up crispy bacon bits, and at least one or two oysters per spoonfull. This was the opening of the eastern shore Christmas dinner.
After the stew came the main dish, the ham. Grandad had taken a large country ham and scored it with a utility knive in a cross hatched pattern. Then he had taken a bag of old fashioned ginger snap cookies and crushed them up in a large brass petastal and morter. Added to the crushed ginger snaps was honey. A dark rich honey with a bit of blackstrap mollasis stirred in. This was rubbed all over the ham and worked into all the cross hatched cuts he had put into it. Spikes of whole cloves had been pushed into the ham as well. This whole thing went into the oven and filled the house with an aroma not forgotten to this day.
After the bowl of oyster stew was done grandad would slice everyone a thick hamsteak of this real honey/ginger baked ham. A smear of mustard on the steaming hot meat was culinary heaven. Added to this was mashed potatoes and ham gravey, green beans, and bisketts. Grandmom made some of the best bisketts, and sliced open and some of the ham gravey spred on it made dessert not needed. It was a meal fit for a king, but consumed by poor working class watermen and their familys. Uncles and cousins, and aunts and siblings, would meet at the home on the shore, in a decades old tradition. Afterward, small gifts were given, but nothing like what goes on today. It was at one of these dinners I got my scout knife.
I had, at the age of 12, joined the boy scout troop at our church, and I had been using a army surplus all metal scout knife I had bought with saved up alowence. This one Christmas after dinner, with full bellies, we had adjorned to the living roon and a mug of hot buttered rum. The men of the family had thier pipes lit, and the smell of Prince Albert mingled with baked ham, and warming apple pie. Out of nowhere my dad handed me a small box and wished me a merry Christmas from him and mom. I opened the box to find a brand new scout knife. Not just any, but an "official" scout knife with the boy scout shield on the handle and the motto "Be Prepared" molded into the brown jigged delrin handles. Dad played it off in his modest way of understating, that it was just something he picked up. He never made a big deal about anything, but I could not thank him enough. In the years to come I would use that knife on many scout outings, and wore it proundly on a belt snap. Its wide flat ground blade would take a razors edge and hold it well. In 1954 they had not got around to making scout knives out of stainless steel yet, and I learned to take care of the carbon blade. To this day I still preffer the grey blades.
Gifts were not grandious in those days, a new pocket knife here, a new sweater there, a large tin of pipe tobacco, a bottle of perfume. Small tokens of loving thought among family members together for a holiday celibrating the birth of Christ.
There was one more family ritual that took place. That night we would bundle up in warm clothes and walk out on the point of land Grandad and grandmom had, that jutted out into the water where the Choptank river joined the Chesapeake bay. It was a broad field surrounded on three sides by water. We would look up at the star filled sky if the weather was clear, and wait. No matter how cold, we would wait to see if we could spot a falling star. In those days before alot of developement of property, the area was very sparesly populated, and it seemed that you could see a million stars in the night sky. You could see the milky way from grandads property. Then suddenly we would see a shooting star, and everyone would make a wish. We never told our wishes to anyone, least they not come true.
This year our family is going to do the holiday the old way. No comercial overindulgence. Just a family getting together and if we get the chance, make a wish on a falling star.
And eat some real baked ham!
There was never a turkey on the table at grandads house, as grandmom had her own way of feeding the family on the holiday. It was always a feast of what they raised themselves, from the waters of the bay, and some livestock on the side. In the fall was always a hog butchering soon as the weather turned cold. Several of the nieghbors who has all went in on the hogs would shoot and butcher them, and divy up everything but the squeel. Christmas was ham time.
Not your run of the mill wimpy store bought honey glazed ham that was a weak imitation of the real thing, but a real country cured ham. Grandad took special pride in the ham that was baked for the family, and rightly so, as grandmom took special pride in the oyster stew she served to start the dinner. And that was not the typical oyster stew that they should be ashamed of serving in the resturaunts.
Tonging oysters was backbreaking labor, so it was with deep appretiation that we looked at the eastern shore oyster stew. During the drive down to the shore it was something we thought about the whole drive, in addition to the joy of being with family again.
My try at tonging the oysters was a memory of misery. First you go out on the bay to where the oyster beds are. I never realized how much colder it was on the water than dry land. Even with a thick oiled wool sweater over a wool shirt, and a rubber coated jacket and bibovers, the wind across the water had a biting edge that went to the bone. The thermos of strong hot tea helped, and grandads hired man, Jackson kept a pot on the gimbaled stove up in the little for cabin. But the cold would not last once you started to tong.
Oster tongs were like two 20 foot long steel tined rakes hinged toghether like a overly long post hole digger. You lowered them hand over hand to the oyster beds in the 12 to 15 foot water and took a good bite, then hand over hand hoisted them up and dumped the load you had on the deck. then they were shoveled onto the table midship and sorted with a metal template for leagal size. The small ones were tossed overboard. Grandad did the shoveling, and I had the template, and Jackson tonged. I remember the humbling experiance when in a fit of dullusion, I asked Jackson if he needed me to spell him. I wondered at the time the smiles grandad and he had as he handed me the tongs. I got a couple of loads up, then had to pause to take off the jacket. A couple more tong loads and I had to peel off the sweater, hoping the cold wind across the Chesapeake would put out the fire that had started between my shoulder blades and lower back. I was pround that I made it a whole half hour before with trembling arms I handed Jackson back the tongs, and "relieved" grandad at the culling.
Grandad had hired Jackson because he himself was getting on in years and could not do the heavy work like he used to. I had renewed respect for Jackson that day, as well as how hard it was to tong oysters. Thus when grandmom served up a steamng bowl of her oyster stew, I knew what went into it. It was a thick creamy, buttery dish with celery, crumbled up crispy bacon bits, and at least one or two oysters per spoonfull. This was the opening of the eastern shore Christmas dinner.
After the stew came the main dish, the ham. Grandad had taken a large country ham and scored it with a utility knive in a cross hatched pattern. Then he had taken a bag of old fashioned ginger snap cookies and crushed them up in a large brass petastal and morter. Added to the crushed ginger snaps was honey. A dark rich honey with a bit of blackstrap mollasis stirred in. This was rubbed all over the ham and worked into all the cross hatched cuts he had put into it. Spikes of whole cloves had been pushed into the ham as well. This whole thing went into the oven and filled the house with an aroma not forgotten to this day.
After the bowl of oyster stew was done grandad would slice everyone a thick hamsteak of this real honey/ginger baked ham. A smear of mustard on the steaming hot meat was culinary heaven. Added to this was mashed potatoes and ham gravey, green beans, and bisketts. Grandmom made some of the best bisketts, and sliced open and some of the ham gravey spred on it made dessert not needed. It was a meal fit for a king, but consumed by poor working class watermen and their familys. Uncles and cousins, and aunts and siblings, would meet at the home on the shore, in a decades old tradition. Afterward, small gifts were given, but nothing like what goes on today. It was at one of these dinners I got my scout knife.
I had, at the age of 12, joined the boy scout troop at our church, and I had been using a army surplus all metal scout knife I had bought with saved up alowence. This one Christmas after dinner, with full bellies, we had adjorned to the living roon and a mug of hot buttered rum. The men of the family had thier pipes lit, and the smell of Prince Albert mingled with baked ham, and warming apple pie. Out of nowhere my dad handed me a small box and wished me a merry Christmas from him and mom. I opened the box to find a brand new scout knife. Not just any, but an "official" scout knife with the boy scout shield on the handle and the motto "Be Prepared" molded into the brown jigged delrin handles. Dad played it off in his modest way of understating, that it was just something he picked up. He never made a big deal about anything, but I could not thank him enough. In the years to come I would use that knife on many scout outings, and wore it proundly on a belt snap. Its wide flat ground blade would take a razors edge and hold it well. In 1954 they had not got around to making scout knives out of stainless steel yet, and I learned to take care of the carbon blade. To this day I still preffer the grey blades.
Gifts were not grandious in those days, a new pocket knife here, a new sweater there, a large tin of pipe tobacco, a bottle of perfume. Small tokens of loving thought among family members together for a holiday celibrating the birth of Christ.
There was one more family ritual that took place. That night we would bundle up in warm clothes and walk out on the point of land Grandad and grandmom had, that jutted out into the water where the Choptank river joined the Chesapeake bay. It was a broad field surrounded on three sides by water. We would look up at the star filled sky if the weather was clear, and wait. No matter how cold, we would wait to see if we could spot a falling star. In those days before alot of developement of property, the area was very sparesly populated, and it seemed that you could see a million stars in the night sky. You could see the milky way from grandads property. Then suddenly we would see a shooting star, and everyone would make a wish. We never told our wishes to anyone, least they not come true.
This year our family is going to do the holiday the old way. No comercial overindulgence. Just a family getting together and if we get the chance, make a wish on a falling star.
And eat some real baked ham!
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