As I mentioned in the “About me” section of this blog, I
grew up in Hartford, Ky., a town of 2,000 people in the western part of the
state. Hartford and its sister town Beaver Dam, a similar-sized town just a
couple of miles to the south, were home to the majority of people who lived in the
county.
In the 1960s and 70s, most men either worked in the coal
mines or farmed – there weren’t really other places to work. People were
comfortable, but very few families had lavish lifestyles. It was the type of
place where most women stayed home with the kids while the men worked to
support their families. In the fall and winter, we went to school with the same kids
we’d known all our lives and participated in church choirs, Girl Scouts and 4H;
in the summer, we played at the elementary school’s playground, watched the
softball leagues play, went to the local ice cream parlor (butterscotch sundaes
were my favorite) and swam at the city pool.
The downtown consisted of the
courthouse, a few retail stores, two pharmacies, a movie theater and a couple
of banks – but no traffic lights. Interestingly enough, though, Hartford did
have two newspapers – the Times and the News. On Thursdays during the summer,
all the kids in town would head to the movie theater to watch the latest
G-rated movie – admission was six RC bottle caps.
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| Our tiny house on the left; Pop and Honey's house on the right |
As a small child, my life was centered on Frederica Street
where my Mom, Dad, two older brothers and I lived in a tiny house next door to
my maternal grandparents, who we called Pop and Honey. Before I was born, they were
actually called Mom and Pop – but for some reason, when I started talking, I
christened my grandmother “Henny;” after a few months, they finally figured out
I was saying “Honey.” From then on, everyone in the family called her Honey.
My Dad was a coal miner (thankfully he worked in a strip
mine and never went underground) and my Mom stayed at home. They’d married when
my Mom was only 17 – and while she had me at 28, she was always young and
vibrant. My Dad worked the 3-11 p.m. shift so I spent mornings with him and
then afternoons either at home or at Pop and Honey’s house.
My brothers and I were the only grandchildren who lived in
the same town as Pop and Honey, and as the youngest child – and the only girl –
I was particularly close to my grandmother. I spent a lot of days at their
house – especially when I wanted to watch something on television that was of
no interest to my brothers. Honey and I would hang out all day; I’d watch her
cook, we’d go out and collect the eggs from the chicken coop, pick grapes from
the vines behind the house and play Chinese checkers.
My first memory of anyone cooking was Honey hovering over
her gas stove. I was fascinated watching the blue flames lick up the sides of
the pans. As a little girl, I didn’t
realize how hot it was to cook on that stove – particularly in the summer – but
I now understand the moisture I saw pouring from her face was
sweat.
Now, for the first time as an adult, I am cooking on a gas
stove in our new apartment. After the first few days it’s clear gas cooks a lot
faster than an electric stove (both on the burner and in the oven) and handles
of pans get hotter than they did with electric.
For me, the best thing Honey made on her gas stove was “sugared
popcorn” and I was often the recipient of that amazing treat – especially in
the fall and winter when the temperatures dropped. She’d make a huge batch –
drop off a bowl for Pop as he sat in his recliner – and then together, she and
I would sit on the couch, watch the Andy Griffith Show, eat every morsel of
that popcorn and drink our Frescas. There are very few memories from my
childhood as special as these.
There is a specific process to making sugared popcorn just
right – you have to heat up the popcorn for a little while, then add the sugar early enough so it melts, but doesn’t caramelize and burn (maybe that’s what Cracker Jack does),
while the corn pops. The result is popcorn with a light, golden brown sugar
coating – and when you add salt, it is absolutely irresistible.
The other thing that made Honey’s treat so wonderful was she
grew the popcorn she so lovingly popped. It had a wonderful taste – small,
tender puffs of air so unlike today’s popcorn that while it pops into a huge morsel,
typically tastes like cardboard. After years
of trying to replicate her sugared popcorn using store-bought kernels, I have finally
found a brand of heirloom popcorn that is great. It cooks into small, tender
morsels lighter than air. Now, I can add
a gas stove to the equation.
So when fall rolls around in New York City and temperatures start
to plunge, I’ll stand at my gas stove, work on mastering the proper cooking
time for my sugared popcorn and remember Honey.
