Saga of the Sanpitch Volume 13, 1981 - Sanpete County

Common sense was important in cooking, and substitution of ingredients in lean times was necessary
in order to make a meal. Lard sprinkled with salt was often spread on bread when there was no butter
available. A spoonful of molasses added to the lard made a delectable and nourishing treat. The pumpkin pie
recipe in Mamma's journal called for carrots if pumpkins were unavailable. It emphasized that the milk called
for must still be warm from the cow. If eggs are not to be had, add 1/4 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda and whip
more air into the batter. Although it will not be as toothsome, the children will not know the difference.
The Cabbage Patch-Bean Soup recipe had a humorous notation at the end. "Eating beans and cabbage
together can cause an after odor for people who are inclined to be gaseous. It is best to cook and eat this food
on Saturday when not going to church." Grandma's sage advice to new brides was: "Don't spend too much
time primping for looks; and after marriage, you don't need books. Churn the butter, knead the bread;
When your man gets home, see that he's fed."
Source: Verbal and recorded material from my mother, Jennie Blain Sorenson. Many of the items were handed down from my
grandmothers, Caroline Justensen Blain, and Annie Tuft Sorenson.
PROGRESS ORDERED OUR HOUSE FOR LUNCH
Bonny Nielson Dahlsrud
Box 195
Salina, Utah
Non-Professional Division, First Place Personal Recollection (Tie)
The old house is coming down today, the shingles, beams, and all. It's called "progress" — at least the
construction men said it was. I'm not so sure I like progress. It takes huge bites, and slowly chews with its
mouth open wide so all can see. This house has been a home with rocking chairs, and double beds, and a
varnished dining table with a large leaf for the grandkids. We even carpeted the stairs last fall in a shagged,
mossy green that buries bare toes and cushions tired feet. Baby Anne likes to bounce down those steps on a
pillowed diaper. She'll miss this house, unless she's too young to remember. I'm not too young. I won't forget
anything about it. Not even the cellar windows cobwebbed and smudged with coal dust. The small window's
cracked and has a hole from the neighbor boy's BB gun. I never liked that show-off kid. He had a strawberry
cowlick, and big, yellow teeth. He's away at college now: he doesn't know our house is coming down, or how
hungry progress is.
An office building with cedar walls will crowd out our kitchen. It won't smell like oatmeal cake or
dumpling stew again. Instead you'll smell fat leather chairs that still squeak from being new, and a secretary's
musk perfume that doesn't blend well with leather. The clank of typewriter keys and telephone talk will
replace bacon's sizzle, the steam whistling from the old teapot, and the snap of fresh green beans. There'll be
ball -point pens instead of forks in the drawers. For progress devours all, and never stops to wipe its mouth.
The closet where I kept my thoughts and matchbox cars will go. My Tarzan tree and pirate nook will be
lapped up along with our rock garden. And progress will lick up my own name, scrawled in cement, beneath
the basketball net.
Source: Author's reflections while seeing an old neighborhood home torn down.
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