Have you ever had a dish of peaches and cream?
Not half-and-half. Not Cool Whip. Cream.
The thick cream from our cow’s milk would be called whipping cream in today’s check out lines but it was just every day cream on the farm, kept in the cream can in the fridge.
The cream can was galvanized tin and probably held something over a quart. It had been re-purposed from some grocery-store purchase, perhaps orange juice since fresh fruit wasn’t available in winter. Juice from cans like that always had a metallic taste. The paper that announced the original contents had been stripped off and sharp edges around the edge ground away and the shiny can is now, forevermore, the cream can.
There was another cream can made of sturdier stuff that stood about three feet high. It held five gallons accumulated over a period of weeks in the cool basement before it would be taken to the train depot where it was put on the next freight to Williston. It was delivered to the creamery where it was combined with hundreds of gallons from other five gallon cream cans, bottled and delivered to all the grocery stores in the same towns from which it had come, and then returned as an empty on the same freight train westbound. My father always got the very same can back because it had a metal name tag with our rural route box number in raised metal letters, attached with a small wire to the handle.
Some of it became became homemade ice cream on a hot July Sunday afternoon- in the shade of the old porch on the north side of the house – the one that always had daddy long legs spiders under it.
Those daddy long legs were a favorite weapon in the hands of older brothers. It was routine entertainment to pick one of them up by one or two legs and toss them toward any girl in the vicinity whether she be sister or the sister of a friend.
The boys threw the spiders and the girls dodged them, yelling a bit as they did.
The very quiet girls who were held up as worthy role models (for the consideration of those of us who were not quiet) seldom had spiders thrown at them. I still think the reason is that the boys were afraid they’d start crying, instead of yelling like we did just before we started planning some harmless revenge.
But I digress – back to the warm-from-the-cow cream and the peaches. (more…)