I am not sure her name was Bossy, but I think it was and that is what counts. She was brown, but back in those days most of the milk cows were. I want to say she was a Guernsey, but you are not going to catch me lying at this stage of the game. She was brown. A soft brown. We had several cows when we left the Ailmore place, along with the horses dad used for plowing. We also had Star, the Shetland from hell that no one could ride. You would have thought he was a sweetheart if you just looked at him, but try to get on his back and that was not happening. He is the one that left the scar on my brothers face. But back to the cow.
The reason I am telling you about Bossy is because that cow knew how to give milk. But the best part of the milk was the cream. We had a separator which separated the milk from the cream (hence the name separator). We would toast a piece of bread and then put cream on it and sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar and put it under the broiler for just a few seconds. That was heaven! The cream was so thick it stayed standing on the toast. I go to the store now and buy "heavy whipping cream" and it pours out of the carton. I have not even seen cream like we used to eat.
The same cream was churned into butter. The butter was bright yellow when it was rinsed and put in the refrigerator. It was also very delicious. After Bossy died in cowbirth, (the baby also died) we were without a cow and thus without butter. The neighbor girls lived with their father right next door. Their mother had passed many years before and he raised the girls alone. They also had a cow and made butter. With no cow we had to resort to eating margarine. Now in those days margarine was white. I think it was actually lard, but it came with a little yellow dye button that you could work into the white mass so it looked like butter. We used to trade margarine for butter because the neighbor girls did not like butter.
Another thing was they made doughnuts every Saturday morning. Their father was diabetic, but he sure liked those doughnuts and he thought if he only ate them once a week he would be alright. Another daughter came from Plevna to visit them every Sunday so they managed to eat all the doughnuts. None for me!
One time mother had fried up a bunch of small carp that she had seined and Dorothy got a bone caught in her throat. Mother had picked the meat off, but apparently missed a small bone. As she was choking one of us ran next door and told Mr. Reinke. He had experience at such things, you know. He grabbed a piece of bread from the cupboard (in case we didn't have any and of course we didn't). He made Dorothy eat the bread, which dislodged the bone and sent it into her stomach where the acids would dissolve it. He was a hero!
Mostly Mr. Reinke just did handy man work around town and then did his chores when he came home. We could here him singing songs in German while he did his chores. Since he sang in German, my dad was sure he was a Nazi, but we never knew that for sure. I just thought he was a very nice man to save my sisters life.
I was always envious of their "outhouse" because it had a concrete floor and a lid on the potty part. Ours had a floor that was pretty well shot and a bench with 2 holes. I never understood that part, because we never went in there with anyone. I just could not picture that! Thiers also had a door and a latch from the inside for privacy. Ours had a door at one time, but not by the time we inherited it.
The point of this entry when I started it was about cream. The point I wanted to make was, back in those days we ate thick cream. We used real butter. We ate potatoes, and bacon, and gravy and we were all skinny. When I married my first husband I stood 5'1" and weighed 92 pounds. I am convinced that all the additives in our food are still in our bodies. I have given up trying to read the ingredient list on anything I pull off the shelf or out of the freezer.
And I am sure I will never live long enough to ever be able to toast a piece of bread and pile cream on it with cinnamon and sugar. Sure would like to see old Bossy again, but those days are long gone. I would not eat a Carp now if I was starving. I am beginning to look forward to the day when I can once more run barefooted down Strong Street see all my family and friends. Seems like that list gets
shorter every day.
(After thought) I do need to tell you, that when the separator quit working at one point and mother strained the milk it was not the same. She would leave it set and the cream would raise to the top. I could not stand the bits of cream that were floating in the milk to touch my lips. I would try to pick them all out with my finger, but it was an exercise in futility. I could eat straight cream, but not swallow a fleck. I was so happy when we had to buy milk from town because it was homogenized.
The reason I am telling you about Bossy is because that cow knew how to give milk. But the best part of the milk was the cream. We had a separator which separated the milk from the cream (hence the name separator). We would toast a piece of bread and then put cream on it and sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar and put it under the broiler for just a few seconds. That was heaven! The cream was so thick it stayed standing on the toast. I go to the store now and buy "heavy whipping cream" and it pours out of the carton. I have not even seen cream like we used to eat.
The same cream was churned into butter. The butter was bright yellow when it was rinsed and put in the refrigerator. It was also very delicious. After Bossy died in cowbirth, (the baby also died) we were without a cow and thus without butter. The neighbor girls lived with their father right next door. Their mother had passed many years before and he raised the girls alone. They also had a cow and made butter. With no cow we had to resort to eating margarine. Now in those days margarine was white. I think it was actually lard, but it came with a little yellow dye button that you could work into the white mass so it looked like butter. We used to trade margarine for butter because the neighbor girls did not like butter.
Another thing was they made doughnuts every Saturday morning. Their father was diabetic, but he sure liked those doughnuts and he thought if he only ate them once a week he would be alright. Another daughter came from Plevna to visit them every Sunday so they managed to eat all the doughnuts. None for me!
One time mother had fried up a bunch of small carp that she had seined and Dorothy got a bone caught in her throat. Mother had picked the meat off, but apparently missed a small bone. As she was choking one of us ran next door and told Mr. Reinke. He had experience at such things, you know. He grabbed a piece of bread from the cupboard (in case we didn't have any and of course we didn't). He made Dorothy eat the bread, which dislodged the bone and sent it into her stomach where the acids would dissolve it. He was a hero!
Mostly Mr. Reinke just did handy man work around town and then did his chores when he came home. We could here him singing songs in German while he did his chores. Since he sang in German, my dad was sure he was a Nazi, but we never knew that for sure. I just thought he was a very nice man to save my sisters life.
I was always envious of their "outhouse" because it had a concrete floor and a lid on the potty part. Ours had a floor that was pretty well shot and a bench with 2 holes. I never understood that part, because we never went in there with anyone. I just could not picture that! Thiers also had a door and a latch from the inside for privacy. Ours had a door at one time, but not by the time we inherited it.
The point of this entry when I started it was about cream. The point I wanted to make was, back in those days we ate thick cream. We used real butter. We ate potatoes, and bacon, and gravy and we were all skinny. When I married my first husband I stood 5'1" and weighed 92 pounds. I am convinced that all the additives in our food are still in our bodies. I have given up trying to read the ingredient list on anything I pull off the shelf or out of the freezer.
And I am sure I will never live long enough to ever be able to toast a piece of bread and pile cream on it with cinnamon and sugar. Sure would like to see old Bossy again, but those days are long gone. I would not eat a Carp now if I was starving. I am beginning to look forward to the day when I can once more run barefooted down Strong Street see all my family and friends. Seems like that list gets
shorter every day.
(After thought) I do need to tell you, that when the separator quit working at one point and mother strained the milk it was not the same. She would leave it set and the cream would raise to the top. I could not stand the bits of cream that were floating in the milk to touch my lips. I would try to pick them all out with my finger, but it was an exercise in futility. I could eat straight cream, but not swallow a fleck. I was so happy when we had to buy milk from town because it was homogenized.
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