The Old Kitchen RangeI wandered into an antique store a few years ago. The old kitchen range drew me like a magnet. Immediately, I was back in a two-room farmhouse in Utah in the 1930s. I’ve seen many old kitchen ranges in antique stores. Usually, they have an open shelf above, or they don’t have a reservoir. But this one had it all. Standing there gazing at that old stove, I became a child again. I opened the warming oven door and took out the dish of oatmeal. Mom had already gone to the garden, so I could sprinkle sugar on the crust, roll it up and eat it. Then I sprinkled sugar on what was left in the bowl, added cream, and enjoyed my solitary breakfast. My hand could remember what the oven temperature felt like when it was time to put the bread in the oven. It seemed the scent of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls filled the air, and I caught a whiff of burning cedar bark, and felt the rush of heat on my face as I opened the firebox to add more wood. I remembered cozy winter evenings around the old kitchen range when Mom took the popcorn popper down, put in the dry popcorn, and shook that wire popper back and forth on the stovetop. Like magic those dry kernels began exploding into fluffy, white popcorn. The old kitchen range led me down memory lane to Thanksgiving on the farm. Pumpkin pies came out of the oven the day before. A long table appeared like magic in the front room. The white tablecloths must have concealed a rough plank set on sawhorses, because we didn’t have a table that would stretch that far. Green glass plates took their places around the edge of the table, accompanied by small, green sherbet glasses filled with red Jell-O topped with whipped cream. In the center of the table were the beautiful, antique sugar and creamer that only came out at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They had been handed down from the preceding generation. The aroma of roast turkey filled the house. Mom had put the Thanksgiving turkey in the oven the night before and banked the fire so it would cook slowly all night. Now it sat in the roaster at the end of the stove by the reservoir. The light rolls came out of the oven in time to give the sweet potatoes their turn. The marshmallows on top must be browned just right. When the white potatoes were mashed and set to keep warm in the warming oven, it was time to make the turkey gravy. Diced carrots, with minced onion and bacon pieces were already simmering on a cooler part of the range. Cream would be added just before serving. Then came the final act before putting it all on the table. Mom took her sharpest butcher knife and carved the turkey. How she engineered a meal like this and got it all on the table hot, I’ll never know. For me, the old kitchen range symbolized warm family get-togethers when we gathered around a bountiful table with hearts full of gratitude. If you have Great Depression stories you’d like to share, send them to author@jobarkley.com. I will post selected ones on my website. Give your first name and the state you grew up in.
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