Social Events: Making Apple Butter

 

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Making Apple Butter

One Friday in late October, when I was still not old enough to go to school, I came bouncing in through the back door and found my mother and grandmother peeling apples - not just the dozen or so that they often prepared to bake for a meal - but a whole bushel basket full. They were chatting away as usual, dropping the peelings in a paper bag, and the peeled and cored apples into a washtub half filled with water. I could tell by the tone of their voices that something special was afoot. I can't say that it was a tone of excitement, but at least it indicated a kind of interest that seemed to be reserved for special events.

I was hungry from playing all morning and more interested in eating than in their doings, but my mother must have thought that I was curious, because she announced, "We're going to make apple butter tonight".

That announcement didn't make much of an impression on me because I was concentrating on getting a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch (we called it "dinner"). But I did find it mildly interesting that apple butter was actually made from apples, because, unlike peanut butter, which had a definite peanut flavor, apple butter didn't taste one bit like apples.

That evening after supper, my father said, "Well, I guess I'd better go on over there and see if I can help get things started". My mother told me to go with my father, insisted that I take a jacket, and promised to come along right after she finished the dishes.

As soon as we walked out the door we knew from the strong smell of wood smoke that a fire had already been started in the back yard of the Carter house. But when we arrived, the fire was burning cleanly, and a huge copper kettle had been mounted over it to heat water for cooking the apples. The sun was just setting and the air was cooling rapidly. I pulled my jacket on and buttoned it up, glad that my mother had made me bring it.

Now the women began to arrive, and soon the odor of fresh apples penetrated the air as they were added to the heated water. Along with the mothers came the children, and I had plenty of playmates. Of course, Jimmy Carter was already there, and my cousin Billy came, and there were some girls: Jeannine, Nancy, and Edith Mae (whose name we had shortened to "Edimae").

We stared at the activity around the apple butter kettle for a while, as this was a new experience for us. The stirring paddle was a fascinating instrument, consisting of a plank mounted at right angles to the end of a long pole. But we soon grew bored watching the slow, deliberate stirring procedure and turned our attention to that which we did best: playing games.

The men and women gathered into separate groups to chat; but it seemed that there was never a mixed group of both men and women, because they talked about different things. I didn't pay too much attention, but the women talked mostly about recipes, sewing, neighborhood gossip (you could always tell, when they lowered their voices to a whisper), and the radio soap operas. The men talked about the weather, politics, and the situation at the "silk mill" (their name for the rayon plant where most of them worked). The women never ran out of things to talk about, but in the groups of men the conversation would occasionally lapse, at which point one of them would offer to take over the stirring job. "Orville, let me do that for a while. You've already done a hard day's work". Sometimes the stirrer would refuse, asserting that he was doing just fine; but eventually he would (with apparent reluctance) yield, remarking that the heat from the fire was more of a problem than the work of stirring.

Now the spices - cinnamon, ginger, clove, nutmeg, and allspice - were added to the apples, and soon a delicious aroma permeated the air throughout the neighborhood. It had been barely an hour since I had finished supper, but the chilly air, the boisterous play, and the irresistible smell of the hot apple butter in-the-making combined to make it seem like a month.

We had started to play "red-rover" in the twilight; but as darkness settled in, we switched to "hide-and-go-seek", because in the darkness we could hide in any shadow near "home" and come racing in whenever the child who was "it" would go off in the opposite direction. Occasionally one of us would hide too far away from the circle of firelight, and, after waiting a long time all alone in the dark, would get a little anxious and decide to take a chance and come running in to "home". In the excitement of play, we would at times almost forget about the apple butter project, until one of the men would stir up the fire and send a scattering of sparks high in the air, crackling, and briefly illuminating the whole area.

The adults had lowered their voices now, out of consideration for any of the neighbors that might have gone to bed, and their conversation reverted to a low intermittent hum; with the pauses becoming longer and more frequent. It was hard to recognize their faces, with the highlights distorted and discolored by the flickering red glow of the fire and the remaining features completely lost in the darkness.

Finally the decision was made that the apple butter was done, but that didn't mean an end to our hunger. We were ordered to play a bit longer while our mommas ladled the hot viscous liquid into mason jars. We tried several games, but we were tired and our hearts weren't in it; so we finally just stood and watched until the seemingly bottomless kettle was empty. Then a fresh loaf of bread was broken open, and each of us was given a slice with which to scour the remaining apple butter from the sides and bottom of the kettle. Maybe it wasn't as good as ice cream (my favorite food), but that thick layer of warm sweet apple butter was the only thing that would satisfy the unique hunger engendered by the chilly night air, hours of exhaustive play, and the spicy aroma that had settled in the atmosphere. After one more round for each of us, the kettle was completely clean, and the parents started rounding up the children. As the fire was carefully extinguished, darkness settled in. Only the weak glow of a distant incandescent streetlight enabled us to find our way across and up the street to our house.

I had changed into my pajamas and was starting to climb into bed when my mother reminded me to brush my teeth; then stood watching to make sure I did an effective job of it. When I finally finished, my mouth felt fresh and clean - but gone completely was the taste of real homemade apple butter.