Heirlooms, Apples, and Three Generations of Catherines

Heirlooms and Apples on this sunny September Friday.

You know me as Cass, but that is my gang name.

No, not really, but it is a nickname.

My Grandmother, born in 1875, was named Catherine.
My Mother, born in 1921, is named Catherine.
I, born in (mumble mumble mumble cough), am also named Catherine.

It was inevitable that I should get a few things handed down to me from
both of The Catherines. One is the ability to carry a tune pretty darned well.

Others -- a love of books and language, some skills in hand work, and a great deal of child-rearing wisdom that Howard and I embraced. It must have been excellent advice; our daughters are not in jail. Yet. Although I haven't spoken to either of them today. . . .

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Another legacy is a recipe for applesauce that I am sharing for Foodie Friday;
it dates from the days when people used all the parts of a pig except the oink; it is that thrifty.

For the Heirloom Party, I am sharing something more tangible than a singing voice
and lessons on how to think like a child. I'm sharing my Grandmother's tea set.

I apologize; it is terribly tarnished but I haven't done my pre-Thanksgiving silver polishing blitz yet. I don't polish these pieces too often, as they are old plate and I don't want to risk polishing right through to the metal beneath.

When I was a very small child, my Mama kept this set on the low coffee table in the living room.
We could look at it, but not touch.

I looked at it a lot.

I was very young when I asked if I could have it and my mother answered,
"When you get married." I think she even meant it.

About 6 years after my wedding, I finally pried it from her desperate, sweaty grasp.

I am not sure how old it is, but I guess it is from the 1920s or 30s. It's not valuable, except to me. It is 1881 Rogers Quadruple Plate, Pattern 5014. Does anyone have access to a good book on silverplated holloware?

Again, I am sorry for the condition of the pieces today;

you can see from the undersides that they polish up nicely.

Clearly, my Grandmother used this set. It has some small dings and dents.

Does anyone else think the tea pot looks like Aladdin's lamp?

I hope, if a Genie ever pops out, that he does windows, pulls weeds, and empties the dishwasher.
Them's my three wishes.

I love the engraving on the tops of the pieces, and the blank spaces for monograms. I doubt my grandparents could have afforded to have the tea pot monogrammed; they had 7 children to raise!

Okay, this post is getting long and rambling,
so I'm going to segue smoothly right into The Applesauce.

There, wasn't that smooth? So is The Applesauce. Here's what you do:

Take some apples. Any apples. Drops, bruised, or perfect, any variety. Wash them well, making sure to get into that dusty place around the stem, where the apple's belly button lint lurks.

Next, put them in a bowl and briefly admire how nice they look with drops of water artistically clinging to them.

Then get out a cutting board and a cleaver, and hack them up. Any which way.

Quartered.

Halved down the middle to expose that secret star in the center of every apple.

It doesn't matter how you chop them up, but do not peel them, do not remove their cores.
Just cut them up, and plop them into a nice big stockpot.

Add enough water that you can see it down near the bottom of the pot, between the apples.

Don't cover them up with water, or you will end up with very lumpy apple juice.
You pretty much want to steam the apples; you don't want them boiling and bobbling around.

Get the water steaming, then cook the apples over medium heat until they are soft and mushy.

Next, pull out that nifty kitchen appliance that our great-grandmothers swore by:
the food mill.

Cooked apples go into the food mill, food mill goes over a big bowl, elbow grease keeps the mill turning . . .

and you end up with a lovely bowl full of amazing applesauce.

And a big pile of empty skins and seeds and other icky parts left in the food mill,
that you can just toss out.

Meanwhile, the applesauce has gained every last bit of flavor from the apples.
No waste. You can sweeten or add cinnamon if you must; I don't.

These apples were little MacIntoshes from a New Jersey orchard; I took my Dad there yesterday as he was jonesing for some late summer peaches. I also bought some fabulous eating apples, bred specially for New Jersey.

(Meaning that when they ask, 'You wanna piece o'me? Huh?
You wanna piece of ME?" . . . you can truthfully answer, "Yes.")

Sadly I cannot remember the name of these Jersey bred apples.

I will just have to go back and get some more.

So . . . if you visited That Old House yesterday, and are desperately hungry because there was no food on the table, this is your little midday meal:

Freshly made, warm applesauce,

cornbread hot out of the oven

sharp Wisconsin Cheddar, and good Colombian coffee.

As my other Grandmother used to say, when she finished putting the food down at dinner to feed her family of 9,
"Well, that's all there is, and what are you going to do about it?"

Go ahead, sit down.
Remember the table is set in the conservatory.

If you are really peckish, I've got a little seafood chowder heating up. ;-) -- Cass

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Thanks to Michael for hosting Foodie Friday at Designs By Gollum,

and to Marie of Emma Calls Me Mama for her Heirloom Party

Ladies, you rock. :-)

Please click on the links above, or near the beginning of the post,
to join these parties and read what others are posting about!

P.S. It was hard for me to choose which Heirloom to feature today; I am very lucky to have many family things. If you are new to That Old House and are curious about some of our hand-me-down furniture, you can visit this post from July 7, 2009.

P.P.S. Illustrated Note to Self: When cooking on a stove, it helps to turn on the burner that is actually underneath the pot. It takes too long otherwise . . . .

Yes, I really did that. Doh!