Dutch Oven Ghosts

 

I own an old Dutch oven. Actually, I own several.

But the one of which I speak was given to me by my mother, whose mother gave it to her, whose mother gave it to her. 

Did you keep track of all that? I knew all of those mothers very, very well; the last one mentioned as well as the first one mentioned. In fact, to one degree or another, all three of them got in their licks mothering me at one time or another. 

I can’t prove it, but think my Dutch oven was given to my great grandmother Taylor (née Keener) when she was only nine years old by her own mother. That was when Grandma Taylor’s mother died, leaving Grandma to raise a younger brother (five) and sister (two) by herself, her father being a “travelin’ man”, which is as much as I know about that part of the story. Anyway, all these years later, I own the Dutch oven (you tell me how old it is), and I use it often. 

Dutch ovens were, and are, (you can still buy them, new or used) cast iron pots with short legs underneath, and tight fitting iron lids designed to retain heat inside for as long as possible. They were used for baked items, biscuits, cobblers, pot pies, and such, but worked for many other things as well before gas and electric ovens were employed. How about stews? Beans? Oh, yes. 

To heat the “oven” preparatory to using it, you need to let it and the lid (separated) rest on top of a fire until it will melt butter, or make water beads dance. That done, set it off the fire and place inside the iron oven the desired cooking item. If biscuits (easy), grease the bottom of the pan, lay the biscuits in the bottom, put the lid on top, and then use a small shovel to scoop coals onto the oven’s lid which is flanged to hold them there. How many coals, and for how long? 

Well, now, you are a curious little cat, aren’t you? That’s the part that makes cooking fun: You have to experiment, and enjoy doing it. In real cooking, there are a lot of rounded corners (you know; a pinch of this, a pinch of that), and not many sharply defined angles, which all cookbooks, by the way, are full of. I will tell you that when I do a batch of biscuits in deer camp, my pinch of this, pinch of that where amount of coals on top of the oven is concerned, will take the biscuits about fifteen minutes to be done to a golden brown. Experiment (messing up at first is alright) with your own oven to find the right amount of coals to bake your own biscuits. That’s as much as I can tell you about it. 

One cold, dreary morning this past deer season, I slept-in in deer camp on purpose. I’m old enough now I can do that when I want to, whether you like it or not. Brian, “Loveland” as Ryan Roberts likes to call him, was in town working on a truck, so I didn’t have him to goad me into action. I woke, though, two hours before daylight like I always do, and listened to sleet pecking at the canvas roof of the wall tent. Rolling back over, and pulling the sleeping bag higher was easy to do, but I knew in that instant exactly what I was going to do when I finally rolled out. 

There is not a better breakfast in America than a simple, hot biscuit on a cold sleety morning, and all of my mothers and grandmothers knew this. 

I put the coffee on first. Then I put the Dutch oven on top of the wood-burning stove to heat. The coffee was perked long before the oven had heated, and that was good. I like to drink my coffee slow; it’s the best part of being retired, or in deer camp which is about the same thing. It’s why we go there, right? 

I cheated on the biscuits. I popped open a can of ready-mades and plopped them into the greased oven; put the lid on top; scooped coals onto the lid, and poured myself another cup of coffee. I was becoming more and more human by the minute. The sleet was coming a little bit harder, but I didn’t care. 

In fifteen minutes (look at your watch, go ahead), they were done a golden brown. I flipped one out with a fork, cracked it open (steamy), and slathered the hot inside with real, yellow butter ‘til it turned all yellow and gooey. Then, the apple butter from the jar, all thick and cinnamony, a marriage made in heaven if ever there was one. Stand back, and don’t come near me. 

I ate two of them worked up just that way; drank the good coffee, while old women laughed and chattered there in the tent about things long forgotten. It amazes me that there are people that do not believe in ghosts. To be of that notion, I think, there must needs have been no mothers or grandmothers in your life; maybe no Dutch  ovens. 

It’s hard to imagine.

© 2015 Conrad M. Vollertsen