I am sure the Holy Grail and the Lost Ark of the Covenant are all lovely things, but for my money nothing beats the loot, booty and outright treasures that can be found in the pulp paper Fountain of Youth that is a vintage cookbook.
I am always unprepared for the rush of memories that comes whenever I stumble upon such garage sale finds. How can anyone, standing in someone else’s front yard, guess at the priceless items to be unearthed in a musty box, under the Jane Fonda workout book and the yellowed but unused yogurt maker. How could anyone predict the thrilling time travel that is about to happen? But the second my eyes fell on the tinted lithography and the slaphappy mid-twentieth century font of “Animal Cut Up Cakes,” I was sucked into a vortex. The mists of time blew away like Bakers’ Coconut Flakes and there it was; my very own Jerry Giraffe cake. And for one brief electric moment, I was as happy as I was the day I turned four.
And then from the bottom of that yard sale box, another treasure smiled up at me from the cover of a World War II-era “National Nutrition Edition” of the Kerr Home Canning book and handed me a jar of peaches and a link to my ancestors.
Grandma, is that you?
1943 Kerr Home Canning Book
I was struck, immediately by the resemblance. That peachy all-American sweetheart on the cover could well be my Grandmother. The year is just right, 1943, my mother and her twin sister would have been barely a year old, and Grandma would have been wishing away the hours on her parents’ Indiana farm while Grandpa tracked through the mud of France, chasing Nazis.
And then, there I am again; time traveling, landing with a thud into the kitchen where my Grandmother tries not to cry in front of the twins.
What in heaven’s name will I do with myself, she must have thought, staring out at the endless stretches of corn and cows. Will these girls remember him? Or ever see him again? What on earth will become of us if he never comes home?
The worry would have eaten anyone alive, but, brave and thrifty girl that Grandma was, at some point she must have thrown on her apron and said, to heck with this nonsense. I’m going to can peaches.
Meanwhile in the streets of Luneville, France, my Grandpa Bud was busy worrying too. Worried as he sat in the hospital tent next to a little girl he pulled from a collapsed building. He stayed with her for as long as he could, a tiny thing in a chic rabbit fur coat, not much older than his own girls at home, and held her hand, knowing that her parents, when and if they were ever found, would want at least that.
Later, the family did come, hysterical with worry, scooped up the girl in the rabbit fur coat and raced home. A few days later they came back to the base and insisted, through a translator, that their daughter’s savior come to dinner so they could thank him for his kindness.
What on earth will I say, Grandpa must have wondered, not able to speak a word of French.
What on earth will we feed this American, the family must have wondered, barely able to pull together a meal for themselves.
The family put out a small spread of tinned meat, cheese and baguette. My Grandfather brought an army-issue can of peaches. They enjoyed themselves in silent pantomime of gratitude and friendship. My Grandfather mailed Grandma a picture of himself with his “French Girlfriend.” My Grandmother laughed about it every time she canned peaches.
Grandpa and his French Girlfriend
My Cousin Michelle did some online sleuthing back in the very beginnings of the internet and managed to track down the girl in the rabbit fur coat, Lillian. She is alive and well and living in southern France. She does not remember a thing from that day.
And so I leave the yard sale, clutching my pamphlets like scraps to a secret map, a Harry Potter-style portkey to the past. Looking over my shoulder, I can barely breathe. Surely someone is going to stop me and demand more than the $1.50 I just paid for such inestimable treasure. Grandma would tell me I paid too much and Grandpa would “hubba-hubba!” over the brunette on the cover and the French family may or may not remember the peaches. But I do, somehow, even though I was not there, and now I need to hurry home, need to spirit away the cookbook, my grandparents, the girl in the rabbit fur and the jar of peaches; need to take all them home for safekeeping.
No Less a Weapon than Tanks
Uncle Sam wants YOU to can peaches
Okay this made me tear up a bit
even tho it’s gendered and sexist and schmaltzy but I am reasonably sure I can recognize the fact that it doesn’t fit our current culture paradigm while I also feel deeply for the people of 1943 separated by war. If it was the kind of thing that made my Grandmother feel better for even a fraction of a moment, then I’m all for it.