Gran Pete (a.k.a. Grampete) was a woman of great strength and character. Firmly engaging, her presence both compelled and intimidated us kids during summer visits to High Meadow, her country home in upstate New York. It was there, amongst the deciduous and coniferous that we saw our first jellied salad.
I recall the day with perfect clarity, as it was one of great activity and import. With Grampete's oversized magnifying glass I had discovered fire. Focusing the powerful rays of a mid-summer sun I quickly burned a hole into the soft pine deck. An unsuspecting ant became the next casualty and, with the lust for power growing within, I then set fire to a roll of paper towels. The resulting blaze scared the pants off me and the menacing death ray was promptly returned to its place on the coffee table.
Later that afternoon my younger sister and I found some poison ivy amongst the shrubbery that divided High Meadow from the neighboring farmers field. It didn't take long for the itching to start. With our clothes in a hot wash we were scrubbed raw with lye soap and relegated to the cool basement until dinner.
Screened in but still outside, the back porch was everyone's favorite place to eat. The table was big enough to accommodate uncles, aunts and cousins as it did that year, as well as the many morsels it would take to feed us all. To our collective delight Uncle Leo did the cooking and one by one the dishes made their way to the table. Fresh corn and salads, incredible pastas, specialty antipastos from the city and finally, roast lamb with mint sauce for Grampete. It was always delicious and this day would be no exception.
'Elbows!' Grampete was always strong on this point yet somehow it was all but impossible to remember to keep them off the table, especially when crazed, and semi-delirious with hunger. How and why the ruckus we all made did not scare off the deer that came to watch I don't know but there it was, curiously sniffing the air from the crest of the meadow. And then Grampete brought the last dish to the table.
Now I knew what Jello was and this was not it. Surely it couldn't be. It was wiggly yes, and gelatinous looking for sure. It even had the shape of the frilly copper shelter it had been hiding under like Jello sometimes did but this was anything but Jello.
Creamy-green and opaque it contained portions of something I could not identify. Grampete called it aspic. 'Jelly Salad' someone said under their breath and, like the formed mound on the plate, I shuddered. Just then my cousin Yvonne screamed and, clutching her stomach, began to roll about making barfing sounds. Thinking the same thing we all turned to Grampete expecting the worst but it never came. 'This is what my mother used to make', she said meaning we would all be trying some. The deer was gone.
Around the lanes the wind blows bare
what it seeks no longer there
Alas poor wind I'll tell you now
this one you seek is long for gone
Places you will never know
behind closed doors
where spices grow
Should have known my blustery friend
a time so high is sure to end
A gift to treasure, a smile to share
not gilders hidden in cupboards bare
Go my friend and set thee forth
for new horizons beckon
Sing to us of stories north
southwester, and treasures eastern
Yes too I sigh from time to time
as certain smells will linger
Yet for the best my blustery friend
set forth we will, and deliver.