Pickled Oysters
I woke up to a chill in the air and the smell of damp bricks. With a yawn and a stretch, I reached out grasping palm fulls of chilled air. The dirt was a steady supporter beneath me as I readied myself for the day. My husband is picking up a shipment of oysters today by the Hudson River. The weather is starting to get colder, fall has set in and oyster season has begun. I should pickle some now for spring, come May good oysters will be a rare commodity. While I’m out, I can keep an eye out for dandelions. I can make a batch of dandelion wine that should keep for a month or so.
A rag wash and petticoat later, I set out on a morning walk to gather herbs to spice my pickling jars later. The towering aspen trees crafted a canopy that only speckles of sunlight could break through. Light danced off the periwinkle Vinca flowers’ morning dew. I shielded my eyes as I approached the front yard’s edge, peering out over the sparkling creek river. The river was laden with stone on the banks and coursed over an uneven terrain that created babbling miniature waterfalls. Once the mill north of the house ceased work for the day, the river itself provided a wonderful gentle tinkle, soft as a bell.
To truly enjoy the river, I strolled down the side path beneath my neighbor to the south’s house. On the other side of the river, a doe and fawn were sipping at the water and munching on the grass. The mother grew skittish and nudged her child up the hill. I whispered a bashful apology as they retreated into the woods. As I walked my culmination of herbs grew. Mint and small wild carrots filled my apron. I considered crossing the river to see if that was sweet grass the deer was chewing, but I’d rather not wade through this far in the season.
In the near distance, I could see the slaves walking over to the mill to start their day’s work. A signal to return home and begin my own housekeeping work. My waist is pleased at the thought of going home but my chest doesn’t want to relinquish the crisp air. On my way home, the winds shift as I pass the house to the south and I catch an unpleasant whiff of the house to the north’s outhouse. Goodness knows they need to dig a new one and the horrid odor gave me a wonderful idea.
When I returned to the house, I put up the herbs and vegetables I’d like to keep, then separated some to gift my northern neighbors. Procrastination isn’t the healthiest of habits, but I swear this is for a useful purpose to further my house chores. The family to the north has a good-sized cellar my humble home lacks. Not too long ago my husband brought home imported English plates as a present to me. In the name of being granted permission to utilize space in my neighbor's cellar for my pickled oysters, I can part with one.
Upon a white plate with a dainty blue design on the outer rim, I place a handful of carrots and a bundle of mint. Although it’s quite a meager gift, I’m sure the lady of the house will appreciate it. Both my Husband and I know carrots are a rare commodity in her household. My husband told her husband about how from time to time I would pick carrots rather than harvest the garden variety; the taste was incomparable. One time she picked an apron full of the poisonous variety trying to imitate me. For a day or two her husband was home sick and prohibited her from picking another carrot ever again.
I made my way over, and my lungs relished another dose of fresh air. I approached the front door and called out for the lady of the house. I curtsied as I greeted her and presented the plate. The lady’s eyes sparkled like the river and she invited me inside for a chat over refreshments. Needless to say, I was short one plate and gained a few feet of cellar space, along with a little mace as a thank-you for the plate.
The sun-soaked into the stone walls by the time I returned home. Damp and slightly warm air greeted me as I set up pickling jars with mace, allspice, cloves, and a little spring of mint for a personal touch. A lethargic feeling settles over me and I stop my chores to consider this morning’s deer. How long would I have before I have my own little fawn to teach how to pick wild carrots? Could I enjoy my oysters in May, or would I have my own pearl to carry? I suppose that depends on when my beloved will arrive with the oysters.
Just as I imagine his return, my husband strolls in the doorway. Sweat cools upon his brow, and his chest heaves as he sets two buckets of oysters down by my mason jars. Wide and clear green eyes set their gaze upon me, a rosy color from physical activity paints his cheeks. As I watch his gait, steady and certain towards me, I stand to meet him halfway.
“Good evening, Dear. Shall we prepare the oysters?“
Bibliography
Carson, Dale. Native New England Cooking. Birdstone Publishers, 1980. pp. 133-134. – Dandelion wine recipe
Mosser, Marjorie, and Kenneth Lewis Roberts. Foods of Old New England. 1st ed., Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1957. pg. 220. – Pickled Oysters recipe