I remember my Grandma’s chicken noodle soup. It was delicious. I have made noodles all my married life. I think I’m pretty good at it, but Grandma had me beat by a country mile. Let me tell you about her noodles.
As a child, I would watch in awe as she performed her magic with the rolling pin and dough. I never saw her stir a batch together, just the rolling out and cutting process. Her rolling pin was a closet pole size in diameter and about three feet long. Mother’s rolling pin was thicker and had handles at each end.
Mother made good noodles but not as good as Grandma’s. In my mind’s eye I can still see her rolling out noodles. She worked on a very large board. The patches of noodles would be almost as big. First, she laid a clean sheet on top of her feather bed. Each noodle patch would be laid on the sheet. By the time she was finished, the feather bed would be covered.
When they had dried to a leathery texture, it was cutting time. She would roll up each noodle patch. With a sharp butcher knife feathery noodles would fly from her hand. I cut my noodles in four-inch strips. They are easy to stack and slice. Hers were long and thin.
Since she hadn’t covered them with flour before the rolling process, she could add the noodles to the broth to cook until done. I cook mine in a large kettle of boiling water, then drained and added to the soup. Hers tasted better.
Her chicken soup was another matter. In the old country nothing went to waste. I remember the day my dad watched Grandma pull a chicken neck and head from her bowl and proceed to pick out the eyes and crack the skull for the brains. Dad was horrified. He rose from the table, shouting his disgust. That was before she tackled the feet. They had been parboiled to remove the outer layer. She then munched on that gristle delicacy.
Dad was never known for being tactful. He wasn’t that day either. Dad never again ate anything at Grandma’s. He missed out on some wonderful chicken noodle soup. I never saw her make any other kind.
Their meals were meager as was their lifestyle. Many years they only paid the interest on the principal of their 20-acre farm. Grandpa did have a small grape orchard. Every year he made wine. Grandma added chicory to her morning coffee that she boiled on the old wood cook stove. I used to laugh that you could stand up a spoon in it, it was so strong. I thought it tasted awful, but I never said so.
Their breakfast would consist of sliced homemade bread and her churned butter with canned hot peppers, fried eggs, a thick slice of bacon and a glass of wine. Lunch was the same, but without the eggs and bacon. They would come in from working in the field for that quick meal. Supper had an added protein, often, eggs again. For grandma to kill a chicken meant it was a special occasion. Dad should have been grateful for the sacrifice, but he wasn’t.
Grandma was special. She brought my mother and uncle from Hungary in the early 1920s. Hard work had been her lot in life. I am grateful for all she did and the sacrifices she made. If your parents or grandparents were foreign-born, give them a hug in thanks.