COMPLETED WORKS

AT AUNT ELLA'S HOUSE

by Curtis W. Long

It was a grand palace, redolent of sensuous victuals and heady wines. No regal palate ever knew the joy of such scrumptious cuisine.

Actually, it was just a little row-house on Twenty-fourth Street, in the 1930s, in a part of North Philadelphia known as "The Village." Aunt Ella lived there with her husband Will (whom we called Pap), her daughter Katherine and granddaughters Ella Mae and Irene.

For the children of the family, it was always a feeling of great excitement to know we were going to Aunt Ella's house. It was usually on Sundays or holidays. Even as children, we knew that Aunt Ella's cooking was special. She took pleasure in the preparation, and even greater pleasure in observing the children's delight in consuming her culinary treasures.

My association with Ella Mae didn't come until later, during the war years. She would let me accompany her to dances, where my height allowed me to bypass the entrance age limit. In that way, she could escape her strict household, and I was able to exult in the liberation that allowed me to dance, dance, dance! (Later, Irene would use the war as cover for a more spectacular dash to freedom.)

But right now, it was Irene and the games. She was closer to my age. On the front stoop, we would play jacks and pick-up sticks. With white chalk, we would draw squares with numbers on the sidewalk for hopscotch. Somebody would bring out a rope and we would jump double-Dutch. In all these activities, Irene was always the champion. In pick-up sticks she was able to conjure up the deftest of stances in order to remove individual sticks without disturbing the rest of the pile. Nobody could grab more jacks than she in one bounce of the ball. No one beat her in hopscotch, nor matched her intricate footwork between the double ropes.

And then there was the marvel of all marvels! She and her schoolmates could talk to each other in rapid-fire pig Latin. They fascinated the other kids with this skill that equaled the speaking of a foreign language one could not understand.

In the meantime, Aunt Ella would be sitting in the kitchen with a wooden mixing bowl on her lap, while her strong right arm furiously whipped the lumps out of the cake batter-leaving it smoother than would any future electrical contraption. Pap has just put some wood into the stove and it is blazing away, preparing the oven for the latest of this master chef's baking bonanzas.

Katherine would be in the backyard, pouring rock salt on dry ice that is wedged between the wooden bucket and the metal cylinder containing milk, cream, sugar, vanilla and spices. We kids would take turns on the handle until this mélange of aromatic ingredients was magically spun into a frozen delight.

At Christmastime, Aunt Ella would include for taking-home some of her chock-full-of-fruit cake. As night came on, you always watched for her to approach the cellar door. She would descend into that mysterious cavern and return with one of the many gallons of wine* she had concocted from every fruit imaginable. Also ensconced in that dank underworld were numerous jars of her pungent kosher pickles that would emerge at any time during the year when the occasion warranted it.

Poetic Reminiscence
I have traveled and lived in many lands,
Tasted of truffles, the vines of Bordeaux-
Of peppery things and of souse.
But ne'er in my travels have e'er I dined
As at my Aunt Ella's House.

*Note:

(Just in case this falls into the hands of some latter-day reformer, hell-bent on exacting retroactive retribution.)

The terms "adult beverage" and "911" (emergency calls) were yet to emerge. Somehow or other, we all survived unscathed, thank you very much.

And, too, all the schoolhouse doors were kept unlocked. There were no school security guards and no metal detectors. The phrase "student with a firearm" was an oxymoron.