The Farmer's Daughter Story
By Kandy Norton Henely
“I grew up in a berry patch, Mother often told me, and I almost came to believe it. The wide fields below our farm were dotted with wild
berries during strawberry season.
When I was too young to walk, Mother would put me under an umbrella on a blanket to keep me from the hot sun. As I grew older, it was my
doll that found shelter there while I wandered through the berries after butterflies. When I became tired, I would crawl under the shade and fall asleep with my doll wrapped in my arms. Here Mother would find us, both faces smeared with berries.
Mother would seek the most delectable patches and then call to my brothers and sisters to fill their pails. Only she took the job
seriously, but every berry counted. When we saw the farm teams coming homeward, we knew our day in the field was ended.'
Each year we looked for the spread of deep red that topped our meadows, so we would be the first ones in the strawberry patches. But this
wasn't necessary; we knew a more interesting sign to watch. A neighbor with eleven children lived behind us on the farthest side of Turkeyfoot Hill, and often Mother, a nurse, was called upon to help in an emergency. One winter morning after she had delivered one of the many babies, she
asked, "Where are the clean clothes?" Katie looked up surprised and answered, "Ain't got any. I jest wash once a year, in strawberry time." None of us ever forgot this, and when the smell of berries was in the air we would wait until we saw a string of clothes dancing on a sagging line. It
was then we knew it was really "strawberry time."
Almost each night, after supper Mother and 1 took a lighted candle and passed it over the cans of fruit and vegetables that stood in
perfect formation against a background of whitewash. The cellar was damp, for a tiny stream coursed across the hard dirt bottom, to disappear under the foundation that walled our basement. As summer passed, it became a fortress of plenty. With all the bins full of apples and an assortment of
vegetables, it was a harvest that would make winter more secure.
Our garden was large, and all of us helped care for it. 1 did my weeding on a low stool after the sun went down. What wasn't eaten
immediately was canned. Nothing was left for winter snow but dried vines and com stubble. The best pumpkins were stored in the bam, and I always helped Mother prepare this fruit for pies. She would tie her big apron around my neck, as I liked hers better than mine. It gave me a feeling of
being needed to be dressed like Mom.
Growing up in Scio County was having a playhouse with electricity and dimity curtains and serving a real tea; being cornered in the
cornfield by Jupiter, the unfriendly bull; being a sleepy-eyed tot who tried to help Mother on Fridays with the dawn baking and the foolish little girl who throttled all the yellow baby chicks because she liked the black ones best. Growing up was experiencing the beauty of the sugar grove,
the deer in the deep woods, the flowers in May, the turning leaves of autumn. Growing up was being allowed to meddle in Mother's kitchen-not only allowed, but encouraged-and Mother wiping away tears for failures and giving warning looks to the family when my first biscuits were served yellow
and soda bitter.
Today as I write these words and live in the past again for just a little while, I pay tribute to Mother, who was my right hand in those
early years. It was she who washed the endless stacks of pots and pans and took the words "I can't" from my vocabulary. I remember Mama's cookbook. She had only one. It was covered in red checkered oilcloth and stood between two potted geraniums on the south windowsill. "One is all I
need," she would say, "I keep everything in my head." Whenever we had company and long before I could read or write, I hoped to impress guests by peeking into the living room and importantly saying, "May I use your cookbook, Mother?"
I used to go exactly by a recipe, but later my flare for improvisation took me beyond the routine effort. As each new dish came to the
table, my family courageously gave me their unbiased opinions. My crop of home-grown Henelys does the same thing today.
During modeling, a dancing career, and college, I still found time to cook and bake. As a TWA hostess and later when married, my travels
brought me to some of the finest restaurants in Europe, Hawaii, and the Caribbean. Here I sought the secrets from the world's famous chefs. Sometimes it took persuasion and compliments when they reluctantly held back, and many times even a bribe was turned down. But more often my sincere
admiration for their art took them by surprise, and I came away rewarded for my time and efforts with a menu filled with notes, or a recipe on a cocktail napkin.
In my kitchen hang three cooking diplomas which make me happy and proud. Any morning, if you wish, you may watch me cook and bake with
the imported spices and distinctive recipes that are used today for the pleasure of those who dine in the Farmer's Daughter Restaurant.
Through the early years Mother and I worked together. Her patience and understanding became an inspiration that helped me fulfill a
dream. It has taken years to complete and test all my recipes, but from this wide selection I have chosen my favorites: some from the growing years, some from the gadabout years, and some from today. All I am happy to share with you in the Farmer's Daughter Cookbook.”
