FOOD FOR THOUGHT
BY COLIN GEORGE MCINTOSH
As the bony fingers of the Great Depression stretched across Canada in the 1930’s, my carpenter father found himself out of work with two growing boys to feed. My mother had decamped to the States with my older sister, leaving my brother and me in my father’s custody. He was happy to have us with him, but filling us up three times a day was not an easy task. In that hardscrabble year of 1934, I was ten, Jim was twelve, and we were permanently ravenous.
My father managed to scare up the necessary victuals, but he had to do it cheaply and our diet had few if any frills. Being Scotts on both sides, we ate a lot of oats. My father liked to occasionally remind us of our ancestry and the hardships of life in the old country. We were advised that at one time, many families lived in round huts with thatched roofs. Each hut would have a rock fire-ring in the middle of the floor and the chimney was a hole in the roof. They would hang a kettle on a chain over the fire and when they went to bed (or more likely went to sleep on the rock floor) they would leave a pot of oats simmering all night. In the morning they would bake oatcakes on the rocks. This made us feel a bit better in our draughty little house near the waterfront in Vancouver, BC. Which was, I‘m sure, the idea.
My father, Duncan Robert McIntosh, was born in Nova Scotia in 1881. Life was past the hut stage at that point, but he learned early on how to make the above-mentioned life-sustaining foodstuff. When I was a boy, oats cost about a quarter for a very large sack. They were steel cut, and full of nutrients. At that time, they were prepared in that manner for horses to eat. Today, in our healthy-food culture, they are de rigueur.
We would have oatmeal for breakfast, then my dad would what stir in leftover fat and juices from whatever meat we were able to afford, along with flour and a pinch of salt. This would make a stiff batter, which he would smooth onto a cookie sheet and cut into squares. He would then bake the mixture and we’d eat it like bread. We had no refrigeration, but his oatcakes never spoiled. And we never complained. They were delicious.
So much for the loaves. Then came the fishes. We lived mere miles from the Pacific Ocean and every so often, my dad would bring home a whole salmon. It was quite the procedure.
There was a cannery at the shore and the fishing boats would dock there with their catch. (There were no gill nets used; all fish were hook caught.) The boats would have orders from brokers for so many fish, up to thirty fish from each. A crowd of people would gather to see if there would be fish left over. When there were extras, the fishermen would sell a 10 to 15 pound salmon for 25 to 30 cents. Not per pound but for the whole fish. Locals would bid on them just like at an auction and there was a one fish per person limit.
When my dad was lucky enough to get one, he would wrap it in newspaper, tie a rope to its tail and carry the salmon home over his shoulder. Again, with no refrigerator, we would eat it until it was gone. The first night we would have incredibly fresh salmon steaks, which would then be warmed over for breakfast. Salmon sandwiches went into our lunch pails and that night there would be salmon and potatoes, boiled together. The final meal would be fish cakes made with leftover fish and potatoes. This is still one of my favorite combinations.
We also ate masses of herring, which was used for chum on the fishing boats and was frozen in large blocks. In the winter we would take the wheelbarrow to the docks and buy a 30 to 40 pound block for practically nothing. We stored it in the basement where it was too cold for it to thaw out. When we wanted herring, we headed downstairs, armed with the ice pick.
My dad also made clam chowder at certain times of the year when the digging was good. We’d root up a couple of buckets full and have a feast. Occasionally the group of neighborhood imps I ran around with would make our own chowder at the beach. We’d throw in whatever we could swipe — onions, tomatoes, potatoes, carrots— but it was mostly the clams we were after. Once in awhile we would share our purloined produce with the men who gathered at the waterfront hobo jungle. They were jobless and homeless but they were good guys and usually cooking something in a great iron pot over an open fire. They were always happy to see us with out pockets full of vegetables, which we would add to the pot and then get to share in the finished product. I don’t know how they did it, with only salt and pepper for seasoning, but those stews were astounding. The fragrance as they cooked in the sea air was mouth- watering and the taste unforgettable as we ate it from tin plates or cups, scooped up with bread as a utensil.
Thinking of great aromas and good eating, I’m reminded of my father’s headcheese. In the fall or winter, when it was getting cold, he would buy a pig’s head from out local butcher. It was dirt cheap and I can still see the scene that took place after he’d lugged it home. He would prop the head up on the kitchen table and shave it with a straight razor to get rid of the bristles. He’d strop the razor and shave away, a sight I’ll never forget.
After that it was into the sink for a good scrub. Then he’d take the big pot he used to make barley soup and fill it with water. He’d cook the pig’s head on the back of our wood-burning stove for three days, skimming off the fat and saving it, fishing out the bones. My brother and I always had a fine old time playing with the jaw.
The head-meat and the brains made a gelatinous substance, which may sound horrifying to some but was actually very tasty. The mixture was cooked with pickling spice and salt and pepper and when it was ready, my dad would ladle into every receptacle we could find. We especially liked the headcheese sandwiches. We kept it in the pantry and ate it until it was gone.
There is still a lot of headcheese made commercially and, for the truly brave, at home. Germans and middle Easterners and Scandinavians make it, so does Hormel. In the American south it’s known as Souse, and some of the best is now made by the Vietnamese for their famous sandwiches. But I’ll bet no one has to shave the pig first!
My fascination with food lasted long after I stopped being hungry all the time. I grew up to be a pipeline engineer and worked—and ate—all over the world. I look back now on those days and on the very early times and my father’s quest to feed us. I think he did an admirable job and provided us with a very healthy diet. We ate fresh local food, vegetables and fruit and oats and mainly fish for protein, all the components of today’s recommended eating plans. This is what I still eat for the most part, which may be why I am about to turn eighty-five and am still in reasonably fine fettle. But while today’s version of my Depression diet may still be good FOR me, it doesn’t taste nearly as good TO me as what my father struggled to put on our table so many years ago, the foodstuff memories were made of.
From a memoir in progress, “A Life On The Line: A Pipeliner’s Journey,” by C. George McIntosh, told to and edited by Garrett North.
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