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Fish Fry

This week, I will write about another Waschke family tradition: the Fish Fry. The Waschke Fish Fry was nothing like the hundreds and thousands of Fish Fries held all over North America. I’m not sure why the Waschke Fish Fries were even called by that name. They did involve fish, but the fish was always salmon slowly roasted over an open fire. The fish was never fried, never dipped in batter like fish and chips, and always a whole salmon.

I have been told that my great grandparents, Gottlieb and Bertha Waschke started the Waschke Fish Fry tradition. Gottlieb and Bertha had six daughters to marry off. One of our old neighbors told me that my great-grandparents hosted many large parties in search of suitable husbands for their daughters.

The generation that attended those parties is probably all gone now, but I remember occasionally running into folks who remembered my great grandparents’ parties when they heard my name was Waschke. Whether the Fish Fries were part of a scheme to marry off daughters, I do not know, but all my great aunts were married eventually, so it could be true.

But I also think my great grandparents, especially Gottlieb, liked a good big party. I think I have pictorial proof of this that I will bring out someday.

I mentioned in my last blog, Hog Butchering, that my grandpa, Gus, sometimes fed wheelbarrow loads of salmon to the pigs. From that, you might surmise that the Waschkes did not think much of salmon as food, but you would be utterly wrong. Salmon was a delicacy that rivalled my grandma Agnes’s cinnamon, raisin, and apple stuffed Christmas goose.

I don’t remember that my grandmother ever cooked salmon, except maybe in her spicy and vinegary fish soup. I once tried aalsuppe (eel soup) in a bierstube in Germany and I was shocked to discover that it tasted exactly like my grandmother’s fish soup, which she called “fisch stip.” I believe “stippen” is low German for “to dip”. I don’t quite understand Grandma’s name for the soup, but I loved it when she made it, although I also seem to recall that neither my grandpa Gus nor my dad liked it.

I had a similar surprise when I happened to read this excerpt from James G. Swann. The Northwest coast; or, Three years’ residence in Washington Territory. New York : Harper & Brothers, 1857. Pp. 108-109.

We did not wait till the fishing was over for our breakfast, but, when the sun got up high enough to shine clear above the peak of Mount St. Helen’s, old Brandy-wine [a white settler] called us up from the beach, and gave us a glorious repast of salmon, just out of the water, cooked in real Indian style by his Indian wife.

The choice part of a salmon with the Indians is the head, which is. stuck on a stick, and slowly roasted by the fire. The other part is cut into large, flat slices, with skewers stuck through to keep them spread; then, placed in a split stick, as a palm-leaf fan is placed in its handle, with the ends of this stick or handle projecting far enough beyond the fish to be tied with a wisp of beach grass to secure the whole, this stick is thrust in the sand firmly and at the right distance from the fire, so that the fish can roast without scorching. Clam-shells are placed underneath to catch the oil, which will run from these rich, fat salmon almost in a stream. Neither pepper, salt, nor butter were allowed during this culinary operation, nor did I find they were needed; the delicate and delicious flavor would have been spoiled by the addition of either.

I was so much pleased with this style of cooking salmon that I never wish to have it cooked in any other form, either boiled and served with melted butter, or fried with salt pork, or baked with spices. The simpler a fat salmon can be cooked, the better; it retains its flavor with perfection, and is more easily digested; and the only style is to roast it before an open fire.

Son of a gun. Swann’s (or Brandywine’s wife’s) recipe for Fish Fry salmon and the Waschke family recipe for Fish Fry Salmon were the same.

The Fish Fries in my memory were presided over by my uncle Arnold. His method was almost identical to Brandywine’s wife’s recipe moved forward a century in time.

My uncle began by starting a wood fire and topping it with green vine maple logs. He fastened the salmon to chicken wire netting with wires in a steel angle iron frame rather than sticks and suspended the rack over his fire. The salmon roasted slowly in the vine maple smoke. Vine maple sap and wood is sweet and gives salmon a unique flavor. Ivar’s Salmon House on Lake Union in Seattle is not the place it was when Ivar was still alive, but it made alder smoked salmon famous. However, for me, alder is a poor substitute for vine maple. I think my uncle would differ with Swann on seasoning: he used brown sugar on his salmon, but he would have agreed with Swann that the point of seasoning salmon is to taste the salmon, not the seasoning.

In the old days, according to my dad, Fish Fries often were inspired by the arrival of a member of the Lummi tribe with salmon. Later, we would get the salmon from fishermen off the dock in Bellingham or Blaine or a fishing neighbor would drop off a salmon. Still later, we bought it from one of the fish markets.

I often think that there must be a link between Waschke Fish Fries and the Salish potlatch tradition. The classic anthropological discussion of the potlatch tradition is found in Marcel Mauss’s book The Gift. Claude Levi Strauss also studied and wrote about Salish nations.

I know that in the fifties, my grandparents had occasional visitors from the tribe, sometimes bearing salmon, and, of course, I mentioned before that my father was delivered by a Lummi mid-wife. I also know that Grandpa traded potatoes and other produce with the Lummi. Exactly how the salmon tradition made the jump from the Lummi tribe to the tribe of Waschke Germanic interlopers, I don’t know, but I do know that the salmon at a Waschke Fish Fry and at the Lummi Stommish would be hard to distinguish in a blind fold test. And I have searched for German roasted salmon recipes that might have inspired Waschke Fish Fry and have found nothing. The most important similarity is the intent: the essence of potlatch is generosity and reciprocity among friends and neighbors. This was the spirit of the Waschke Fish Fry. The more partakers, the better.

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Hog Butchering

Hog scrapers

Last week’s blog featured the old pear tree planted by my great grandfather, Gottlieb. The old tree and some welcome cool rain in Whatcom County reminds me of a several day fall affair that took place each year under the old pear tree— hog butchering. Usually in October or early November rather than September, hog butchering was both a job and a gathering of relatives and friends. The hog scrapers used for butchering were stored by hanging them in crotches in branches of the pear tree. The scrapers eventually were surrounded by the tree and grew into the trunk. They are still there, left from the last hog butchered on the farm in the mid-nineteen fifties.

The pear tree was close to the hog barn where Grandpa raised his pigs. See it in the real estate photo here. It is the building to the left of the barn. You can see the pear tree in the photo. If you look at the picture of the pear tree in last week’s blog, Remembering the Orchard, you can just see the remains of the old scalding trough.

Gathering

Hog butchering was a fall event in many cultures, including the north central Europe from which my great grandparents emigrated. The Waschkes must have carried the tradition of the community event over from Germany.

My grandfather, Gus, was at the center of the event, which occurred after the temperature began dipping into the lower forties overnight, cool enough that meat could be cooled without refrigeration before it began to spoil and early enough that cured bacon, ham, and sausage would be ready for the holidays.

Raising pigs

Pigs were fed on kitchen scraps, cull or spoiled fruit and vegetables, and skim milk, all by-products that Gus could not sell to his customers in Bellingham. Before refrigeration was common, whole milk was an unsaleable because it spoiled quickly. Dairy farmers any distance from markets sold only cream or butter. My grandparents, like most dairy farmers in the area, had a hand-cranked centrifugal cream separator. When electricity arrived, my grandpa attached an electric motor. He filled out the pigs’ diet when necessary with oats, wheat, corn, and barley he grew in the fields, but their critical role was to use the nutrients that could not be sold otherwise.

Hog salmon

My dad, Ted, told me that when he was a kid, Deer Creek used to be choked with spawning salmon in the fall. Grandpa would sometimes take a wheel barrow and pitch fork to the creek and return with a load of salmon to feed to the pigs. The wasting flesh of spawning salmon from the creek was not fit for humans, but the pigs did not mind. Feeding spawning salmon was a bit risky because pigs slaughtered too soon after feeding on salmon tasted fishy. That meant only the earliest runs supplied hog salmon.

Mash

My dad used to say that pigs eat almost anything, but their fussy digestion will slow their growth if their fodder disagrees with them. My grandpa, Gus, cooked the pigs’ rations to improve its digestability. Every few days Grandpa would cook up a batch of mash, a sloppy porridge of whatever was available, heated until the texture began to smooth out and become more digestible. Skim milk was often the liquid, but after refrigeration arrived, water was more common.

Hog mash was usually unappetizing, to say the least, but I remember fishing a cooked potato out of a batch of mash and eating it. The mash was just rough cull potatoes boiled in plain water with lots of dirt mixed in, which made an interesting seasoning. I could not have been more than five years old and I thought the potato was pretty good.

The scalding trough

Grandpa built a heated trough that he used both for cooking mash and scalding for butchering. The trough was about eight feet long and three feet wide. It was made from heavy galvanized sheet metal bent into an elongated U. The ends of the U were thick fine-grained first-growth cedar slabs that looked as if Grandpa had split them out with a froe and shaped them with an axe and draw knife. The sheet metal was nailed to the wooden ends and the joints sealed with tar. The trough sat on top of a concrete firebox with a low brick chimney for a draft at one end and an opening for stoking the fire at the other.

A few years ago, I demolished the old firebox. Dad had already salvaged the sheet metal of the trough to seal off a corner of a calf pen against the winter northeaster. The chimney bricks were held together with lime and sand mortar (no cement) and had fallen in a heap. The firebox itself was in fair shape. When I broke it up with the front loader on the tractor, I discovered that Grandpa had reinforced the fire box with steel water pipe, which held the concrete together in the heat from the fire.

Butchering day

On hog butchering day, Grandpa would fill the trough about half full of water and start a fire under it. Then butchering would begin. Pigs were scalded and scraped immediately after they were killed to remove the stiff and inedible bristles while preserving the skin which gives flavor to bacon and ham and breaks down into collagen that gives the characteristic taste and texture to many pork dishes.

Like most kids, I was a blood-thirsty little guy and I took in the butchering process with relish, but I won’t go into it here. My grandpa could kill and butcher a hog without flinching, but I saw him treat those same hogs with tenderness as he took care of them. He would suffer himself before he would allow the animals in his care to be hurt. Slaughtering was a fact for homesteaders and kindness and compassion in the face of gory necessity is both contradictory and endearing.

The organ meats and innards were divided up among the neighbors who helped with the slaughter. All together, there were often more than a dozen relatives and neighbors helping with butchering and sharing in the bounty.

The first day of hog butchering ended with the hog carcasses suspended head down from branches of the old pear tree. They hung on gambrels, wooden crosspieces with sharp iron hooks that secured the animal’s rear ankles,  They were left hanging over night to cool before the next step. I’ll write about that some other time.

 

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Remembering the Orchard

An orchard still grows on the Waschke homestead, but not the orchard that was planted a hundred years ago.

Planning the orchard

Pear tree planted by Gottlieb Waschke

My grandparents began their life together in the northeast corner of their forty acres, just over the fence from my grandmother Agnes’ parents, the Matzkes, in a spot that was somewhat protected from the northeast wind by the ridge that marked the transition from the Silver Creek to the Deer Creek watershed. Their master plan was to locate a house and barn on the western boundary of the property, which was a section line and right-of-way for a county road.

My grandmother’s grandparents brought their son and his family to Whatcom County from Pomerania. My grandmother told me her grandfather traveled all over northern Europe building mills. She did not know or didn’t tell me the type of mill he built, but they were likely to have been sugar mills for converting sugar beets to sugar. My great-grandfather Gottlieb worked on sugar mills, which were booming during the late 19th century in Europe. That’s a story for another time, but both the Waschkes and the Matzkes were seasoned builders who helped plan the layout of the Waschke Homestead farmyard. The farm buildings, including the house, were laid out in a rectangle surrounding the well and orchard, a common pattern in northern Europe that resembles a castle keep. You can see the outline of the farmyard in the real estate photo here. The old chicken house and brooder house that marked the north side of the square are not visible under the foliage.

Gottlieb’s trees

According to my father, Ted, the orchard was laid out and planted by my great-grandfather, Gottlieb. No doubt Gus and Agnes, my grandparents, voiced their preferences, but Dad often said that no one ever argued with “Grossvater.”

Gottlieb collected seeds, cuttings and root stock from the German community. I say German community because I understand Gottlieb was never comfortable in English. He did his own grafting and some of the old apple trees bore more than one variety of apple. Because Gottlieb did his own collection and propagation, the old trees were unique and only approximately like the varieties available from commercial nurseries today. Unfortunately, my father and I let the old trees die and replaced them with standard nursery stock.

Cherries

The orchard grew three varieties of cherry. A cherry similar to a Bing grew near the house. We kids used to climb into the tree in late June or July and gorge ourselves until we lost our appetites. We called another tree the Bing cherry. It was intensely sweet, dark and smaller and firmer than cherries sold as bing today. Grandpa picked them for Grandma to can. Another tree bore small sour, soft, and juicy pie cherries, which went into tart, flavorful pies.

Apples

The first apples to ripen in the orchard were the Transparents, which were good eating after the shriveled apples that wintered in the cellar. The Transparents went into pies in July, but turned to mush and rotted away by the end of August. The apples we called Red and Yellow Gravensteins were later ripening, the best eating fresh apple from the orchard, but they didn’t keep well over winter. The Red Gravensteins were crisp, tart, and had with a rich aftertaste that reminds me of a good Amontillado sherry. I don’t get that Amontillado aftertaste from the Gravenstein apples sold in nurseries now. The Red Delicious and a Golden Delicious trees in the orchard were similar to the varieties in stores today, but smaller and crisper, almost hard. They kept better than Gravensteins. The best keepers were a smaller red apple that we called winter apples. They might have been a Mckintosh. The most exotic apple in the orchard, we called “Banana Apples.” They had a sort of acetone taste reminiscent of ripe bananas. Wikipedia has an entry on Winter Banana apples, but I don’t know if they are the same. The tree did not yield well, and I don’t remember using them for anything. For pollination, a crab apple grew in the orchard. Some years, my grandmother made sweet clove and cinnamon crab apple pickles.

Plums and nuts

Plums, both dark purple egg-shaped Italians and a lighter and rounder variety we called “sugar plums,” ripened at the end of the summer. There were two walnut trees, which died after a nasty spring northeaster in the early fifties that froze hard after many trees had begun to leaf out. Fruit trees all over the county were either killed or damaged by that storm. I believe that storm was the cause of the eventual death of most of the old trees. We also had a few Filbert trees, but they did not always pollinate and were often barren.

Pears

I have left the pears for the last. We had three varieties—two yellow Bartlett types and a reddish pear that was nothing like red pears in supermarkets today. One of the two Bartletts is the only tree left from the orchard that Gottlieb planted. The old pear tree is on its home stretch. Branches are dying, but the tree still bears copious sweet fruit.