But Frau Hummel isn’t here now — and they don’t build ducks and geese like hers any more — and her old willow basket is probably in some collection while we use these machine-made things that fall to pieces when you accidentally stub your toe against them in the cellar. . . .  We are hurrying along so fast that we don’t see anything until it’s cooked and served. . . .  We just use the phone and let them send us any old thing that they can charge on a bill. . . .  But in those days grandfather and grandmother inspected everything — and it just had to be good — and there weren’t any trusts — or eggs of various grades from just eggs to strictly fresh eggs and on down to eggs guaranteed to boil without crowing.  Every Frau Hummel in the country wanted the Van Alstyne trade — and Frau Hummel knew it — and she never brought anything to that back kitchen door unless it was perfect of its kind.

No wonder grandfather lived to be 92 and grandmother 86 — in good health and spirits to the last!

The Sugar Barrels

Do you remember the three barrels of sugar in the dark place under the stairs — or were they in the big pantry just off the kitchen?

Well, anyway, there were three, you recollect — two of white and one of brown.

Always the brown sugar — and each Autumn the same colloquy: 

“Mr. Van, don’t you think we can get along without the brown sugar this year?”

“Now, Mrs. Van, you’ve got to have a little brown sugar in the house — and it comes cheaper by the barrel.”

“Yes, so it does, Mr. Van . . . . .  We can use it, I suppose, in
something . . . . .  And we always have had it, and . . . . .  Well, do as
you think best.”

White sugar was good when you had something to go with it.

But brown sugar stood alone — sticky, heavy, crumbly lumps that held together until a fellow could tip back his head and drop one of the chunks in his mouth.

And after school grandmother could be persuaded to cut a full-size slice of bread (thick) and spread it with butter (thick) and you’d start away with it (quick) — just nibbling at one edge, not really biting — and you’d sneak into the dark place under the stairs (or into the pantry) — and reach deep down into the white sugar barrel — and grab a handful — and sprinkle it over the bread-and-butter — and shake back into the barrel all that didn’t stick to the butter — and then do it all over again — and pat it down hard — and then sprinkle just a little bit more on hurriedly, (because grandfather’s cane could be heard tapping down the hall) — and then you emerged with dignity, but with no unnecessary commotion — and just faded away into the Outer World so softly, so gently, so contentedly! . . . . .

(Have you tried any bread-and-butter-and-sugar recently?  Did it taste the same as it used to? . . .

No? . . .  Perhaps you broke it into pieces instead of beginning at one side and eating straight through?