When I was a teenager, I worked at a summer resort for seniors in the country, near where I was raised. The place seems like a dimly remembered dream now, a place from the past, a place where I spent every summer during high school, earning money to pay for school clothes and to save for university. Friendly Acres, yes that is what it was actually called, was a sort of summer camp for seniors. It provided an opportunity for seniors who typically lived in the city all year long a chance to escape to the country for twelve days, to enjoy the peace and quiet, to take daily excursions, to eat hearty meals, to get some youthful colour back in their cheeks, to feel less alone. The place was sponsored by a church in the city and their days were filled with song, crafts, prayers, entertainment and the great outdoors.
It was my first paying job and, when I started, I worked as a gardener which, to be honest, I was little more than a weed puller. I spent many lazy, hot, July and August afternoons sitting between rows of green beans or tomatoes, weeding and day dreaming. My third summer, Marilyn, the woman who ran the place, asked me if I wanted to work in the kitchen. I remember so clearly that kitchen with its big, eight burner gas stove, the chipped, white enamel cupboard doors, the clanging noise of the pots in drawer when I had to pull too hard to get it unstuck, and the little wisps of white flour that were always in the corners under the window.
It was in that kitchen that I learned to cook. I perfected my pie pastry recipe while listening to the wisdom of old women who insisted my pastry flaked so well and was so light because I had it “in my hands”. Pie pastry became a great mystery and a blessing bestowed on the very lucky who had the right hands. I learned to make stews, bread puddings, and cookies without end. We served three meals a day and a morning and afternoon snack. Tuesdays I would bake bread, Thursdays pies for the weekend. Because the guests only came for twelve days, another busload would arrive and the menu would start again. I had a lot of practice!
In the dining room, we had a rope which hung from the ceiling and when pulled would ring a bell atop the peak of the roof, calling the seniors to dinner. The newest guests would wait for the bell before coming to the dining room but the old hands would already be on their way up from the lodge, like cows coming back to the barn at twilight. We sang grace before every meal to remind us all to be thankful for the food we eat. We had a large pass-through from our counters into the dining room so we could watch the diners enjoy their meal and gauge when to serve dessert. Through that window, I would watch the winter-thin become plump, the pale become rosy and the quiet become talkative as the days passed. And when finally they were heading home again, they did so rested, fuller, healthier and re-connected. It was at Friendly Acres that I learned that good food and eating together connects us, creates community, heals unseen ills, animates us and gives us the strength to return to our daily lives.
