A Sunday Tale of Cooking and Discovery in the Woods
Goblin’s Gold
March 9, 1937
Old Missus Burchfield and I spent Saturday out in the woods behind her house, digging for roots. She makes a little extra money selling what she finds, and she told me her mother—who was part Creek Indian—taught her how to use ginseng to ease headaches and stop bleeding. She said an old Chinaman comes through every spring, buying up all the ginseng she can spare. She always keeps a little back for her own family.
We also dug sassafras root. My mother used to give me sassafras tea every spring, and drinking it again in Missus Burchfield’s warm, dim kitchen took me right back home. We sweetened it with honey that Mister Burchfield robbed from his hives last fall. He says spring’s coming early this year—he saw a wild trillium blooming down by the rocky river just last week.
Sunday morning, we had a visiting preacher all the way from Floyd, Virginia. Missus Burchfield had warned me he was coming and that he had a weakness for her cooking. She said he makes a habit of stopping by Loves Grove in the spring and always asks for her carrot pie. I’d never heard of such a thing, but it was simple to make and mighty good.
After washing off the day’s dust, we got to work on Sunday dinner. Since Mister Burchfield was off in Charlotte and wouldn’t be home ‘til late, Missus Burchfield asked if I’d stay over and help her cook. She said I could sleep in the little room off the kitchen, the one with the feather bed. That sounded just fine to me.
We made Cornish pasties, fresh asparagus, cornbread, and, of course, carrot pie. Missus Burchfield put me in charge of the pie. I boiled a pound of carrots ‘til they were soft, ran them through the food grinder, then mixed them with light cream, eggs, maple sugar, walnuts, cinnamon, and nutmeg. I poured it all into a hot water crust and baked it ‘til it set. It reminded me of my grandmother’s sweet potato pie—only lighter and sweeter.
After church, the preacher rode home with us. He asked if I wanted to sit up front in his brand-new LaSalle Touring Sedan. It was awful fancy—too fancy for a Methodist preacher, if you ask me.
I wasn’t too sure about that preacher from Floyd. He seemed a little too bold for my liking. When Mister Burchfield wasn’t looking, he leaned in and whispered that I was “a real looker.” I didn’t much care for that.
While the men sat in the living room listening to the radio, Missus Burchfield and I warmed up the meal. It turned out delicious, and I was proud when every last bite of carrot pie got eaten. That preacher helped himself to three whole slices! Now, I usually take pride when somebody enjoys my cooking, but that man was fat and greasy, and he made my skin crawl.
Then, when he was leaving, he went and hugged me a little too long—then had the nerve to squeeze my behind! I smacked at him on instinct, and Missus Burchfield, not seeing what he did, shot me a disapproving look. But as soon as I told them what that greasy old man had done, both of them were horrified. Mister Burchfield said that man wouldn’t be preaching at our little church ever again.
To shake off the bad feeling, Missus Burchfield and I took a walk down to Pumpkin Creek. Mister Burchfield said he’d clean up the table, so we bundled up in our coats and headed out.
Missus Burchfield led me through brambles and bare branches until we came to a clearing. “Here’s the secret place,” she said. And oh, what a sight—hundreds of bright yellow daffodils, swaying in the breeze like little cups of sunshine. We picked armfuls of them, their sweet scent filling the air.
On the way back, we spotted a little cave where part of the creek disappeared into the rocks. When I peered inside, I saw something glowing deep within. I waved Missus Burchfield over, and she saw it too. Reaching in, she pulled out a mound of moss, then laughed. “That’s Goblin’s Gold,” she said. “It’s a kind of moss that glows in the dark.”
It wasn’t real gold, but I liked it even better.
This morning, I copied down a poem from the newspaper that reminded me of my brother and me when we were little. I’m going to send it to him in a letter tomorrow.
Wasn’t it pleasant, old brother of mine,
In those old days of lost sunshine,
When the Saturday’s chores were through,
And the Sunday’s wood in the kitchen too,
We went visiting, me and you,
Out to old Aunt Mary’s?
—Mayell
