The earliest years of my life were spent in farm country. This experience stamps the personality, indelibly. Although it's been many years since I moved from my childhood home, vivid memories of the past are often triggered by chance events. This is what happened when I saw 
As I cast about for a theme I came across another contest, the Free Write House Literary Talent Award. The prompt for this contest was 'tart'. There it was: the memory of my grandparents' annual clambake, and the homemade pickles and relish my aunts prepared.
It is not an exaggeration to say I come from a tribe. My grandparents had twelve children. Each of these children produced grandchildren. In my own family there were six. So when we had a clambake, to which extended family and trusted workers were also invited, it was quite an event.
I don't recall that anybody actually baked clams. These mollusks were steamed in enormous steel pots until they popped open. Except for the clams, it's a safe bet that everything we ate was homemade. This was the way of a traditional farm family. Not only did it reflect an ingrained thrift, but also a pride in self-reliance. Even my grandparents' imposing home had been built by family.
Of course, excellent cooks were the norm in my tribe, but the food would have been good no matter who prepared it. Every morsel was fresh. The corn was newly harvested. The relish and pickles rendered from produce grown on the farm. Cider, from apples nurtured in our own orchards. Even the clams, though not home grown, were likely collected early in the morning from Hunts Point, in New York City. My uncles made regular runs to the Point to sell their fruits and vegetables.
Another reason I recall this event with such good feeling was the sheer bounty of food. We were allowed to eat as much as we wanted. No one cared whether we took seconds or thirds. This lack of restraint was a singular treat. My mother ran our house on a tight budget. We all carefully measured the food on our plates. And when we visited someone, there was a strict rule about never asking for, or accepting, seconds.
But at the clambake, my mother relaxed her customary vigilance. Nobody supervised our consumption. I was allowed to have as many ears of corn, as many hotdogs and hamburgers as I could stuff into my wiry frame. And it seemed that by common agreement, all petty frictions and disputes in the family were suspended for the afternoon.
Memories from my childhood flood back often with searing clarity. Sometimes, great sorrow accompanies these recollections, for not every day was a clambake. But then there are good memories. Tart pickles and relish, steamed clams and family. These are among the best. Thanks
I've written for Free Write House before, but not often enough. Many of my Steemit friends write here regularly. They not only enjoy the exercise, but they get to hone their skills. I will be joining them, more often, I hope. Writing is, after all, my first love.
My Collage Took Shape in This Way:
Picnic Table: Pixabay
Table cloth, plates, utensils and food: Paint 3D
Bunny #1: Pixabay
Bunny #2:Pixabay
Dog:Pixabay
Lady:Pixabay
Child:Pixabay
As usual, my collage didn't work out as I envisioned it. But putting the pieces together was fun, and a learning experience.
Good luck to everyone in the Free Write House Literary Talent Award Contest and in