Memories of autumn in a bygone era

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It is autumn. Sukkot is near. At our home, this meant we would soon be enjoying the lovely flavor of one of the fruits of the season – plums.

 

These were not the ordinary kinds of plums that are available all summer. They had to be a particular variety that appeared only in the fall, plums we had not tasted since last Sukkot. They are dark blue and football-shaped, and we know them as Italian prunes, but my father and mother called them “cabiliochos.” I have no idea of the etymology of the word, or if I am transliterating it correctly, but I’m at least close.

My father, Beryl Segal, eagerly awaited their arrival as a herald of the happy holiday, but also as a memory of his childhood in his shtetl in Orynin. He wrote an article for the Rhode Island Jewish Herald many years ago capturing this moment in time. It was called “Making povidla.”

I was telling my daughter recently about the plum jam-making season in the little town in Ukraine, where I spent my youth. I recalled scenes and aromas that lay dormant within me these many years.

With the coming of autumn, the housewives were busy making jam for the winter. This delicacy was called povidla, and it seems to me that to this day I have not tasted any jam that compares to the one we had in pots and jugs in every home in the little town.

Was it because our part of Ukraine was noted for its plum orchards?

The peasants would bring their wagons loaded with the big dark plums. No other fruit was used to make jam. When you spoke of jam, you meant plum jam.

The peasants would arrive in the marketplace early in the morning, and the housewives would come out to taste their wares.The plums were sold in wooden buckets. No counting. No weighing. A few pennies a bucket. The mothers would go from wagon to wagon and the children would follow.

The peasants had their hands full watching the children and the town’s pigs: While they were chasing away the pigs, the children would grab handfuls of plums and devour them, sometimes pits and all.

Plenty of castor oil was used at povidla-making time! Plenty of spankings went with the castor oil! And stomachaches!

“We warned you, didn’t we, not to eat so many plums! Drink the castor oil. It is good for you,” and down went a tablespoon of the thick, evil-tasting stuff.

When finally a purchase was made, the children carried home the plums with jubilation and shouting. The fruit was then washed and pitted. I have never seen plums open so elegantly at the touch of a thumb and a finger. We sat on low stools around the bucketful of plums and pitted the delicious fruit. Click, and a plum opens. Pluck, and a pit falls out. One for the kettle and one for the mouth, to the despair of Mother.

The kettle was then moved outdoors, where a wood fire was made ready for cooking the povidla. The kettles were made of copper, and were shiny and huge and round-bellied. All year round, these kettles were kept in parlors, hanging on the wall for all to see and to admire. But once a year, at povidla-making time, they were taken off the hooks and put to use.

Not everybody in town was the proud possessor of a povidla kettle. Those who had them would lend them to friends and relatives.

The kettles were filled with water and put on large tripods over the fire, and then began the real work. When the water came to a boil and the plums “settled,” the whole mess had to be constantly mixed or it would stick to the kettle and have a burnt taste. Children stood over the kettle with a big wooden ladle and did the mixing.

Keep mixing! Keep mixing! Up and down! Round and round! When one child got tired, another took his place. The mixing and the cooking took up the good part of an evening.

And during all this time the smoke of the fires hung over the town, the aroma of fresh-cooked plums was in the air and the evening was filled with excitement: povidla-making time!

Mother, holding a long wooden spoon, came out from time to time to check the progress of the cooking. She would scoop up some jam, taste it, and give a taste to all who were assembled around the kettle.

While the cooking and mixing were going on outside, girls were in the kitchen preparing the jugs and pots. The containers were then stacked in rows. When it was ready, the jam was carefully poured into them. They were then covered with cloth and stored in the cellar.

The povidla tasted of honey and had the consistency of butter, and when you spread a layer on bread, it was fit for a king. We used it all winter long, and snuck it for a nasherei (snack) when no one was looking. It was a rich black and tempting. When a jug was finished, we went at it with our finger and wiped it clean.

It was a fun, carefree life, at least for us children. 

GERALDINE S. FOSTER is a past president of the R.I. Jewish Historical Association.