10X10 space hollowed out of the damp musty earth that kept the boxes of eggs naturally cool during the hot Maine summers. The coop and nest boxes were located on the ground floor of the hen pen, and on the upper floor wooden grain and sawdust bins were strategically situated so that measured amounts of sawdust and grain could be easily dropped to the hens below. In addition, the building included a unique Pappy-designed ventilation system that automatically – by way of natural convection – replaced the ammonia-laden air of the chicken coop with fresh cool air so that, according to Wendell, “Ain’t nobody that evah see the hen pen could believe there was 400 laying hens inside!”
The tour of the hen pen consumed nearly an hour, and Wendell was a thoroughly honest guide. “She’s got quite a few windows broke,” he admitted, when the three were once again ensconced at the kitchen table. “And most of them nest boxes will likely need to be rebuilt, too. You’ll need to upgrade the electrical service—she’s only 60-amp and ain’t up to code. But altogether the hen pen ain’t ready to be tore down, yet.”
“How much do you think it will cost to fix everything?” asked Rebecca.
“Wal, you know …” Wendell began.
“Don’t worry, Becca,” said Lila, impetuously. “Mike Hobart has offered to help us.”
Wendell straightened up in his chair. “Course, I’d like to help, too. I kin do the electrical work; ‘twas what I done in the Navy. Shouldn’t cost much for electrical supplies—a thousand or two at most,” he said, reassuringly to Rebecca.
“We’ll pay you,” Lila offered. “I’m going to pay Mike, too.”
“Wal, you know, what you do with Mike is between you ‘n him. But I don’t really need any money,” the old chicken farmer drawled.
“But we couldn’t let you help us without paying you!” said Rebecca.
“Wal, you know, I might be coaxed into a suppah or two now ‘n agin,” he said. He flashed a shiny grin.
“Oh, my! That’s not very much,” said Rebecca.
“Wal, maybe you could also try to bake me some of Euna’s hot water gingerbread. Euna Crockett—she was my grandmother’s best friend, lived over on the North Troy Road near where Ralph Gilpin’s got his house. She made the best hot water gingerbread I ever et!”
“I’d love to try and bake Euna’s gingerbread,” said Rebecca, enthusiastically. “Do you know where I could get the recipe?”
“Ayuh,” replied Wendell. He rose from the table, opened a white cupboard to the left of the gas range, and pulled out a dirty tan book stuffed fat with newspaper clippings, recipe cards and various other papers. “This is Grammie Addie’s cookbook; her Bible , she used to call it. She’s got a copy of ‘Euna’s Hot Water Gingerbread’ in heah.”
Wendell handed the cookbook to Rebecca, who took it with sparkling blue eyes and eager anticipation. Rebecca gingerly opened the fragile cover and turned to the title page. “Oh, it’s the 1914 edition of The Boston Cooking School Cookbook by Fannie Farmer!” she said. “This is very collectible!”
“How do you know THAT?” asked Lila.
“This is the last version of this very famous cookbook that Fannie Merritt Farmer edited herself,” Rebecca explained, seriously. “Fannie died in 1915, and after her death members of her family edited her cookbook. In 1959, Fannie’s niece, Wilma Perkins, took over the so-called editing, but unfortunately it was almost a re-writing at that point.” Rebecca gave a little sniff. “Some people say that Fannie wouldn’t even recognize her own cookbook after her niece got done with it!”
“You are REALLY into this stuff,” said Lila, eyes open wide with wonder.
“I told you, I majored in home economics,” Rebecca said. She turned to Wendell. “This cookbook is worth at least $100. In fact, I’ll give you $100 for it right now!”
“Wal, you know, I couldn’t sell it; course, ‘twas Grammie
The tour of the hen pen consumed nearly an hour, and Wendell was a thoroughly honest guide. “She’s got quite a few windows broke,” he admitted, when the three were once again ensconced at the kitchen table. “And most of them nest boxes will likely need to be rebuilt, too. You’ll need to upgrade the electrical service—she’s only 60-amp and ain’t up to code. But altogether the hen pen ain’t ready to be tore down, yet.”
“How much do you think it will cost to fix everything?” asked Rebecca.
“Wal, you know …” Wendell began.
“Don’t worry, Becca,” said Lila, impetuously. “Mike Hobart has offered to help us.”
Wendell straightened up in his chair. “Course, I’d like to help, too. I kin do the electrical work; ‘twas what I done in the Navy. Shouldn’t cost much for electrical supplies—a thousand or two at most,” he said, reassuringly to Rebecca.
“We’ll pay you,” Lila offered. “I’m going to pay Mike, too.”
“Wal, you know, what you do with Mike is between you ‘n him. But I don’t really need any money,” the old chicken farmer drawled.
“But we couldn’t let you help us without paying you!” said Rebecca.
“Wal, you know, I might be coaxed into a suppah or two now ‘n agin,” he said. He flashed a shiny grin.
“Oh, my! That’s not very much,” said Rebecca.
“Wal, maybe you could also try to bake me some of Euna’s hot water gingerbread. Euna Crockett—she was my grandmother’s best friend, lived over on the North Troy Road near where Ralph Gilpin’s got his house. She made the best hot water gingerbread I ever et!”
“I’d love to try and bake Euna’s gingerbread,” said Rebecca, enthusiastically. “Do you know where I could get the recipe?”
“Ayuh,” replied Wendell. He rose from the table, opened a white cupboard to the left of the gas range, and pulled out a dirty tan book stuffed fat with newspaper clippings, recipe cards and various other papers. “This is Grammie Addie’s cookbook; her Bible , she used to call it. She’s got a copy of ‘Euna’s Hot Water Gingerbread’ in heah.”
Wendell handed the cookbook to Rebecca, who took it with sparkling blue eyes and eager anticipation. Rebecca gingerly opened the fragile cover and turned to the title page. “Oh, it’s the 1914 edition of The Boston Cooking School Cookbook by Fannie Farmer!” she said. “This is very collectible!”
“How do you know THAT?” asked Lila.
“This is the last version of this very famous cookbook that Fannie Merritt Farmer edited herself,” Rebecca explained, seriously. “Fannie died in 1915, and after her death members of her family edited her cookbook. In 1959, Fannie’s niece, Wilma Perkins, took over the so-called editing, but unfortunately it was almost a re-writing at that point.” Rebecca gave a little sniff. “Some people say that Fannie wouldn’t even recognize her own cookbook after her niece got done with it!”
“You are REALLY into this stuff,” said Lila, eyes open wide with wonder.
“I told you, I majored in home economics,” Rebecca said. She turned to Wendell. “This cookbook is worth at least $100. In fact, I’ll give you $100 for it right now!”
“Wal, you know, I couldn’t sell it; course, ‘twas Grammie
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