HODGE Larry Bonnie

Hodge

Larry and Bonnie Hodge moved with their five children from California to Badgebup for several years in the mid 1960’s. Larry worked for Merv and Cherry (Gwendolyn) Scott at “Beleli” on Warnaminup Road before moving to Perth for five years. The eldest of their two children, Vincent and Valerie, attended the Nyabing Primary School for two years.

Below is a story by Bonnie Hodge, submitted by her son Vincent, about preparing an American Thanksgiving dinner in rural Western Australia.

This is the house on Warnaminup Road which my family rented from Merv Scott, while my father worked for him.  The farm was called “Beleli” (not certain about that spelling).  Our mother, Bonnie Hodge, and her mother, Veda Walter, are pictured standing in front of the house (our grandmother Veda passed away in 2009, two months short of her 100th birthday).  This is the house which burned down at some point, as Merv told us when we visited him at his home on Isle of Man in 2013.  The house was gone by the time my grandmother and I visited in 1985.  

THANKSGIVING DOWN UNDER

Author: Bonnie Hodge
Submitted by Vincent Hodge

“Beyond the black stump” is an Australian term meaning “as far away as you can get”. Migrating with my husband, Larry, and our five young children to the outback community of Badgebup, Western Australia [A] took this “city gal” so far from California that if we had gone any further, we’d have been coming back.

Because Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere, the last Thursday in November in that beautiful sun-baked land occurred in the summer’s triple digit heat beneath skies so blue it could take your breath away. However, the tangy smell of a wood fire still permeated the air on Thanksgiving because the tiny house on the wheat and sheep farm where we were living in 1967 boasted a wood-burning stove as it’s only cooking appliance.

My mother took this photograph. From left is my sister Valerie (age 6 at the time), me (age 7, almost 8), our dad Larry (age 29), sitting behind our dad is Doug (age 2), then Mike (age 3), and, unfortunately partially cut off in the photo, is Jim (age 5).

I’m pretty sure this was on the driveway from Warnaminup Road down to the house, which was a pretty good distance, about 800 feet (245m), I think.

The station (farm) we were living on was the second property owned by Merv, an Australian rancher (farmer) about the same age as my husband, Larry. He and his wife, Cherry, were as fascinated by our accents and backgrounds as we were with theirs. To repay them for all the kindness they had shown us during our acclimation in a new country we invited them to join us for a traditional American Thanksgiving dinner … never dreaming what a challenge that would be in the Land Down Under!

My Mom and Dad, who had also migrated to Australia, were invited and arrived for their visit a week prior to the celebration. Mom and I had a truly hilarious time trying to create a full-blown feast in a country that had never heard of some of the every-day foods we take for granted. We promised our Australian friends a traditional menu that would include, “imported American delicacies” as well as Perfection Salad, roast turkey with cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. Because Merv and his family never had salted popcorn served hot and drizzled with butter, we included that for a treat later in the evening. (The only way they had ever had popcorn was cold, sprinkled with sugar.)  Merv was not at all sure about the pumpkin pie. In Australia pumpkin was served as a vegetable and he couldn’t imagine it being used in a dessert.

The township of Badgebup (population 3) consisted of the post office/general store run by the Postmaster, his wife & daughter and the area’s “bins” (storage facilities for wheat and oats). To have access to supplies needed for our banquet we had to travel thirty miles each way to the country town of Katanning where a larger market was likely to have the required ingredients available.

On Monday morning, before leaving the farm on our shopping expedition, we researched how to make a pumpkin pie completely from scratch. All of my cookbooks gave ingredient lists that called for “pumpkin pie spice” and a “303 can of pumpkin”. We assumed correctly that we would be unable to locate pumpkin pie spice at a store in Katanning. However, we were able to resurrect my mother’s 1920’s cookbook from which we determined the actual ingredients that make up the premixed spice.

The township of Badgebup (population 3) consisted of the post office/general store run by the Postmaster, his wife & daughter and the area’s “bins” (storage facilities for wheat and oats). To have access to supplies needed for our banquet we had to travel thirty miles each way to the country town of Katanning where a larger market was likely to have the required ingredients available.

On Monday morning, before leaving the farm on our shopping expedition, we researched how to make a pumpkin pie completely from scratch. All of my cookbooks gave ingredient lists that called for “pumpkin pie spice” and a “303 can of pumpkin”. We assumed correctly that we would be unable to locate pumpkin pie spice at a store in Katanning. However, we were able to resurrect my mother’s 1920’s cookbook from which we determined the actual ingredients that make up the premixed spice.

Above is a photograph I took when my grandmother and I visited in 1985.  I think this was what had been the post office/general store which was still open at the time we lived there in 1967.  In current Google Satellite and Street View images I can see St. Peter’s Church and the Community Center and the wheat bins, but I can’t seem to find this structure, so perhaps it’s now gone.
(It has been demolished – ed)

In Australia, pumpkin did not come in a can and did not have an orange rind as it did in the United States. The Australian version, called Ironbark Pumpkin, was easily twice the size we were used to seeing for Halloween. It had an incredibly hard green rind and was obtained from the greengrocer, along with all the other fresh produce we would need. The greengrocer’s assistant used a huge paper-cutter type of instrument to hack off chunks. We used our hands to “guesstimate” how big a piece it would take to equal the amount found in a 303 can.

Then it was on to the grocery store. (At that time Katanning did not have a “supermarket”, so vegetables, meat and canned goods came from individual stores.) Most of what we needed was readily available at the grocery store, but we had to search for pimento for the Perfection Salad. Our inquiry resulted in directions to the spices where we found a can labelled “Pimiento” that rattled when we shook it. We thought perhaps it was freeze-dried and could be reconstituted. In the gourmet department we were delighted to find an imported can of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce and a bag of popcorn kernels.

Back on the farm we decided to play it safe and start preparing some of the food on Wednesday to give ourselves a cushion in case anything went wrong. A wise decision that! We had a lot of baking to do and a wood-fired oven to do it in. There was no thermostat, so we called Cherry and asked her how to know what the temperature was. Her response: “Why, you just stick your hand inside!” City gal that I am, I thought that she was teasing. But she was serious. That is how you bake with a wood stove! Not having a clue what 350°f (177°c) felt like, we knew we would have to charge ahead regardless. We decided to start with the Pumpkin pies. There was no way we were going to be able to trim the rind off that chunk of pumpkin, but a bit of innovative thinking had it into the pressure cooker. Thirty minutes later it was soft, and the rind peeled off as pretty as you please. It was easy to mash, and you would never have known we hadn’t just opened a can and poured it into the bowl.

We had a couple of dozen hens down in the chicken yard that had been laying eggs like there was no tomorrow. On Tuesday we had decided to boil the ones on hand for devilled eggs and use the next day’s crop for the pies, etc. After weeks of non-stop production, the darn chickens picked that Wednesday to dry up. We were desperate and had our five kids strung out down through the paddock between the kitchen and the hen house. Every time one of those birds would cackle someone would grab the egg and relay it back up to us. Eventually all of the ingredients were incorporated for the filling and the homemade piecrusts finished. Being of adventurous spirits, we popped the pies into the oven and were astonished when they came out looking great.

The Perfection salad came off without a hitch, although we had to delete red Pimiento from the recipe. When we opened the can we discovered black, peppercorn-like beads. We never did find out how they were used.

Because it was not readily available in the local butcher shop, Larry and I had previously asked Merv, “Do you know where we can get a tender young turkey?” He told us he knew someone who raised turkeys and would pick one up for us. When he delivered it on Wednesday, and we started to prepare it, my Mom and I were sure it must have been the grandfather of the flock. What a job we had removing the pinfeathers and innards. We laughed and laughed at ourselves. Pioneer women we were not. Give me a store-bought Butterball turkey any time. Because we couldn’t be sure of the oven temperature we decided to roast and slice the turkey on Wednesday and just warm it again on Thursday. So, we loaded wood into the firebox and slid the stuffed bird into the oven. We kept adding wood to the firebox and every hour or so we’d open the oven door and peek inside. Nothing was happening. Evening rolled around and still nothing more than a good sweat. Oh dear – what to do? We finally decided to really stuff the firebox full of wood and let the bird cook overnight since it was taking so long. The next morning, we opened the door of the oven and guess what we found?

This was the American Thanksgiving Holiday meal.  Man in the white shirt is Merv Scott, my dad is seated across from him.  Lady in white to my dad’s right is Merv’s wife Cherry (her proper name was Gwendolyn, I seem to recall she was going by “Gwen” when we visited them on Isle of Man in 2013 (she passed away a couple of years ago), and our mother is standing to Merv’s left.  It’s hard to tell who’s who amongst the children…some are my family, and some are Merv and Cherry’s kids.

My mother (age 26) doing the laundry in a utility building behind the house. Other than the house, I believe that all of the farm buildings, including this one, are still there. When I visited in 1985 I took a photo in this same location…the copper was gone, but the scorch mark on the wall was still there.

Inside sat the most beautiful, golden-brown roast turkey imaginable. Eureka – we had done it! Proudly we lifted the bird onto the top of the wood stove and pressed down on the skin … and down …and down … and down! The meat had pulled away from the skin and shrunk. It felt like a chicken hiding in there. Our guests were due to arrive in less than three hours. We needed to plump the turkey up again!! I had a couple of old-fashioned metal dishpans under the sink. I grabbed them, scoured the insides, set the turkey in one, poured in some water to create steam, inverted the second dishpan as a lid, put the whole thing on top of the hot stove, and prayed. Neither my Mom nor I had the courage to look inside and see what was going on, but we did figure that it’s better to laugh than to cry. Our family spent the afternoon listening to whoops of laughter emanating from the kitchen as we were reduced to gales of giggles … dying for some unsuspecting neighbour (the nearest lived 12 miles away) to drop by so that we could tell them that this was always the way Americans always prepared turkey.

That year the word “Thanksgiving” took on a whole new dimension. When it was time to serve dinner, we took a deep breath, carefully removed the top dishpan, and peeked inside. There sat a stark, white carcass with not the first stitch of meat on it. The meat that had fallen off the bones was swimming in rich, scrumptious broth. After lifting out, in one piece, the complete skeleton, we realized that my husband would not need to worry about his carving techniques in front of company. We just scooped out the meat and arranged it on the serving platter.

That was, without a doubt, the tenderest, best tasting turkey I’ve ever had. And the broth made gravy to die for. It would have won First Place at any state fair. Our guests were totally impressed. If you’re ever in a position to duplicate the circumstances, I guarantee “Down Under Turkey” will make you the hostess with the mostest! Merv refused to put the cranberry sauce on his turkey but ate it with the pumpkin pie instead and declared both delicious.

Everyone was fascinated to see how popcorn was prepared and became converts to having it served fresh and hot with butter and salt.

By January of 1968 we had moved to Perth, one of only seven major cities in Australia. Thanksgiving continued to be a memory-creating holiday throughout the five years we lived there. Being so far from home and family, Americans always used it as a good reason to get together. The Australian/American Club and the American Women’s Club co-sponsored a Thanksgiving fund-raising event every year. It started as a potluck affair and grew, over the years, to a dinner-dance at a banquet facility called “The White House”. That made invitations very impressive.

At first the chef at the White House had a little trouble with an American dish he had never heard of … clam chowder. The first year he strained it and served is as a clear broth. It was explained to him that clam chowder is hearty soup. “You should be able to stand a fork up in it”. The next year we could. It was served on a plate!

The American Thanksgiving fund-raiser always warranted coverage by the West Australian newspaper. One year it was very obvious that the publicity chairman had given the paper’s society editor information over the phone rather than in writing. Among the delicacies being served it was reported we would be enjoying “candy jams” (actually candied yams). There is no doubt some of my fondest memories are of the five Thanksgivings spent Down Under.

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