“Switch.”
Mama would then turn on the ignition, the Professor would spin the crank like mad, and the engine would cough. Again he spun; and if luck was with him, the engine sputtered and snarled into life, and Mama, waiting (like a tiger hunter for the first sign of stripes), would retard the throttle, and the Professor would leave quickly or climb a wall (as Mama had no use for the emergency brake… once the motor turned over the car went).
Most times, however, the motor leered and groaned, but did not turn over. The air would be filled with the aroma of gasoline-flooded metal parts, and the Professor would shuck his coat and keep on grinding. After a half-hour, he would come to Mama and ask questions…
“Gas?”
Mama would get up and take out the front seat, and the Professor would get a yardstick and open the tank under the seat and put the stick in, and he an Mama would read the stick like a fortune-teller read a palm. Mama would say she had a gallon or so, and the Professor would say maybe a cup… but there was gas….
They would talk of points, spark, an other details; then the Professor would jack up the back right wheel and spin her again. That did it sometimes. If not, he look out the point box under the dash and sandpapered the points; or he pulled the spark plugs out like so many cracked yellow teeth and sandpapered them and set the gaps with a thin dime; or he would pour gasoline and a mixture of honey into the holes left by the removed spark plugs. The Professor also used to put moth balls into the gasoline tank. He had a million tricks… the greatest living expert on the Model T.
But even when Mama got the car moving and went to pick up Mr. Floy, and then rushed over to pick up Fran at the Telephone and Freight Office, an brought them home for supper (dinner was a ritual that took place only twice a week), still, for all the money the car cost. Fran and Mr. Floy did not hit it off.
Maybe it was the Mushrooms Longstreet that Papa made. We had been talking of a picnic for a long time. One morning we started. Mama driving, me peeping the horn, Papa and Mr. Floy and Fran in the back.
We found at last a good field and a place where Papa said mushrooms grew. He was going to make a dish for us.
Mama spread the cloths, and Mr. Floy went to admire a view, and Papa and I went out to hunt fungi, and Fran set up Papa's oil-burning camp stove…
We went out with a basket and a bottle of light refresher, and we picked a great many mushrooms, and Papa explained how to avoid picking the deadly Amanita muscaria (which no one really should eat).
Mushrooms Longstreet is a good way to have mushrooms. Mix together a cup of butter and a cup of flour over a flame until the mixture is an umber color. A a pint of chicken broth and fines herbes, and keep stirring this for just eighteen minutes. Lower the flame, and beat in as hard as you can four egg yolks (this dish calls for a strong wrist, as you can see), and season with a red pepper—a very finely ground pepper. Bring up the flame until the mixture dances around the rim of the pot. Lower it again, and add a grated lemon, skin and juice, salt, white pepper, and chopped parsley.
Let a very low flame keep the mixture happy, and turn to the mushrooms. Clean a pound of mushrooms, and if they are very big, slice the stems an caps. Over a new flame sauté them for a few minutes in butter until they are a rich, happy brown. Drain them, and a the sauce, and stand there paddling the mixture like mad. As soon as the boil sets in, scoop out the mixture, and serve in pie crusts shaped in the form of patty shells. Drop a stuffed olive soaked in Sherry on each shell, and begin.
We all did very well with the dish, and then we ate some more, and Papa fell asleep in the sun and Mama took me away to hunt wild flowers, while Mr. Floy took Aunt Fran to see if they could find a four-leaf clover…
“Not that way. No clover that way,” I said.
Mama took my hand. “Don't be silly, Stevie… clover all over the place.”
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