Apple-butter boiling on the Reist farm occurred frequently during
August and September. The choice fruit of the orchard was sold at
Lancaster market, but bushels of smaller, imperfect apples lay
scattered about the ground, and these were salvaged for the fragrant
and luscious apple butter. To Phil and Amanda fell the task of
gathering the fruit from the grass, washing them in big wooden tubs
near the pump and placing them in bags. Then Uncle Amos hauled the
apples to the cider press, where they came forth like liquid amber that
dripped into fat brown barrels.
Many pecks of pared fruit were required for the apple-butter boiling.
These were pared--the Pennsylvania Dutch say snitzed--the night before
the day of boiling.
"Mom," Amanda told her mother as they ate supper one night when many
apples were to be pared for the next day's use, "Lyman Mertzheimer seen
us pick apples to-day and he said he's comin' over to-night to the
snitzin' party--d'you care?"
"No. Let him come."
"So," teased Uncle Amos. "Guess in a few years, Manda, you'll be havin'
beaus. This Lyman Mertzheimer, now,--his pop's the richest farmer round
here and Lyman's the only child. He'd be a good catch, mebbe."
"Ach," Amanda said in her quick way, "I ain't thinkin' of such things.
Anyhow, I don't like Lyman so good. He's all the time braggin' about
his pop's money and how much his mom pays for things, and at school he
don't play fair at recess. Sometimes, too, he cheats in school when we
have a spellin' match Friday afternoons. Then he traps head and thinks
he's smart."
Uncle Amos nodded his head. "Chip o' the old block."
"Now, look here," chided Millie, "ain't you ashamed, Amos, to put such
notions in a little girl's head, about beaus and such things?"
The man chuckled. "What's born in heads don't need to be put in."
Amanda wondered what he meant, but her mother and Millie laughed.
"Women's women," he added knowingly. "Some wakes up sooner than others,
that's all! Millie, when you goin' to get you a man? You're gettin'
along now--just about my age, so I know--abody that cooks like you do--
"
"Amos, you just keep quiet! I ain't lookin' for a man. I got a home,
and if I want something to growl at me I'll go pull the dog's tail."
That evening the kitchen of the Reist farmhouse was a busy place.
Baskets of apples stood on the floor. On the table were huge earthen
dishes ready for the pared fruit. Equipped with a paring knife and a
tin pie-plate for parings every member of the household drew near the
table and began snitzing. There was much merry conversation, some in
quaint Pennsylvania Dutch, then again in English tinged with the
distinctive accent. There was also much laughter as Uncle Amos vied
with Millie for the honor of making the thinnest parings.