The Crosscut Saw

I am five years old and it is a cold, rainy November day at the log cabin.

Mama and Daddy brought me and my big brothers Glyn and Freddy to visit Papa Green and Mama Mary. The living room is dark with wood walls, and the wood heater glows warm in the corner.

The smell of wood smoke is thick in the air.

The grown-ups are talking low and quiet.

I hear them say something about the big crosscut saw that Papa Green and his brothers used to build this cabin. They talk about how long it was and how heavy it felt when two men pulled it back and forth for hours, cutting the big logs by hand.

No chain saws back then.

I don’t understand everything they’re saying, but I understand the cabin is standing all around us because of that saw.

Me and Glyn and Freddy are sitting on the couch.

Daddy looks over at us. “Why don’t you boys get some firewood?”

Glyn and Freddy jump off the couch first. I quickly follow. I want to help too.

They show me what to do.

Glyn raises the living room window. Right outside, built into the wall just underneath the window, is a big, long shelf that holds a tall stack of split oak firewood. It puts the wood easily within my reach.

When the window goes up, cold wet air rushes in and makes me shiver.

I stretch my arm out into the cold.

My fingers touch the wet, rough bark. It is so cold it almost stings.

I grab a piece and pull it back inside as fast as I can. My brothers smile and take it from me to carry over to the heater.

I do it again and again.

Every time I reach out, my hands get wet and cold.

I don’t care.

I am helping like the big boys.

Papa Green is sitting across the room watching us. He doesn’t say much. He just nods once when he sees me bringing in the wood.

I reach through the cold window one more time, grab another piece of wet oak, and pull it back into the warm room.

I can still feel that cold November air coming through the open window all these years later. I can still hear Mama and Daddy and Papa Green talking about the crosscut saw. I remember that day so clearly, just like it happened yesterday.

Some memories stay with you like that, I don’t really know why.

I think that’s why I’ve been spending a lot of time working on the cookbook lately.

For me, it’s not just about recipes in a book.

It’s more than just some pages of paper scribbled down. It’s more than just words and pictures and stories.

It’s my way of reaching back to those I love, trying to hold on to them the only way I know how.

It’s about keeping what I can before the memories fade even more.

I’m working really hard every day, sorting through pages and pages of notes, and I’ve got about a third of it written now.

Every recipe seems to bring another story with it.

I’ll sit down to write about a pan of cornbread, a pot of beans or some yellow summer squash, and before I know it, I’m remembering Mama, Papa Green, or somebody else who made our little corner of the world feel like home.

It's taking longer than I expected because I'm putting a lot of care into it. I want to get it just right. I want to make it just like I remember it.

I want it to feel like you’re sitting in those old kitchens with us, smelling the biscuits in the oven, hearing the grown-ups talking, and remembering the people who taught us that love was often served on a plate.

I’m looking forward to sharing it with you this Thanksgiving when it’s ready.

If you'd like to come along for the journey, you can reserve your copy. I'd be honored to have you join me.

Reserve the Cast Iron Cookbook

Thank you for reading with me,

Gary