Rutabagas, turnips and parsnips

I never saw one that I didn’t hate.

I hated the taste and texture and when possible I scraped them off my plate.

These so-called vegetables were frequent dishes my mother prepared while I was growing up during the “Great Depression.”

I always thought we had these dishes because we were poor, only learning later it was for another reason. While it was true that we were probably poor, the family never acted like we were.

Actually, the reason we had these vegetables was more practical: They would keep in the cellar during the winter.

We lived in Palouse, which was a gift in itself, and lived at the east edge of town. You could look out our dining room window and view Palouse’s long Main Street. It was probably only a quarter mile away.

Our cellar had been dug out before we moved there, with access through a door on the back porch. The cellar had dirt walls and a dirt floor. I hated that place and was scared to go into it until my father put a light down there.

He had built shelves down there to hold the fruit and vegetables of a number of harvests.

We had friends who let us pick pie and bing cherries; farm friends that let us pick peas. We later popped the peas from their pods to get ready to can. We canned cherries, peaches, apricots, peas, carrots, corn, pears, sauerkraut and a number of meats.

We would store potatoes, apples and, you guessed it, rutabagas, parsnips and turnips. I think those three would last forever in a cool place. My mother used them as substitutes for potatoes.

The last thing I wanted my mother to say was go to the cellar and bring up some of the awful three. Right then I knew what to expect for dinner.

My mother wasn’t a gourmet cook; however, her Norwegian cookies, cakes and candies were out of this world. What I wouldn’t give for these treats during the holidays.

I hated the taste and texture of those three vegetables. What made it so bad was my parents didn’t waste food, and if it was on your plate, you ate it.

Taking everything into consideration, we were not poor, we just didn’t have money to waste, no different than anyone else at that time. People helped others back then and there weren’t different classes of people.

We often had hobos knock on our door and ask if they could work for a meal. I don’t think my parents ever turned anyone away. Often, the hobos ate with the family. We didn’t have locks on all our doors. People trusted people back then. Several times I went down to the hobo camps near the railroad and was offered food, which we would accept.

Now, I am far removed from rutabagas, parsnips and turnips. As far as I was concerned, the hobo camps would have been a great place to unload the three hated vegetables. However, I still can’t look at one of these vegetables without sinking low. That’s how long this feeling has lasted.

My dad’s family started a logging operation and sold logs to Potlatch Forest Inc. They used horses back then and the work was hard. They logged out of Bovill, Idaho, and there’s a creek there carrying the family name.

That provided a steady family income until war years provided a wider variety of jobs.

The Depression experience lasted until I was middle-school age. And so did my vegetable problem. I haven’t had a rutabaga, parsnip or turnip since.