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“Even I know how to peel a potato.” – P.D.
The ladies who cooked for Washington’s troops were some of the nicest yet most foul-mouthed women I’ve ever met in the course of my long life. I can still vividly recall the first time I met the head cook, a grey-haired matron named Crusty Zo. She slapped me about the shoulders with a dirty ladle and spat, “Whatdya want?” She took a puff on a long pipe and blew the smoke in my direction. Then she actually spat.
I flashed a genial smile and replied, “Gen. Washington has assigned me to this unit. I’m to be a cook.”
“Did you hear that ladies? A cook—ha!” Crusty Zo ceased her drawn out snort and chuckle combo when she noticed that something in my satchel was moving about. “Why’s your bag doing that?”
“Oh, that’s just Zippy, my mule daughter. You see, I’m a single father trying to make various ends of short pieces of rope meet each other. She can be put to work as well.” I turned around, and Zippy popped her head out of the satchel like one of those toys that are much too frightening to give to a young child. The women cooed and patted Zippy on the head. Before I could stop them, one of the cooks gave her a scrap of turnip. Zippy’s drool soaked the satchel so terribly that it took three days to dry it out.
Crusty Zo put me to work peeling potatoes. While I do love the tuber, I can’t say I enjoy the task when the potatoes come in seemingly endless bags. Before long, I’d devised a clever strategy to make the job go quicker. Even Crusty Zo was impressed by my ingenuity. She didn’t tell me, of course, but she did give me a congratulatory slap with her soiled ladle. My ingenious peeling method involved me gently holding the potato in my hand and rolling it over Zippy’s sharpest teeth. As the potato slid across her incisors, the skin peeled free from the potato. It was much more efficient, because I didn’t have to stop every few slices to apply a tourniquet to one or more of my fingers.
My chores were almost always the same from day to day. Sometimes, I got to hold back one of the cooks’ hair as they turned a hog on a spit. Many of my unhealthy eating habits were learned during my days in that kitchen under the stars. We were able to move the culinary operation into a more suitable shelter when we reached Valley Forge.
Zippy usually stayed close by while I slaved away in the kitchen. On more than four occasions, she got tangled in my feet. I was used to it by then, so I managed to keep my balance and slosh only a few portions of the troops’ dinner onto the floor of the cooking shack. Crusty Zo would scream, “Watch it, Prick!” That was her pet name for me. “One more mistake, and I’ll smack that grin off your face and onto someone else’s.”
We had great repartee, Crusty Zo and I. I’d call back in an overplayed growl, “Get in line, you chatty pincushion.” I’d laugh. She wouldn’t.
The men in the camp were a sorry bunch. They mostly sat around in small huts and cabins trying to stay warm. It was a dreadfully cold winter. I could tell that Zippy missed her muff terribly, but there were no shops around where I could order a replacement. After a week or so, Zippy formed a sort of symbiotic relationship with a cat that hung around the cooking shack. The cat, a fat specimen, would drape itself across Zippy’s back, its back paws dragging a bit in the snow. They were able to keep each other fairly warm throughout the winter.
I was pleased that my mini mule had finally made a friend in the animal kingdom that she didn’t kick and knock about with her hooves. When I asked Zippy what the cat’s name was, she replied, “Hee-haw.” I thought that was a tad generic, so I referred to the cat as Smoodge. I’m not sure what brought that name to mind, but naming things has always come easily to me. Back home, I’d named most of my siblings and cats. I almost ended Smoodge and Zippy’s friendship prematurely when I leapt onto Zippy’s back to surf to the other side of the camp. The cat got in the way and howled at me. Ever since, I’ve made sure to check Zippy’s back for the presence of other passengers before hopping on.
My favorite perk about working in the kitchen was the opportunity to sing at high volume with few consequences. Sure, if you got too distracted by a long soprano solo, the stew singed a bit, but other than that, there’s no harm in singing while you cook. I’d highly recommend it. Whenever he was in the vicinity, Marky Lafayette would come into the cooking shack and join me in singing the hits of the day. Our voices complemented each other perfectly. At that point in the war, we weren’t yet well acquainted, but even then, I’d decided that Marky was the funniest founding Frenchman in the colonies. He’d tell jokes that would’ve made even Crusty Zo’s imprisoned husband blush.
Late in February, the kitchen shack entertained a different sort of guest. We were working on a list of cooking supplies needed for the coming month. Crusty Zo was listing out a bunch of different things like salted pork, salted mutton, and salt. Did I mention salt? The soldiers practically breathed the stuff. I’ve never been one to remain silent if I wish to be helpful, so I piped up, “Do we need any corks? I know a guy. He does great work.” Crusty Zo stared down at me with such negative energy that I picked up her dirty ladle and smacked myself with it. It was easier that way, and the blow was far softer.
While I was still wiping broth from my face, a tall dark Prussian stranger entered the shack. (At the time, I didn’t know he was Prussian, but in hindsight, I thought it fit.) He was accompanied by several soldiers. Crusty Zo cast her eyes to the floor. The other cooks did the same. I continued to stare at the man in interest. “Who was he?” I thought. “Why was he here?”
The man spoke something in French to one of his associates. That man declared in a sonorous voice, “Baron von Steuben thanks you for your hard work in feeding the men.”
I rushed over to the Baron and grabbed his hand, pumping it several times. “Tell the Baron the pleasure is all mine. I may have never heard of him before, but I know a fun chap when I see one. Tell him we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other around the camp. I can’t wait to get to know him better. Does he play horseshoes? I’ve always wanted to learn. Oh! I almost forgot. Where’s Zippy?” I peered under the food preparation table and fished out my mule daughter and Smoodge. “This is my daughter! Zippy, welcome the Baron to America.” Zippy drooped one ear and stuck out her tongue while Smoodge struggled to maintain her place on Zippy’s back.
The soldier who’d spoken before translated my message to the Baron. Stubby—that’s what I started calling the Baron—made a few comments which the soldier translated as, “The Baron says....” The man took off one of his gloves and struck me with it.
“Did he really say that, or are you one of those interpreters who doesn’t really speak the language?” Another stinging blow from the glove-wielding man. “Stubby didn’t even say anything that time!” The group left and continued their inspection elsewhere. I don’t blame them for making a quick exit after I’d exposed that translator as a fraud. As any dressmaker will tell you, it’s better to save lace than admit a mistake.
I often saw Stubby drilling the troops no matter the weather. He’d shout orders in French, and that charlatan of a translator would put his spin on things before delivering the commands to the troops. Even though I’m ever the optimist, I had my doubts early that winter that we could hold out against the British much longer. Stubby changed all that. He turned our inexperienced army of farmers, transients, and who knows who else into a well-trained fighting force capable of aiming the proper end of a musket at the enemy—even in the heat of battle.
In June 1778, the soldiers of the Continental Army were roused from their relaxing vacation at Valley Forge, their frozen feet and fingers lost to frostbite long forgotten. Stubby organized the soldiers, cooks, and various roadies into a long marching column. The cooks and I brought up the rear. Although not as heavily trained as the true soldiers, we cooks were similarly armed. Stubby even gave us a few pointers—by linguistic proxy—in the arts of warfare and brisket seasoning. What we lacked in muskets, we pretended to make up for in cauldrons, kettles, knives, and those medieval-looking forks for serving meat.
Ever the drama bean, Smoodge upstaged the march by giving birth to a litter of kittens in a pot as the column was just beginning to move. I loaded up the “li’l Smoodges” into my satchel for safe keeping. The litter contained twelve-and-one-half kittens. The runt was so small, I felt it only counted as half a kitten. Smoodge’s brood came in every color of the rainbow except red, green, blue, and those shades of purple. While a minor inconvenience at first, the kittens lightened the mood of our grim march to face the British in combat.
