As it stood on the dresser in my aunt's house I looked at it with great curiosity. If I had been younger I might have grasped it and demanded an explanation but at 12 years of age the last thing you want to display is your ignorance.
So I viewed this tin with great interest and wondered what my town-living aunt was going to do with it before dinner. Then to my amazement she brought something that looked like one of my father's wrenches out of a drawer and proceeded to cut the head off this tin.
Then she poured its green contents into a saucepan and placed it on her electric cooker. A few minutes later some of the green peas were on my dinner plate. I was amazed to discover that vegetables could come out of a tin. The field behind our house was then our only source of nutrition.
Every spring, potatoes, cabbage and turnips were planted in long straight drills in that field. They were planted into earth enriched by horse and cow manure that had accumulated over the long winter months. We children were the unwilling workforce who helped with the planting of the potatoes and turnips. We were not judged sufficiently wise to be entrusted with the spacing of the more delicate cabbage plants.
Dinner on the farm was always in the middle of the day and in mid-morning a visit was made to the field to dig the potatoes and collect cabbage or turnips. The potatoes and turnips arrived into the kitchen earth encrusted and the cabbage leaves dripping tears of moisture. In the early summer we were treated to an unwelcome feast of young nettles when my mother decided that they were in their prime. When we protested we were told that they were good for our blood and bones, a fact that did not impress us a great deal. A short drill of lettuce beside the cabbage provided the basis for summer salads and fat sticks of rhubarb sprouted out of a rich veined manure heap at the bottom of the field.
Late summer found us out early every morning in search of button mushrooms that were grilled on a hot sod of turf beside the fire. Blackberries were collected by the gallon to make jam to see us through the winter and below our house an old orchard provided a profusion of apples. These apples were stewed, baked and boiled and the remainder stored for wintering in a cool loft. Bee hives in the grove behind the house were a constant supply of honey, which helped greatly to sweeten up the porridge that was made nightly all the year round, as boxed cereals had not yet found their way on to our breakfast table. A bowl of boiled free range eggs was the centre piece of that table.
Practically all the meat we ate was produced on our own farm. Two pigs were killed every year for our household needs. Once dead, the pigs were scalded in a barrel of boiling water, washed and shaved clean of hair. Then they were hung by the back legs from the rafter of an out-house, slit down the length of their bellies and their insides removed. Then my mother set to work, sorting every bit of the pig into her white enamel bath and buckets. Very little was discarded. When the cleaning and washing was complete, three ash rods, peeled and pointed, were used to keep the sides apart, one at the shoulder, one at the ham and one in the middle.
The pigs hung for three days, during which my mother was busy making preparations for filling the puddings. First the puddings were washed and re-washed so many times that our fingers would go numb from cold water. The final washing was done in spring water from the well behind the house and this water, because it came straight from the bowels of the earth, was ice cold even on the hottest day. When the puddings were snow white they were left soaking in a bath of spring water, and looked like a nest of slithering eels.
The lard was removed from the pig and rendered down in the bastable over the fire until it was clear liquid; then it was poured into a white enamel bucket where it formed a solid block which was used for cooking and frying. We had never heard of cholesterol! When the fat was run off, left in the oven were the graves, bits of gristle and meat that were embedded in the fat and would not melt - they were later minced for the puddings. My mother cooked the pig's blood and liver and many other bits and pieces that only she could identify.
When everything was cooked and in readiness, filling the puddings would begin. All the meats were put in the mincer, herbs and spices were added and, once mincing was completed, a filler was attached to the mincer. We filled white and black puddings; the basis of the black ones was the pig's blood and the white ones minced belly meat and breadcrumbs. A huge black pot of hot water bubbled over the fire, and as soon as each ring of pudding was complete and tied firmly it was plunged into the simmering water.
As the puddings cooked an aromatic smell filled the kitchen. They were then lifted out of the pot using a clean handle of a brush and rested across the back of two chairs, where the steaming puddings gave off a mouth-watering fragrance. Row after row of puddings replaced each other on the brush handle, enough to feed an army - in fact, because all the neighbours got a supply, there was almost a small army to be fed.
The salting of the pig took place the second night after the killing. As soon as darkness fell, the neighbours came to help with the work. The backbones were removed from the pigs and they were brought into the kitchen in four sides of pork. First they were cut into sections suitable for our daily needs and then the salting began. A big jute bag of salt sat on the kitchen floor between the two tables and we children distributed it in basins to the men who rubbed it into the meat and under the bones. Then the meat was packed between layers of salt in a big wooden barrel which was later filled with brine. The pork steak, backbone, and some choice pieces were left free of salt. Some of the puddings and ham were put up the chimney to be smoked.
My mother reared and fattened chickens, which she boiled or roasted; we also had roast duck and, on festive occasions, roast goose. As my father enjoyed fishing and a river ran through our farm, trout was a regular Sunday dish and as he also liked to shoot, pheasant and woodcock sometimes came our way.
When the wheat was threshed in the autumn, it was taken to the mill to be ground and later returned in sacks of white and brown flour. Every day, my mother baked large wheels of brown and white bread, and for special occasions she made "sweet cake", which was the white cake enriched with whatever fruit was available. When apples were plentiful she made big golden brown apple cakes in the bastable over the open fire.
When we knelt at night and prayed "Give us this day our daily bread" the Lord through his earth answered our prayer because that farm provided us with water, milk, bread, butter, meat and vegetables.
Alice Taylor's latest novel is Across the River (Brandon, £9.99)