AN OUTDOOR KITCHEN.
AUWAE does not linger within the house, but follows a sound of talking
and laughter in the grove behind the house. There she finds her mother
and grandmother, together with a number of the neighbouring women. They,
too, are weaving garlands, for they wish to decorate their husbands when
they come home to dinner.
Auwae's mother is making her wreath of bright orange-coloured seeds
taken from the fruit of the pandanus. She wears a garland like Auwae's,
except that she has used flowers of another colour. She has wound a
beautiful vine around her waist and throat, which sets off her loose red
dress to perfection. She is a fat woman, but as beauty is often measured
by size among the Hawaiians, she must be considered quite handsome.
What is it that makes her look so different from her white sisters? It
is not the brown skin, bare feet, and flowing hair like her daughter's.
It must be her happiness and the grace of all her movements. She seems
to be actually without a care as she leans back in the grass and pats
her little daughter's head. Her laugh is just as joyous as Auwae's. Her
hands do not bear the marks of labour, but are soft and dimpled as a
child's.
She, a grown woman, is idly making wreaths in company with her
neighbours, instead of cooking and sweeping, dusting and sewing for the
family! Think of it and wonder. But then, you say, this is a holiday;
why should they not be idle and gay? The fact is, all days are like this
to the Hawaiian mother, who lives the life of a grown-up child. The
world does not seem so serious as some people think. It is a happy
dream, and mother and child and neighbour dance and sing, swim and ride,
in sunshine and in rain alike.
This reminds me that in their language there is no word for _weather_.
It is continual summer there unless one climb high up on the
mountainsides; and as for rain, it does not worry the people, for can
they not dry themselves in the clear air that follows? There is,
therefore, no need of this disagreeable word which one hears so often in
some parts of America. All days are alike to the Hawaiians.
Auwae's mother has no servant, for there is little housework to be done
in her home. The grass hut is scarcely used except for sleeping
purposes. Both cooking and eating are done out-of-doors. The little
girl's father has built an oven in the ground near the house, with
enough room in it to roast the food for his own family as well as two or
three of his neighbours.
[Illustration: "THE PARTY SIT ON THE GRASS IN A CIRCLE"]
He dug a pit in the ground and lined it with stones. Whenever cooking
needs to be done, he fills this pit full of wood, which he sets on fire.
When the stones are sufficiently heated, the pig, chickens, or beef, and
the taro, or sweet potatoes, are wrapped up in leaves and placed in the
oven; a little water is thrown over them so they will steam. Then the
hole is covered over tightly, and the food is slowly and nicely baked.
Auwae's dinner has been cooking all the morning, and it is nearly time
for it to be served. What do you think shall be done to prepare for it?
Who of the company will stop her chattering and garland-making long
enough to set the table?
As among the brown people of Borneo, there is nothing to do except to
uncover the oven, take out the food, and place it on the grassy
table-cloth, while Auwae runs into the house for some calabashes. There
must be a large one to hold the "poi," and a smaller one for
drinking-water. No plates are needed.
For to-day's dinner there is a roast of beef to eat with the poi, and
delicious cocoanut milk takes the place of the coffee sometimes drunk.
For dessert there are the most delicious wild strawberries, which ripen
all the year round in this favoured island of the Pacific.
If Auwae wished, she could have a banana or a fresh pineapple, but she
is easily satisfied. Think of it! there are forty different fruits
growing near her house. One can easily understand how there is little
work in providing food, and how little cooking is needed to keep the
body in good health.
And now Auwae's father and several other men join the women. The
garlands of flowers are placed around their necks and on their heads,
and the party sit on the grass in a circle around the bowl of steaming
poi.
But how do they eat? The poi, a sticky paste, is the principal dish.
Surely something must be used to carry it to the mouth. That is true,
and the fingers serve this very purpose. One after another, or all
together, however it may happen, the company dip into the great calabash
and skilfully roll balls of the paste on their forefingers, bringing it
to their mouths without dropping a particle. Poi is called "one-finger,"
"two-finger," or "three-finger," according to the thickness of the
paste.
But what is poi? is asked. It is the food best liked by the Hawaiian,
and takes the place of the bread of the white people. It is either pink
or lavender in colour. In the old days, pink poi was a royal dish, as it
was only made for kings and queens. The different kinds are all made
from the root of the taro plant. A small patch of this very valuable
plant will supply a large family with all the food they really need for
a whole year.
The principal work of the little girl's father is to tend his taro patch
and keep each little hillock surrounded by water. From the time of
planting until the ripening of the beet-like bulbs, he watches it with
the most loving care. When fully ripe, he pulls up the plants and bakes
the bulbs in his underground oven.
When they have been sufficiently dried, he prepares for his most
difficult task by stripping himself of his cotton shirt and trousers.
You remember that the climate here is a warm one, and when the man is
working hard he suffers much from the heat.
He now takes the baked taro and puts it on a wooden platter and beats
it with a heavy stone pestle. From time to time he dips his hands into
water as they grow sticky from handling the pasty mass. After he has
pounded it for a long time, he puts it into calabashes, adds water, and
sets it away for several days to ferment.
He grows very tired before his work is over, but does it gladly, rather
than do without his favourite food. It would not suit us, I fear, as it
tastes very much like sour buckwheat paste. In Hawaii white people often
eat the taro root sliced and boiled or baked, but they seldom touch it
when prepared in the native fashion.
Now let us return to Auwae's dinner-table. The food is quickly eaten,
after which the little girl passes a calabash of water around among the
company. It is to serve as a finger-bowl. Does this surprise you? Ah!
but you must remember these Hawaiians ate with their fingers. These same
fingers are now sticky with poi, and as the people are natural lovers of
water, they are fond of having every part of their bodies spotless.
A pipe and tobacco are passed around for a smoke. These people, so
cleanly in some other ways, do not object to using the one pipe in
common. The women put away the food, and the company prepare for a
picnic at the shore but a short distance from the house. They will spend
the afternoon in surf-bathing, and all of them will perform feats in the
water that would astonish the best swimmers in other countries.