In the mid-fifties, in small town Manitoba, Monday was washday. Town council understood this and on Washday Mondays the use of burning barrels was strictly forbidden. Most of the ladies in town were hanging out white shirts, sheets, and personal items; black smoke would ruin their efforts.

At my house, the washing machine was wheeled into position, right after morning tea. It was much taller than me. I admired it, as only a preschooler could, and I respected the rules and warnings about the many injuries that could befall a child during the wash process.

My mother would start by filling the belly of the tub, one pail of water at a time. She filled the pail from the wide-mouthed pump that seemed to be smiling at me as it dribbled water. Although in 1955 our family didn’t have running water, we were living electrically. Once the tub was full enough, Mom would plug in a heating rod and clamp it to the edge of the washtub, to keep the cord out of the water. I was warned to avoid the hanging cord. It took long enough to heat the water that my mother had time to collect and sort every item she planned to wash.

In time, the water was warm, the gyrator was turned on, the soap agitated into bubbles, and the clothing was added. Once the load was swishing away, my mom would prepare a few items for the Washday Casserole. This was comfort food, at its best.

Before long, the wash was clean and ready to be wrung out. The wringer would reduce a huge bed sheet to an almost dry ribbon of cloth. Wringers had safety catches, to quickly pry the two rotating rollers apart, if someone’s hand was accidently drawn into the mechanically powered wringer. Everyone knew someone who had crushed a finger, broken an arm, or caught their neck scarf in those tight rollers. The wringer took the clothes to the other side, where they fell into a tub of rinse water. Then the clothes travelled back through the ringer, were manually caught, and placed in a basket to be taken to the clothesline.

Everywhere you went on Mondays you could find a line of linens and clothes flapping in the wind, while whitening in the sunlight. You might notice who had the whitest wash or the finest lingerie. In winter, the fabric shapes flapped until they froze solid. It was funny when a sleeve froze upward in a friendly wave, or pants froze with one leg bent in a dance. The frozen sheets were like plywood slabs, sometimes almost impossible to manoeuver through the door. I haven’t found the words to describe the smell of damp, clean, windblown sheets draped over a clothes horse to thaw, but the kitchen smelled clean for days afterward.

I will guide you to a YouTube video to watch a demonstration of the wringer washer, but first I must share my mother’s four ingredient recipe for Washday Casserole, and my own adaptation, which is packed with nutrition. Both recipes are ridiculously easy and delicious. My beet version is company worthy and I have even been known to eat leftovers, cold.