OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS. . .
Some thoughts on Thanksgiving and a star performance
Thanksgiving is a disturbingly complicated festival, loved and hated, dreaded and anticipated, in equal measure and sometimes all at the same time, in a singular blend of cognitive dissonance. As it is celebrated in 21st century America (that is, the United States—Canadians do it too, but typically in a more modest way), the holiday is linked to blatant, barefaced over-consumption, whether in the lavish profusion of food on the day’s groaning board or in the following day’s rush to rise with the sun and head to the nearest big-box store to buy-buy-buy, acquiring yet more plastic in a world already overwhelmed with the stuff.
It was not always thus. Back in Martha Ballard’s time, Thanksgiving was sometimes just a quiet note in her diary: “It is Thanksgiving Day.” Pure and simple. Mr. Ballard might go to the meeting house for a service, but Martha stayed home and tended to her chores. This was on the Kennebec River in Maine in the late 18th century. Over the years it got a little more elaborate. On December 1, 1803, she wrote: "We roasted a goos, boild Beef, Pork and fowls for Diner," a lavish feast that included several guests among family and friends. And in 1809, Mr. and Mrs. Ballard apparently dined alone, but: "My Childn Sent us in pies."
Back then, Thanksgiving was a uniquely New England celebration, patterned on the old English Harvest Home, a gathering together in the sanctity of the family after the harvest had been reaped and the winter stores were safely tucked away. In the words of the old hymn: “All is safely gathered in/Ere the winter storms begin.” Much later, in 1863, Thanksgiving became a national holiday, instituted by President Lincoln at the request of Sarah Josepha Hale, editor of Godey’s Lady’s Book, who urged the President, in the midst of the Civil War’s overwhelming losses, to make it an official day of observation. Lincoln’s declaration set the last Thursday of November as a day to “fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.”
That doesn’t sound much like the Thanksgiving we celebrate today, but you could say the same about Christmas and Hanukkah too. Still, Thanksgiving remains awkward and not just because of over consumption. There’s that sticky problem of indigenous Americans, tribal communities that were wiped aside and destroyed in the surge and wake of European settlement and continue to suffer the aftermath to this day. Many tribes prefer to observe Thanksgiving as a day of mourning for what they have lost, seeing it as a symbol of the European take-over of their place, their space in the world. And yet, indigenous people, no matter where they find themselves on this great continent, have always offered thanks for the harvest. It’s simply what farmers do. Agricultural societies—and name me a society that isn’t agricultural in its foundation—recognize and honor the hard work, the prayers, and the sheer luck that go into a harvest of whatever nature, bountiful, meagre, or somewhere in between. In honoring together that fundamental relationship, whether descendants of European colonists, or indigenous tribespeople, or enslaved Africans, or more recent arrivals, we can all benefit from stopping a moment to think about what we owe to our poor planet.
But what do we eat and when?
I’d like to offer a theory that our modern ideas about what constitutes a proper Thanksgiving meal derive from the Colonial Revival movement that began with the Philadelphia Exposition of 1876, celebrating the centenary of the United States of America. At a time of national upheaval somewhat similar to what we are experiencing today, with massive immigration, an unpredictable economy, and a nation still scarred by the Civil War, the country turned back to what seemed like a simpler time, romanticizing the pioneering, patriotic spirit of early colonists and ignoring the turmoil and suffering of those who were displaced. So in the late 19th century, Thanksgiving, which had been heretofore a pretty much local, New England festival took on national implications, covering up the nastiness and disruption of changing times and looking back with nostalgia to the past.
But roast turkey and pumpkin pies were very early stars. Read this from the New-Bedford Mercuryin 1836: “Thanksgiving week. . . is the crisis of a turkey's life. The dinner is the all-important item...turkeys, geese, and chickens...stuffed and roasted for the occasion...Then come puddings and pies...among the most prominent of which is that savory dish, peculiar to New England--that sine qua non of a Thanksgiving dinner--the well filled, deep and spacious pumpkin pie.” That was in 1836. Later, in 1870, it was similar but more so as the holiday went national: "Thanksgiving Dinner. Oyster soup, cod with egg sauce, lobster salad, roast turkey, cranberry sauce, mixed pickles, mangoes, pickled peaches, cole slaw, and celery; boiled ham, chicken pie ornamented, jelly, mashed potatoes browned, tomatoes, boiled onions, canned corn, sweet potatoes, roasted broccoli. Mince, and pumpkin pie, apple tarts, Indian pudding. Apples, nuts, and raisins." That was the suggested menu from Jennie June’s American Cookery Book.
So we cooks continue to struggle with the demands of the feast. I’ve done that many times over the years but I’ve also on occasion just given up and served what I felt like. One year, in Brooklyn, it was an elaborate Moroccan couscous with Paula Wolfert, no less, as guest of honor. Another year, at my children’s request, it was Bud Trillin’s famously revolutionary suggestion of spaghetti carbonara—see this from the New Yorker in 1981:
The first Thanksgiving came about when the Pilgrims invited the Indians to dinner to thank them for helping them survive. The Indians, who had some experience with Pilgrim cuisine, took the precaution of bringing one dish of their own. That was the origin of the covered dish supper. The dish they brought was spaghetti carbonara. Their ancestors had gotten the recipe from Christopher Columbus. The Pilgrims hated it. On their way back from dinner, one of the Indians remarked about the Pilgrims, 'What a bunch of turkeys!'"
And that’s how it all began.
I’ve observed the feast in various ports of the world, almost always with some local angle to make up for the missing cranberry jelly in a can. In Beirut it was always a leg of very young lamb, rubbed with garlic, new oil, and za’atar; in Hongkong whatever it was (if memory serves, it was Julia Child’s recipe for a very rich veal Prince Orloff), it was offered on the deck of a junk anchored in Sham Wan Bay off Lamma Island; and in Madrid one year it was a roast piglet from a nearby restaurant, complete with an apple in its mouth. So it goes: we’ve had lobster in Maine, spit-roasted arista di maiale in Tuscany, and a fine poulet de Bresse in Paris, back when it was still possible for a small French family to afford them.
So it doesn’t have to be a turkey.
But if it is, just remember this:
IT’S ONLY A MEAL!
IT’S ONLY A BIRD!
And as my old pal, San Francisco culinary professional Mary Risley has been known to say: “It’s just turkey, it tastes like cardboard.” If things get really dire in your kitchen, pour yourself a glass of wine, sit down for a moment with Mary on your computer, and watch her greatest, most memorable performance, “Just Put the F*cking Turkey in the Oven!” You can see it here:
And if you don’t die of laughing, you will pick yourself up off the floor and happily go back to basting that f*cking bird.
Carbonara sounds like a pretty good idea to me, as does lobster. We occasionally had lobster on Christmas Day (my dad was from New England--Rhode Island--and loved it). Thanks for this reflection, and the humor. Happy Thanksgiving!
I love the way I feel after reading this, Nancy. I who had a visit from the ghost of Thanksgiving past just yesterday. when even though there's a reservation for 4 at a restaurant, I bought that turkey, dammit, even if it had to be stored in the freezer for another time - Christmas maybe. I love the way you write.