My Plymouth foremothers had it easy on that first Thanksgiving.
The main course of venison and rabbit was cooked on the barbie outside (by the men, of course) and the video-deprived kids hadn’t heard of Disney, so there were no cries of “YUCK, Mom, that’s Bambi and Thumper!”
Historians now confess that if there was turkey on the menu, it likely was stewed with some wild onions and limp cabbage in the 1621 version of the crock-pot.
Maybe the appetizer was dried smoked codfish, prepared well in advance of the feast. Local guests likely brought their own version of fast food: pemmican (venison pounded with cranberries and dried), as a hostess gift.
Those moms didn’t have to bribe the kids to eat their squash or peas, since there were few vegetable varieties available. “Just one bite of your Jerusalem artichoke puree,” the moms may have urged,” and then you can have your whortleberry pudding.”
Yup, these women didn’t roll pie crusts for pumpkin and apple pies, since neither vegetable nor fruit were yet available.
Corn or a nice succotash medley, you say? Nope; only maize was in supply: hard, tasteless stuff that was boiled into porridge or pounded into a sort of flour for a mealy bread, both of which could be accomplished the day before.
The women didn’t even have to clean up after the picnic: shells and hides and feathers were carried away as wampum favors by the native guests. There were no forks, and diners shared their wooden trenchers (rough plates), so the dishes were done in no time.
And guess what? No one dictated the time dinner would be served as the 20-minute window during half-time of the game. Dinner was served after the blessing, and the feast continued until the food was gone.
There were no paid holidays, so the guests had to leave that same evening to get back to their regular hunting jobs. No one spent the night. No clean sheets required.
Sure, weapon-bearing guests using English as a second language and smeared with bear grease might have presented an intercultural challenge, but it’s likely these guests didn’t limit the menu with advance warnings of their dietary preferences and restrictions.
To our knowledge, Massasoit had no food allergies, and none of his relatives were vegans. Neither guests nor hosts kept Kosher, and since this was a “first annual” harvest observance, the hosts didn’t worry about insulting anyone’s holiday traditions. The hostesses used local supplies or imports from known sources, thus keeping themselves above possible accusations of buying from companies that just might have investments in third world countries.
Those Pilgrim homemakers had no idea how complicated their harvest festival would become for their 21st century progeny. Just last week a friend e-mailed to ask what foods might be appropriate for an American-born Indian Hindu and his half-Jewish son who would be guests at Thanksgiving dinner. I recommended tofu turkey, but cautioned that no oyster dressing be served.
My personal Thanksgiving challenge came many years ago, when I produced a feast for family and guests who presented a host of dietary challenges. My son was highly allergic to proteins from nuts, legumes, beef, eggs and chicken, and my Korean-born daughter was lactose intolerant. My mother-in-law became deathly ill whenever she ate turkey (particularly if prepared by me), and the grad student/babysitter staying with us was vegetarian AND Kosher in her diet.
Also coming to enjoy this traditional American Thanksgiving dinner was a lovely teacher from England, who gave advance warning that she was diabetic and also sensitive to sulfites that might be present in cheese or wine. And was I aware that it’s dangerous to cook dressing inside the bird?
My husband and his father represented generations of their family who considered cranberries suitable for trimming Christmas trees, thought potatoes should have been left in Ireland, and who never permitted foods prepared with vinegar or mayonnaise to pass their lips.
I have photos commemorating that feast, showing a turkey and turkey-eaters at one end of the long table, and my mother-in-law presiding over a roast chicken and a variety of salads, cranberry dishes and egg-free, yogurt-enriched vegetable casseroles at the other. The grad student’s place setting was Kosher-acceptable plastic made by Dixie. The sweet potatoes sat nakedly without marshmallows, in deference to insulin shock. A large bowl of plain white rice sat like an objective referee in the middle, beside a dish of ratatouille, being eyed skeptically by my daughter.
She later informed me that NO ONE serves anything made with eggplant on Thanksgiving.
I remember little of the actual event, having decided to finish off the wine well in advance, just in case it contained sulfites that might harm the teacher.
I never made it to the whortleberry pudding.
