Tag Archives: L. P. Hartley

THE MENU AT THE FIRST THANKSGIVING

I just got off the phone with a reporter from a Boston newspaper who wanted to take advantage of my years of research on the First Thanksgiving. She had left a message on my phone earlier, so I had a moment to speculate about the questions she might ask. My mind raced over the possibilities.

“Perhaps she wants to discuss the Pilgrims’ motivations for coming to New England,” I thought to myself. That’s a rich and complex question that is key to the Pilgrims’ world view.

“Or possibly she is fascinated with how the Pilgrim Story came to be viewed as an important chapter in the founding of the United States,” I mused. “Maybe we’ll get to talk about the role that the First Thanksgiving has played in cultural memory, and the way that our memories of Thanksgiving say a lot about what we value, or think we value, as a people.” My excitement grew.

“Or perhaps she understands the priceless value of history as a conversation with the past in search of insight, perspective, and wisdom,” I silently rhapsodized. “Maybe she’ll ask how we might learn from the Pilgrims and not just about them. Shoot, she might even ask whether there’s anything in the history of Thanksgiving that we need to hear, something that would challenge, or convict, or even inspire us!” I was giddy with anticipation.

And then I returned her call. “I’m doing a piece on the First Thanksgiving,” the reporter stated matter-of-factly, “and I want to talk with you about what was on the menu.”

Sigh.

Actually, I wasn’t that surprised.  Since The First Thanksgiving came out a little over a year ago, I’ve done about forty radio interviews concerning the book, and the question of what the Pilgrims and Wampanoag had to eat has featured prominently in almost every one of them.

I still remember a live call-in show hosted by a smaller station in the midwest.  I spoke briefly at the outset, explaining some of the ways that a truer understanding of the First Thanksgiving can illuminate what it means to think Christianly about the past.  To say that the switchboard didn’t light up once the phones were opened would be an understatement.  After a few painful minutes (that seemed like hours), the host finally announced that there was a caller on line one.  The sweet older lady thanked me profusely for my book–on my end of the line I was blushing–and  then she posed the question that she keenly hoped I could answer.  “Is it true,” she asked, “that the First Thanksgiving meal included succotash?”

I plan to continue my series on “The First Thanksgiving in American Memory” in a day or two, but today I’ll interrupt that thread to focus on the Thanksgiving menu.

First, you can find an informative essay on the topic over at the website for the Smithsonian magazine.

Second, here’s a short You-Tube video of an interview with yours truly on the topic.

Finally, here’s what I had to share about the meal in The First Thanksgiving: What the Real Story Tells Us about Loving God and Learning from History:

. . . We can get too caught up in discussing what they [the Pilgrims and Wampanoag] had to eat, but it is worth noting that almost nothing we associate with a “traditional” Thanksgiving meal would have been on the menu. That generalization starts with the main course. From Edward Winslow’s account of the feast it is clear that they had some kind of “fowl,” but nowhere does he refer to turkey specifically. Certainly there were turkeys around. Bradford remembered that there was a “great store of wild turkeys” as winter approached, and later visitors to Plymouth often made similar observations. But there were also eagles, pigeons, and partridges, as well as “swarms and multitudes” of waterfowl: geese, ducks, swans, herons, and cranes.

And the waterfowl were incomparably easier to catch. When he visited Plymouth a few years later, an agent of the Dutch West India Company described the wild turkeys that he hunted there as having “very long legs” that enabled them to run “extraordinarily fast.” Even “when one has deprived them of the power of flying,” he marveled, “they yet run so fast that we cannot catch them unless their legs are hit also.” In contrast, in his opinion the “great many geese” were “easy to shoot, inasmuch as they congregate together in such large flocks.”

His Pilgrim hosts surely agreed, for their matchlock muskets were so long and heavy that they typically used tripod-like “stands” to support the barrel while they waited for something edible to cross their field of fire. Given the flocks of ducks and geese that descended each autumn on the area’s numerous lakes and ponds, the four men that Governor Bradford sent “on fowling” likely concealed themselves at the water’s edge and then blasted away. It was less sporting than chasing roadrunner-like turkeys through the woods, but undoubtedly more efficient.

To complement the game birds that the hunters brought back, the Pilgrims may have added fresh fish, mussels and clams, and perhaps eels, which could be caught in September “with small labor.” The “trimmings,” which were less plentiful, would have included Indian corn (ground and used to make porridge or “succotash”) as well as what the Pilgrims called “sallet herbs”: vegetables from their gardens such as collard greens, parsnips, turnips, carrots, onions, spinach, and cabbage. (If you’re striving for authenticity, try serving turnips and eel next Thanksgiving.) There would have been no sweet potatoes, which were not native to North America and largely unavailable in England except among the very wealthy. Cranberry sauce would have been missing as well, since the sugar so vital to the dish was unavailable. Nor, sad to say, was there any pumpkin pie. The Pilgrims lacked the butter and flour for the pie crust and faced the added problem of having no ovens for baking. Everything they ate would have been boiled or roasted.

As we imagine them enjoying this banquet—heavy on poultry and fish, light on vegetables and sweets—remember also that the buildings the Pilgrims had erected were tiny, that tables and even chairs were scarce, that knives were rare and that forks were nonexistent. (The latter were available in England by this time but little used among common folk, who dismissed them as a “foppish pretension.”) In our mind’s eye, then, we should picture an outdoor feast in which almost everyone was sitting on the ground and eating with their hands—more like a picnic or cookout than the formal domestic scene we have come to associate with the holiday.

I didn’t share these facts about the menu simply to explode popular myths, much less to help the occasional reader who genuinely wants to recreate an historically authentic Thanksgiving meal.  (I’m all for historical accuracy, but who really wants to exchange turkey and stuffing for turnips and eel?)  I do want to help us see how naturally we embellish the past, how easily we project on the past values and practices that don’t belong there.  “The past is a foreigh country,” British novelist L.P. Hartley once wrote; “they do things differently there.”  When we forget that basic truth, we rob history of much of its power to challenge and change us.

FTcover

C. S. LEWIS ON THE PAST AS A FOREIGN COUNTRY

For the past couple of posts I have been sharing some of the ways that the writings of C. S. Lewis speak to Christians interested in history.  Lewis is probably best known today for the fabulously popular series of children’s books, The Chronicles of Narnia.  Many Christians also know him as one of the twentieth century’s most influential Christian apologists.  A half century after his death, Lewis still speaks to truth seekers through works like The Screwtape Letters, The Abolition of Man, and, above all, Mere Christianity.

But in addition to being a novelist and Christian apologist, Lewis was also an internationally recognized scholar of medieval and renaissance literature, first for nearly three decades at Oxford University, then for the last years of his life at Cambridge.  I think it was Lewis’ passion for old books that more than any other factor accounts for his value to the historian.  He knew that the past had something to say to the present, something that the present very much needed to hear.  But it was not enough simply to convince his students to read old books; they had to be taught how to read if their conversation with the past was to be life changing.

C. S. Lewis

Lewis makes this point marvelously in one of his least known essays, a piece titled “De Audiendis Poetis” (“On Hearing the Poets”) that was found among his personal papers after his death and published posthumously in a collection of his essays (Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature, 1966).  Lewis begins matter-of-factly: “There are more ways than one of reading old books.”  As with his introduction to Athanasius’ On the Incarnation, Lewis’s observations with regard to literature are almost precisely what the student of history needs to hear as well.

As Lewis does so often, he makes a complex truth understandable by fashioning an analogy to everyday life, in this case by comparing the study of the past to visiting a foreign country.  FYI, in recent years academic historians have frequently employed this exact same analogy.  They often quote, without always citing the source, the opening line of the 1953 novel The Go-Between, by British writer L. P. Hartley.  “The past is a foreign country,” Hartley proclaims in the novel’s opening line, “they do things differently there.”  I do not know if Lewis drew his analogy from Hartley, but the two were contemporaries, and The Go-Between came out not too many years before Lewis penned “De Audiendis Poetis,” so the connection is at least possible.  Here is how Lewis develops the analogy:

There are two ways of enjoying the past, as there are two ways of enjoying a foreign country.  One man carries his Englishry [great word!] abroad with him and brings it home unchanged.  Wherever he goes he consorts with the other English tourists.  By a good hotel he means one that is like an English hotel.  He complains of the bad tea where he might have had excellent coffee.  He finds the “natives” quaint and enjoys their quaintness. . . . But there is another sort of traveling . . . . You can eat the local food and drink the local wines, you can share the foreign life, you can begin to see the foreign country as it looks, not to the tourist, but to its inhabitants.

Lewis’s analogy reminds us that when we study the past we can count on encountering both what seems familiar to us and what strikes us as strange.  And just as with his hypothetical tourist, our natural tendency is to stay within our comfort zone, to seek out the familiar in the past (or what appears to be so) and camp out there.  Is there anything wrong with that?

The answer depends on your objective.  The English tourist who hangs out with the other English tourists “may have a pleasant time.”  But the tourist who immerses himself in the local culture comes “home modified, thinking and feeling as [he] did not think and feel before.”  The difference is immense.

To be educated is to experience transformation, Christian writer Parker Palmer observes.  Authentic education, among other things, always changes who we are.  Part of history’s priceless potential is its ability to introduce us to ways of thinking and knowing that challenge and convict us.  But unless we are careful, we will ignore the strangeness of the past—those parts that challenge us—and exaggerate the familiar aspects that comfort and confirm.  Particularly is this true when we know in advance what we want to find in the past.

With all due respect to popular Christian writers like David Barton or the late Peter Marshall Jr., we must be wary any time we study the past primarily to “prove points” in contemporary “culture wars.”  When we ransack the past in search of ammunition rather than illumination, we predictably find what we are looking for, but we rob history of its power in the process.  History loses its potential to surprise and unnerve us, ultimately to teach us anything at all.  We learn nothing beyond what we already “know,” which is another way of saying that our study of the past ceases to be educational.  We may have a “pleasant time” on our excursion, but we will come home unchanged.