Part 2

The atmosphere at Plymouth’s Harvest Home feast was similarly warm and close. A year of privation, culminating in the death of half of the community, had pulled the rest together. Communal farming was adopted—cooperation legalized. By breaking bread together in the open, they sanctified in a robust, secular way their communion. The familiar scene to which we have been accustomed, of Pilgrims and Indians feasting together while seated at tables in the open, is mostly a creation of later artists. It is doubtful that there were enough tables to accommodate even a tenth of the number who were celebrating. It is more likely that food was taken, not at an appointed time and place, but at frequent intervals throughout the time of the festival. Seating was almost certainly on the ground for the most part. Lacking forks, which did not appear in Plymouth until a century later, food was taken with fingers, from the tips of knives, and with spoons. Wooden trenchers (small shallow dishes) were probably much in evidence, while other foodstuffs could have been consumed directly from large kettles, or, in the case of meat, eaten with the hands, hot from the roasting fire. Far from the formality of a single meal taken together, the consumption of food at Plymouth’s first Harvest Home was but one event that mixed with the gaming and “exercising of arms” in one happy blend.

What did they eat? Essentially the yeoman fare noted by Henry Best but with some intriguing American additions. Fresh meat was rare in the farmer’s everyday diet, but feasts featured it. The traditional meat was a young, lean goose. Tusser warned that despite

... all this good feasting yet are thou not loose till thou geve the Ploughman in harvest his goose.

In England it would have been a domesticated bird, fattened on the grain stubble. In Plymouth it was a wild one, part of the large haul of fowl that Winslow mentions. William Bradford remembered many years later not only these waterfowl but also a “great store of wild turkeys.” These would certainly have been eaten, and with relish, but roast goose constituted the feast’s foundation. Englishmen preferred its flavor and housewives the ease with which it could be roasted.

The “flesh” pies Best referred to would have in England been filled with old chicken, hare, or pigeon meat, tenderized by hours of simmering and then baking. Plymouth, however, had a spectacular substitute: venison. This was the Elizabethan’s chief culinary status symbol, seldom eaten by ordinary farmers but continually craved. Kept in deer parks by the gentry, “... venison in England [was] neither bought nor sold, as in other countries, but maintained only for the pleasure of the owner and his friends.” The five deer donated by Massasoit were a great luxury. Served up in corn-meal venison “pasties,” they gave the feast an aristocratic aura the Plymouth farmers could never have foreseen, not having the guns or skills necessary to bring down a deer regularly. Ironically, venison soon became a symbol to Englishmen of New England’s natural bounty. A more realistic choice would have been the ducks and geese, which they could and did bring down in droves with their fowling pieces.

Pudding was the Harvest Home’s most typical dish, composed as it was of the cereals and fruits that had just been ingathered. A special harvest version called frumenty (or furmenty) became synonymous with the harvest feast itself and elicited the lines, “The furmenty pot welcomes home the harvestcart.” John Josselyn, a later visitor to New England, described a New England furmenty made with a variety of oats brought over from East Anglia by the Puritans (although whole-grain wheat, barley, or corn were just as suitable):

“They dry it in an oven, or in a pan upon the fire, then beat it small in a mortar ... they put into a bottle [two quarts] of milk about ten or twelve spoonsfuls of this meal, so boil it leisurely stirring of it every foot, lest it burn too; when it is almost boiled enough, they hand the kettle up higher and let it stew only, in short time it will thicken like a custard; they season it with a little sugar and spice, and so serve it to the table in deep basons.”

It was an expensive dish. To make up for their lack of sugar, the Pilgrims would have added many of the wild fruits mentioned by Winslow: grapes, berries, and plums. Though water can be used in place of milk for frumenty, milk was the preferred ingredient. An available milk supply might have existed, if goats were among the livestock brought on the =Mayflower=. While there is no specific mention of any animals being brought on that first ship, Winslow’s statement that “if we have once but kine, horses and sheep ... men might live as contented here as in any part of the world” suggests that goats and pigs may well have crossed the Atlantic with the Pilgrims.

The Pilgrims also had an American pudding—which later, encased in a pastry crust, became the Thanksgiving dish pumpkin pie. In October 1621, lacking the wheat or rye flour to make a pie crust, they probably cooked pumpkins as a side dish. Josselyn described this

“ancient New-England standing dish ... the housewives manner is to slice them when ripe, and cut them into dice, and so fill a pot with them of two or three gallons, and stew them upon a gentle fire a whole day, and as they sink, they fill again with fresh pompions, not putting any liquor to them; and when it is stew’d enough, it will look like bak’d apples; this they dish, putting butter to it, and a little vinegar (with some spice, and ginger, etc.) which makes it tart liken an apple, and so serve it up to be eaten with fish or flesh.”

Cakes and ale ended the feast. The cakes were made of corn—roasted, pounded in homemade mortar and pestle, mixed into a paste with water, and fried on a griddle into thin, crisp “pan” cakes. Crumbly and dry, they complemented the strong, sweet ale that was drunk with them. Ale and hop-flavored beer were fermented from malted (germinated and roasted) barley at home. The alcohol content ranged from 4 to 8 per cent—the stronger was brought out for holidays like Harvest Home. The Pilgrims’ first ale and beer were brought over on the =Mayflower= and soon ran short. So precious were they that, when Bradford was sick and asked the sailors for a small can (quart) of beer, they replied that even if he “were their own father he should have none.” So water was drunk throughout the summer of 1621 but was considered an “enemy of health, cause of disease, consumer of natural vigour, and the bodies of men.” The “indifferent good barley” of August probably became October’s strong harvest beer. It would not last long, but they were fortunate to have it.

The food at this first American Harvest Home was notable then, “not for variety of messes [dishes], but for solid sufficiency.” Like the Pilgrims themselves, it was rooted in the good earth and culture of yeoman England. And after the initial shock of transplantation both the people and their food grew strong in their new home. They recognized the significance of what had been done, and, venison pie in one hand and leather mug of ale in the other, each celebrated with gusto the achievement. It was the best of times.

So it is that, when twentieth-century Americans celebrate their Thanksgiving, they are continuing a tradition that is older than the nation itself. Many of the features of the modern version—feasting, the menu in part, and athletic contests—are in the spirit of America’s first Harvest Home. The religious component of Thanksgiving, and even the act of giving thanks, are later additions. In Plymouth the fall observance of harvest and the expressing of thanks to God for his blessing varied from year to year between secular feastings and sacred days of fast. In 1623, only two years after the first Harvest Home festival, the colony formally gave thanks to God for ending a severe drought that threatened their crops. No rain fell from mid-May through late July, and the corn “languished sore.” Bradford tells us that

“they set apart a solemn day of humiliation, to seek the Lord by humble and fervent prayer, in this great distress.... And afterwards the Lord sent them such seasonable showers, with interchange of fair warm weather as, through His blessings, caused a fruitful and liberal harvest, to their no small comfort and rejoicing. For which mercy, in time convenient, they also set apart a day of thanksgiving.”

The day so designated was one of solemn thanks to God, and bore no resemblance to the happy event of two years before. Indeed, such days were set aside with frequent regularity in both the Massachusetts Bay and Plymouth colonies; the records abound with them. They were not exclusively related to bountiful harvests but were set aside for any act of God deemed worthy and in need of acknowledgement.

In sharp contrast to our traditional concept of Thanksgiving, the celebration of 1621 was a part of the harvest itself, and had the corn also been “indifferent good,” chances are that some festival, perhaps not as spectacular, would still have occurred. Such is the strength of folk culture and tradition the world over, and so it was at Plymouth in the fall of 1621.

MENU

Roast Goose Mock Venison Stewed Pumpkin Sweet Stuffing Frumenty Ale

Thanksgiving is just too traditional to tamper with—in my home and, I’m sure, in yours. No matter that our roast turkey, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, and creamed onions are more Victorian than Pilgrim. We’ve grown accustomed to them, and they rest as comfortably among our memories as that Norman Rockwell painting of Grandma’s table. But Harvest Home has no traditions whatsoever, and although a week-long bacchanalia is beyond our means, a harvest supper isn’t. In an age when we crave a deeper relationship with both our past and our earth, its virtues are obvious. Harvest Home is as ecological as it is historical. It celebrates both land and man and the fruits of their labor together. This menu and its recipes are, therefore, very organic and very old, and if we violate the letter of the Pilgrims’ first feast—few of us seed our corn with fish—its spirit will still be there.

Roast Goose

To roast a goose (or any cut of meat) properly, you have to sear the outside, quickly, changing the meat’s surface sugars into crunchy brown caramel thereby creating a natural bag that seals in the fowl’s juices. Inside, the goose literally cooks itself. Outside, all you need to do is baste the skin with fat to prevent it from burning, and if you are using an open fire, regularly turn the bird so that it is heated evenly. An oven solves the latter problem, and although Englishmen had bake ovens in 1621, the Pilgrims didn’t. But a decade or so later they built them into their Plymouth fireplaces and used them regularly for roasts as well as breads. So if you don’t have an outdoor grill with a spit or a fireplace that could be converted into an open hearth, an oven will do fine. In either case cooking time will be between one and two hours, or twenty minutes to the pound. Just rub the goose all over with animal fat (bacon drippings, chicken or goose fat, or butter) and sear close to an open fire or at 450 degrees in an oven. When the skin is brown (after about twenty minutes), lower the heat by roasting your goose farther from the open fire or turning down the oven to 325 degrees. Baste regularly with the goose fat that escapes. When the legs move easily in their sockets, it is done. The result: juicy rare meat and crispy skin. Carve it roughly and let everyone eat with his hands, making sure each has a good-sized cloth napkin or dish towel. No forks—they were instruments of “Italian or French craft and subtlety” and quite unEnglish.

Mock Venison

Venison and mutton are so similar in texture and taste that even an experienced gourmet has trouble in telling them apart after marinating—a necessary step for large cuts of wild meats like venison and boar, which will spoil if not put in an acid (vinegar) solution. So if you don’t have a friend who hunts, buy a large leg of mutton or lamb; marinate it in an enamel, glass, pottery, or stainless-steel container in a solution of four bottles of dark beer or porter, one cup of malt vinegar, garlic, and spices; cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, sea salt, peppercorns, juniper berry, bay leaf, fennel, rosemary; thyme, sage, and just about any dried herb you’ve got. Marinate for about three days. The morning of your feast remove it, dry it, and stick it full of cloves. Roast it just like the goose—again about twenty minutes to the pound—basting it with its own juices and with a reduction of the marinade.

The cut can be roasted bone in or out; both methods were popular in 1620. If you do take the bone out, make sure to stuff the roast with bacon, as the loss of its bone tends to dry it out. And the smoky bacon taste is a positive addition, especially if you are oven-roasting your lamb. It can also be imparted to a bone-in roast if you make a dozen half-inch cuts in the tough surface skin and stuff raw bacon in each.

Stuffing

Elizabethans were fond of a rich, sweet stuffing that was more like a bread pudding than the dry, herbed variety we commonly prepare today. It was used in all sorts of roasts, from boned venison to goose, and when eaten with a gravy made with vinegar and the roast’s juices, a savory, sweet-sour dish resulted. It is made by beating a cup of heavy cream (the Pilgrims used goat’s milk) and two egg yolks together. Add cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, and salt to taste (about a half-teaspoon to mine). Thicken with grated rye or cornbread crumbs (about two cups) and currants (one cup). A little sugar or honey can be mixed, but as the Pilgrims had neither, it would be better to add a tablespoon or two of dark beer or porter, which they did have and used for sweetening. A little spinach juice or saffron will give it a green or yellow color, but this is optional; it looks creamy and good just the way it is. Stuff the goose or butterflied venison with it, making sure you tie or sew up your roast carefully.

Stewed Pumpkin

Simply clean out, peel, and dice a medium pumpkin—a recycled jack-o-lantern is fine. Simmer the diced flesh in a heavy casserole with a cup of dark beer or porter, two or three tablespoons of malt vinegar, salt, pepper, and spices to taste. It will take a couple of hours over a low heat. As a tart “spoon meat” stewed pumpkin balances the fatty goose and bacon-larded mock venison. Similar sweet-sour side dishes can be made with squash, turnips, and parsnips, all common crops in Plymouth that October 1621.

Ale

It’s still against federal law to brew beer or ale in your home. The Pilgrim housewife, however, was under no such restriction and made enough for each member of her family to have one-half to one gallon daily. It was dark, sweet, and mildly alcoholic. The best substitute is a bottle of good dark beer or porter mixed with a spoonful of malt extract, which is sold as a powder or syrup. Or you can make your own extract by boiling a cup of crystal or caramel malt (obtainable in stores that sell wine- and beer-making supplies) in a quart of water. Ale was drunk both cold and hot, the latter with chunks of apples and spices often put in for additional sweetening. Homemade ale may take some getting used to, but it has a rewarding honesty that’s lacking in the thin, artificial stuff concocted by the big breweries.

Frumenty

The closest modern counterpart to frumenty is old-fashioned rice pudding—rich, creamy, and aromatic with spices. Many regional variations of it still exist in England—a tribute to its popularity. Begin by boiling two cups of cracked or whole wheat in two quarts of water for ten minutes. Then cover and leave it in a warm place (an unlit oven is perfect) for a day. The wheat will congeal or “cree”—or turn to a jelly in which the inner, golden-red husks are visible. This was eaten on its own or with milk and honey as a cold porridge—nutritionally, it is an almost perfect food.

To make frumenty from creed wheat, simply simmer it with an equal amount of milk or cream and whatever spices, fruits, and sweeteners you prefer. In Plymouth, mace, nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves were common, along with berries, currants and apples, and a little porter or dark beer in place of honey or sugar. Egg yolks were also added if the frumenty was too thin. And brandy. It was served hot or cold and was =the= symbolic harvest dish. The fourteenth verse of Leviticus 23 in the English 1551 Bible, for example, admonishes: “And ye shall eat neither bread, nor parched corn, nor frumenty of new corne, untill the selfe same daye that ye have brought an offeringe unto your God.” Frumenty has soul.

This Plymouth version is not as rich but still is soulful. Mix two cups of roasted or parched corn meal with an equal amount of milk. Slowly pour this into a quart of boiling water and simmer for at least half an hour, stirring and adding fruits and spices all the while. Eat it hot, or let it cool and congeal.

—Jay Anderson.

Transcriber’s Notes

pg 3 Changed: contructing a common house to: constructing a common house