essays

A Very British Thanksgiving

It’s probably just as well that I don’t remember my first Thanksgiving. I was six weeks old, and -- according to family legend -- my jokester father thought it would be quite hilarious to present me to the dinner guests on the turkey platter, parsley garnish and all. Apparently my debut was a big success because from that year on, my parents’ home became the family’s Thanksgiving venue.

I loved the rhythm and ritual of those Thanksgivings -- the vision of my mother’s table perfectly set with her blue and white china, used only on cherished occasions; the laughter; the unspoken alliances amongst simpatico cousins; the sharp sound of glass shattering as a football was inevitably kicked through a basement window; the introduction of paramours (some for a one-time-only appearance) and new babies, who were non-rescindable. One year a guy named “Butz” came, and now nobody can remember who he was. Delectable as my Mom’s turkey dinners were -- and the sheer tonnage of stuffing consumed could probably make it into the Guiness Book of World Records -- it wasn’t only about food for me.

Years moved on; the holiday remained my touchstone. When I was a kid, the interval between Thanksgivings seemed interminable; as I grew older, it came faster and faster, like dates flashing forward furiously on a movie screen, Once my brother turned to me and asked “Doesn’t it seem like we’re always sitting at this table?” Well, one year I wasn’t sitting at that table, and I came to number Thanksgiving itself as one of the many blessings in my life for which I am profoundly grateful.

It was the year I was living in Scotland, attending graduate school in art history. I knew that Thanksgiving wasn’t officially celebrated in the UK, but since there were many American students at the University of Glasgow, I had myopically assumed that there would at least be some token acknowledgment of the holiday. What was I thinking?

First of all, a festive, secular holiday celebrating life’s blessings would be altogether contrary to the stoic ambiance of Scots culture. Their favorite expressions are full of a sort of resigned woe -- my favorite illustration being: “If everything is coming your way, you must be driving on the wrong side of the road”. Don’t get me wrong -- I truly admire their matter-of-fact, “mustn’t grumble” attitude; which puts us “I feel my pain” Americans to shame. But enthusiastically embracing the good things of life? Not bloody likely.

And -- let’s face it -- there’s The Food Issue. Really, what can you expect from a country whose cuisine (and I do apologize for the use of that word) boasts such tempting treats as rumbledethumps, nettle broth, liver forcemeat balls, and the ever-popular haggis; topped off with a dessert of ecclefechan? Yum. Perhaps best to let the holiday come and go in quiet reflection, and a promise to myself to eat for two next year.

Thursday arrived. Adding insult to injury, our scheduled group activity was the most dreaded facet of my programme -- a field trip. This foray would be to Sandiston Castle, described in our course guide as "an unoccupied historic home on the east coast”. Having been treated to several other such trips, I recognized that description as code for a cold, dank place where we would have to stand for hours looking at furniture under the watchful eye of a suspicious guard, who would certainly not offer us a cup of tea. (Homes with tearooms or cordial hosts had become a collective priority by now.) Naturally, it was pouring buckets when we departed the campus in our overstuffed minibus. I felt that this justified yet another tidal wave of self-pity. Thanksgiving in Britain -- phooey! But just as we pulled into the castle’s long, circular driveway, a most amazing thing happened. The sun dramatically burst forth, and a brilliant, gigantic, full-horseshoe rainbow appeared, right over the nearby ocean’s edge! This was the moment. This was my Thanksgiving. I silently uttered a Hebrew prayer appropriate to the occasion.

Despite the grandeur of the moment, we were unceremoniously rushed into the building. (“We didn’t get where we are today by lingering alongside rainbows...”) Out of nowhere a menacing, Dickensian guard appeared. He bolted the door shut from the inside using a medieval-looking padlock, a chain contraption of the same era, and -- just to be safe -- a huge vertical police lock. I guess the owners (who live in London, and come north occasionally to plunder their own collection for auction-worthy items) were afraid that this group of genteel women was going to pull off a daring heist of their marble tabletops and 3-ton 16th century mahogany credenzas.

That did it. I just couldn’t bear to miss another moment of the glorious sun. I told Gordom, my programme director, that he had to let me out. Unable to undo the variety of restraining devices on the front door, we traversed a maze of passageways below stairs and eventually I exited through the side. Miraculously, the sun was still shining. I took a leisurely stroll by the ocean, spirits renewed by the lilt of gentle waves. I meandered into the little town centre and had a wee think. Finding a very cute bakery, I bought myself my official Thanksgiving dinner -- a lovely, gooey jam roly-poly. I suddenly felt very close to my father, gone now for 20 years. I could imagine him being delighted with me for springing myself from that dungeon, and also for sneaking the jelly donut.

En route home I sat next to the minibus driver, who had witnessed my getaway and remarked “Well done! When the sun is oot in Scotland, you don’t want to be missin’ it.” We talked a bit about Scottish politics, our spouses, and shared tastes in music. Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill” started playing on the radio and the two of us merrily sang along, oblivious to traffic delays on the M8 motorway and the quizzical stares of my classmates.

I returned to my flat and found a sweet e-mail from my brother, as well as one from my friend Murph, who wrote: “I’m sending this today because I thought you might be lonely for Thanksgiving.” I immediately phoned my Mom’s house and spent two hours talking to my husband and my mother, and then in turn to every aunt, uncle, and cousin in the place. My young nephew Theo waved the phone over the turkey, so that I could sniff its aroma across the ocean. My Mom was laughing in the background, saying “She can’t really smell that, you know.” But, actually, I could.

Season of Lights

In 1952 my parents moved from downtown Albany, NY to their newly-built house about five miles away in rural Slingerlands. My Grandma Goldie called it “The Vilderness”. There were only four houses on our side of the street. Along the entire opposite side were a sprawling farmhouse, apple orchard, barns and horses.

Our across-the-road neighbor was known as “Professor Blessing”. He wasn’t actually a professor, but he deeply respected educated people; and was amazed to learn that my Russian immigrant grandparents had made sure that all four of their daughters -- daughters! -- attended college.

Until third grade, I was the only Jewish kid in my whole elementary school -- something I certainly wasn’t ashamed of, but not something I advertised either. Our day began with the Pledge of Allegiance, which had been taught to us; then a quick segue into the “Our Father” prayer, which, it was assumed, everyone already knew.

I recall my utter bafflement when all my classmates launched seamlessly into this bit of oratory that made me feel as if I were from some parallel universe. I became quite adept at lip-synching the words, all the while trying to figure out what they meant. For months I presumed that “thy” was a noun -- as in “THY ... will be done”. I figured it must be something good, since it was apparently done both on earth AND in heaven.

Needless to say, I got off to a bad start with the whole Christmas thing. One day in first grade the class bully, Billy Bruno, and his sidekick, Buddy Bates, came swaggering up to me like those sneery Lollipop Guild boys in the “Wizard of Oz”. They approached with what they hoped would be very bad tidings. Billy got right in my face, and sputtered “Hey -- you know -- there isn’t REALLY a Santa Claus!” He stood there grinning triumphantly, waiting for my tears to flow. But, instead, with genuine bewilderment, I replied “What’s Santa Claus?”

Poor Billy. He was stunned. Who was the bigger idiot here -- me, for never having heard of Mr. Claus, or him for having believed in him for all these years? He stepped back, deflated; then reenlarged himself and strutted off, Buddy in tow. We didn’t speak again until our 20th high school reunion, by which time he must have forgotten about the incident, because he was mighty friendly.

I know it’s difficult for some people to understand that there are people in the world who don’t celebrate Christmas. I’ve pretty much given up on trying to explain this, because when I do I usually feel as though I’m right back in kindergarten, being evaluated for and receiving a failing grade in “gets along well with the group”.

It is difficult to convey to our Christian neighbors that Chanukah is really a minor Jewish holiday, eclipsed in significance by the spirituality of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. I have tried the “just the facts, ma’am” approach: Chanukah is a festival more on a par with the Fourth of July. It celebrates a victory over religious oppression by the Syrians, and the miracle of a one-day supply of oil in the reconsecrated temple burning for eight days. I explain that that’s why we not only light candles for eight nights, but also get to eat every conceivable kind of greasy food and revel in the thought that we’re doing it for religious reasons. I have even stooped to exclaiming things like “Imagine being able to stuff yourself with Krispy Kremes and think of it as a GOOD thing! “

But it is disturbing when well-meaning people try to turn Chanukah into the “Jewish Christmas”. It doesn’t feel any better to be lumped in than it does to be left out. Since many world cultures have a winter holiday involving lights and singing and doing anything you can to brighten your spirits at the darkest time of year, it just doesn’t make any sense. You might as well call Christmas the “Christian Kwanzaa” or Kwanzaa the “African Festivus”.

I love being Jewish -- having organic access to a language with words like “nudnik” and “chutzpah” and “schnorrer”; being part of a culture that reveres wit and learning; traveling anywhere in the world and knowing that I have a community there. I love using the ancient lunar calendar, whereby our holidays stubbornly resist being superimposed on the dates of consensus reality. As my Aunt Ruth likes to say: “Jewish holidays always come early or late, they’re never on time.”

So I celebrate Chanukah in a low key but heartfelt manner. I deeply appreciate a holiday that is essentially about illumination, both literal and figurative. My husband Michael and I light candles, sing blessings and songs, and eat our yearly allotment of potato pancakes. We share meals and enjoy good company with a variety of friends and family over the holiday’s leisurely eight-day time span.

This year for the second time we will light a sparkling glass menorah we bought during a glorious springtime trip to Prague, at a store in the Old Jewish Quarter. We are still heartened by our experience of that place -- deliberately left intact by the Nazis to exist as a “museum of an extinct race” -- and the vision of people from all over the world joyfully lining up every morning to visit its synagogues, concert halls, and bustling marketplace.

As an avid devotee of all things glittery, I do take much delight in the December magic of New York City. I love gazing at Fifth Avenue’s splendid window extravaganzas; and the wonderland outside Central Park’s Tavern on the Green, where all the trees are encased in tiny blue and white lights spiraling up to their crowning branches, while Ronnie Spector’s kooky rendition of “Frawsty the Snowman” serenades me through giant loudspeakers. Michael and I have established our own December 25 ritual -- we always go out for lunch at Fine and Schapiro’s Deli on 72nd St., for a big bowl of matzah ball soup and a brisket sandwich; surrounded by cardboard cutouts of dreidels and Stars of David on the walls.

So don’t cry for me, Billy Bruno. I’m quite happy with my own traditions. In the words of that revered Biblical scholar Bette Midler: “Cherish forever what makes YOU unique, ‘cuz you’re really a yawn when it goes.”

Keyword: Haggis

Now that we have all -- metaphorically, at least -- put away our turkey platters, menorahs, tinsel, and embarrassing party hats, it's time to get ready for the first big blowout of the new year. I'm referring, of course, to celebrating poet Robbie Burns' birthday on January 25.

All over the world, there are holidays honoring patriots, warriors, saints, royalty, the signing of treaties, gay pride, children, parents, workers, animals, foods (witness Blini Day in Russia and the Feast of the Radishes in Mexico), culture in general -- even April fools -- but how often do we pause to reflect upon and tip our hats to the artists who have brought grace and beauty and a bit of the eternal into our lives?

As far as I can determine, Scotland is the only country in the world to have created a national holiday in honor of a poet. It's part of why I find the Scots so lovable, beyond their great good humor and love of the underdog. An appreciation for the romantic -- the sublime even -- always struggles to the surface of their persistently restrained and impassive culture. Not to mention their having found a way to turn the imbibing of profuse quantities of whiskey, whilst declaiming indecipherable poetry, into a patriotic responsibility.

Robbie would be the first person to raise a glass to himself on this happy day. He literally considered himself to be God's gift to the world, and was a notorious bon vivant who took great pleasure in drinking everyone in town under the table. A legendary womanizer, he died the day his ninth legitimate child was born, leaving behind a total of 15 known offspring. But his lusty style of living was balanced with a deep love of humanity. His poetry glorified all things Scottish, elevated the working man, celebrated the beauty and mystical powers of women, spoke of savoring moments of deep contentment and the small miracles of nature. Ploughing a rough field one November day in 1785, Burns ruined the nest of a field mouse. Afterwards, in his poem "To a Mouse", he wrote with genuine humility:

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow mortal.

Burns' poetry touches a spirit that bonds people of all nations, creeds and colors. He wrote from the heart in the colorful native Scots language, with an emotional vitality that, some 200 years later, still seems fresh and contemporary.

His best-known work -- the one that has made him arguably the most-quoted poet in the world -- is, of course, the universal song of parting, "Auld Lang Syne". Every time we turn the page on a new year, or century, or millennium; it is this one song which rings out at midnight in every time zone across the globe, with millions of people singing along.

But, on Robbie's birthday, there is one poem that stands above them all. It is the central organizing principle of the traditional gastro-literary event known as the Burns Supper. It is, of course, "Address to a Haggis".

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, (All hail your honest rounded face,)
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
(Above them all you take your place)
Weel are ye wordy of a grace as lang's my arm.
(You're worthy of a grace as long as my arm.)

According to Catherine Brown, author of A Year in a Scots Kitchen, Burns' message in this poetic salute to a questionable bit of cookery is: "Don't judge by appearances. Honor the virtues of sense and worth, found not in fancy French ragouts and fricassees, but in a democratic dish which makes the least attractive parts of an animal into something worth celebrating." Hmmm....

What's a haggis, you may well ask? I was afraid of that, and those of you with squeamish sensibilities might want to hum aloud for a wee while. Haggis is a food (not a creature) consisting of chopped sheep's 'pluck,' (heart, liver, and lungs), mixed with oatmeal, onions, and strong spices, stuffed into a sheep's stomach, and oven baked. It ends up looking rather like an oversized 3-dimensional rectangular football. And the Scots wonder why their cuisine has such a bad reputation?

At the Burns Supper (which is a bit like a deranged seder), the haggis is ceremoniously borne in by the chef, preceded by a kilted piper. Behind him comes the waiter with a bottle of whisky. The procession then walks -- quoting from the Handbook of the Burns Federation (founded in 1885) -- "sunwise round the company". "Address to a Haggis" is duly recited, after which this meat piñata is ceremoniously stabbed with a sword. Note: A sharp knife may be used by those who don't happen to belong to 13th century militia reenactment associations. Someone will recite Burns' Selkirk Grace:

Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat, that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

After the stabbing and grace, the merry company stands and toasts the haggis with a glass of whisky. The meal is served. According to the aforementioned official handbook, a typical bill of fare would be: cock-a-leekie soup, haggis warm reeking, rich wi' champit tatties (mashed potatoes), bashed neeps (turnips), gusty kickshaws (hot savouries), typsy laird (sherry trifle), ither orra eattocks (sweets and puddings), and a tassie o' coffee.

Following the meal, guests are invited to give speeches on Burns and declaim his poetry, with great gusto. The subsequent "Toast to the Lassies" and response thereto give participants of both genders an opportunity to wittily mock and insult each other, although protocol dictates that all toasts should "end on a conciliatory note". More whiskey, poems, songs, are brought forth; and, not surprisingly, more whiskey. The evening concludes with the entire company -- or at least those whose verticality is not totally compromised -- standing up, linking hands and singing "Auld Lang Syne".

Heeding the advice of the Scots Kitchen lady -- "Wherever there is a haggis, there can be a supper" -- I decided to try to order a haggis and some other Burns supper sundries online, so that I could hold my own little soiree. Little did I know that the importation of haggis from Scotland is banned by the USDA. I was informed of this in no uncertain terms.

Mark Hibbert, of ScotHampers.com, wrote
"Thanks for your email, but unfortunately I can not send you any samples of haggis which is always connected to Rabbie Burns, due to the fact that your import regulations in the states ban the import of haggis and all related meat products (I have not met a mad haggis yet!), unless it is tinned which is not very good! The malt whisky we sell is another story -- we can't send you that either! Never mind about bananas and cashmere; some trade bans have existed for years. If I could send haggis from Scotland to the states I would be a rich man. Regards, etc."

Mr. Barry Davys, of Scotland'sFinest.com sent me a whimsical and rather Talmudic note on the finer points of presentation of the meal: "There are variations on a theme when it comes to serving the Haggis. One of the most contentious issues is should the "dram" (glass of whiskey) be served alongside the Haggis or poured over it. There is no convention but it is down to personal taste. As you can imagine it is served both ways with plenty of heated debate. Personally, I think this is because the participants can understand the problem - - unlike original Burns which can be hard to fathom."

Whisky-cake.com had no problem graciously sending me a free sample of their product, and responded with this virtual haiku: A sample is on its way.
Not sure if it will get there before the 25th?
Enjoy!
Regards, Alister Asher

Haggis for Burns suppers has been known to be spirited through customs in the luggage of Scots visitors. At one checkpoint in Africa, the airport was cleared when an official thought he had uncovered a bomb. One of the best stories I've heard on this subject is told by Scottish musician Andy M. Stewart. On a visit to his American in-laws, he brought along some canned haggis. His bags were searched after a dog smelled something sheepish through the tin. Andy tried to explain to customs what a haggis was. When asked "What's in it?" he replied, "That's the point -- nobody knows!" He collapsed into spasms of laughter when asked if he could "prove country of origin." Could there really be any question?

The Scots do take a lot of ribbing for their many peculiar customs (the tossing of large objects is something I won't even get into here). But let's remember that they also had a hand in transforming our world in many significant ways. In addition to James Watt's invention of the steam engine, which gave birth to the Industrial revolution; other Scottish innovations include television, the telephone, penicillin, the bicycle, highway pavement (named after one John Macadam of Ayr) , and the water-repellant raincoat. And there's my personal favorite -- Dolly, the first cloned sheep.

So I say -- the time has come to get on the bandwagon! Tune up the bagpipes, get that heraldic sword out of the closet, head to the dry cleaners' with your kilt, and stock up on some pricey single malt. Get ready for a big-time poetry slam. This January 25th, let's take a moment to commemorate a poet whose legacy reminds us that life is for the living, that even a creature as lowly as a mouse deserves a bit of consideration, and -- most of all -- that old acquaintances should never be forgotten.

As a genuine Scottish toastmaster might say: "My Lord, Ladies and Gentlemen, I ask you to be upstanding and join me in a toast to that remarkable man, the Immortal Bard, Robert Burns."