Turkey-less Thanksgiving in The '30s

At our one room rural school in mid-November, our Halloween wiener roast was only a fading memory, and the window decorations of black cats and pumpkins had been removed. "It will be a long time before Christmas," I thought. The doldrums between holidays soon ended when our teacher, Miss Cecil, announced, ‘This week we start our celebration of Thanksgiving. We will study about the first Thanksgiving feast, and how that has become a family tradition. But first, let’s learn the best Thanksiving song I know – ‘Over the River and Through the Woods.’ You will find it in our songbooks.”

We had no piano to accompany our singing, so we learned it by rote: “Over the river and through the woods, To Grandmother's house we go. The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh, Through the white and drifted snow.” Our voices chimed in all the way through the last verse: “Over the river and through the woods, Now Grandmother's cap I spy, Hooray for the fun, is the pudding done, Hooray for the pumpking pie!”

Before starting classes, Miss Cecil added "After we learn more about the Pilgrims we will make new decorations for the windows in art class." I could hardly wait until Friday afternon when the last period was set aside completely for an art project. I was not disappointed because we colored turkeys and Indians and cut out shapes of Pilgrim men with tophats, and women with big white collars over dark gray dresses. One father sent ears of corn with red and purple kernels. We pulled back their shucks and braided them to hang up for decorations.

Each day the Holiday mood continued. All classes seemed to involve in some way the story of the Pilgrims -- near starvation, learning to plant corn from the Indians. They also talked about how Governor Bradford declared a three-day feast the following year for prayer and thanksgiving. And we talked about the food, corn, deer, and especially the wild turkeys.

"So that is why we always celebrate Thanksgiving with roast turkey," our teacher concluded.

"We do?!" I thought to myself.

'"How many of you have turkeys at home for Thanksgiving dinner'?

Her question drew a blank. No one raised a hand. In fact, I had never seen a turkey on a farm. One by one, each of us answered that we always had roast chicken or freshly butchered pork. I felt intimidated and cheated a little that we had no turkeys.

Our teacher lived on a cattle ranch two counties away and perhaps did not know about turkeys either. She asked, “Why don’t your parents raise turkeys the same as chickens?”

The older pupils from each family gradually answered the question, "Turkeys are too hard to raise."

"And why is that when you can raise chickens?"

"They are just too dumb," my brother Herschel volunteered. "Mamma told us they won't let you shoo them back to the coop when it starts to rain, and when they get wet they drown easier.”

That discussion was continued at home, and Mamma agreed that she knew a neighbor who lost 50 little turkeys in a rain and hail storm. She explained further that one needed to give special attention to a flock of turkeys, and most farmers did not have the time or space. Anyway chickens are just as good, and they provide eggs too. We could not eat a turkey as often as we do chickens.

"I know we will do Thanksgiving at Sunday School because we are supposed to tell three things we are thankful for, but will we have Thanksgiving dinner too?" I asked Mamma.

Daddy chimed in, "You bet we will!" This is one time we will be sure to buy cranberries and a stock of celery from the store. Mamma will roast a couple roosters and bake her special pies."

All day Wednesday, Mamma and Daddy worked together. Daddy brought in a big home¬grown "Crooked neck squash" which he helped cut and peel to steam the yellow mellow meat for Mamma's famous squash pie. Daddy churned butter while Mamma baked three pies, a batch of bread and two round pans of rolls for the special dinner.

Daddy caught two of the Capon roosters. (I learned later that Capons were roosters that had been neutered, making them plump and more tender because they weren't interested in chasing the pullets.), There were at least a dozen fixed for fall "roasters." With one swift chop of his axe, Daddy severed the heads of the unsuspecting birds as they lay motionless on his chopping block. Mamma preferred cutting off their heads while their feet were fastened to the clothesline. She said it was cleaner and more humane than letting them flop on the ground and bruise their flesh. Next she dipped the birds neck first into a bucket of scalding water, then picked the feathers. In the house she twisted one end of some newspapers to form a handle. It looked like she was holding a bouquet of paper when she removed the stove lid, allowed the paper to catch fire, then swiftly held it under each bird to singe the hair left on the skin after the feathers were removed. Burning hair smelled just like burning hair! Not good! While washing the birds thoroughly, she removed every pin feather. I think she liked pressing at the end to see them pop out.

Mamma made quick work of cutting off the long necks, and drawing the innards. After cutting a hole below the breast bone near the tail, she pushed three fingers inside to reach the farthest part and gently pull. Everything came out clean. I remember watching her carefully cut. the green gall bladder away from the liver, making sure not to cut the bitter bile sack. The gizzard was about the size of a yo yo which Mamma held in her hand, and cut about half way around the circle. She was careful to cut only as far as the inner lining, and peel out the tough crinkly sack inside so the sand and grit did not spill out -- like taking the stone from the center of a fresh peach.

Daddy snuggled close while Mamma sliced the liver, dredged it in flour, and fried it in the little thin egg skillet for his special treat. He knew we kids didn’t like liver. The necks, gizzard and hearts were cooked slowly with a quartered onion to make delicious broth of stock for next day's dressing.

Mamma let me measure three cups of dried corn, and add two cups of water to soak and slowly warm on the back section of the kitchen range, to reconstitute for the next day's creamed corn. The unusual flavor of dried corn was my favorite vegetable. In late summer, Mamma cooked tender roasting ears, cut off the kernels, and spread them on a clean sheet outside to dry in the sun. The sloping roof of a small chicken coop was just the right size, easy to reach and cover with a strip of gauze netting. Sometimes she covered the sheet with a length of fine mesh window or door screen. Each evening we folded the sheet like a huge knapsack, and the next day spread it out in the sunshine again. After three or four days drying outside, she hung the bag in the ceiling of the back porch to dry further, and finally stored it in glass gallon jars. In winter, I liked to snitch a handful to fill my apron pocket and munch on secretly.

When Mamma cooked the cranberries with water and sugar, we all watched until every berry popped, She poured it into her special cut glass pedestal bowl, creating the sparkling centerpiece for every holiday dinner. (Unfortunately that heirloom was broken when being shipped to Herschel.) Next morning, after the usual morning chores and breakfast for eight people, the whole family pitched in to complete the dinner.

Mamma had put the chickens in the roaster to brown while she mixed the dressing. She had saved a big bowl of dry homemade bread chunks to which she added the stock, cut-up giblets, more onions, chopped celery tops, and finally sage seasoning. Her dressing was extra moist, actually a bit soupy, which she spooned inside the already heated bird cavities -- over and around the sides, nearly filling the roasting pan. Every half hour or so, she basted the bird by scooping up the hot dressing to completely cover the birds again. (No rolls of aluminum foil in the '30s and our roaster pan did not have the inverted top for self basting.) Mamma explained it was her way of keeping the meat moist, as well as permeating it with the seasoning.

My job was to bring from the cellar a big jar of green beans (which I disliked a lot), a jar of pickled beets, a jar of bread and butter pickles, and a jar of dill pickles. (Daddy wanted them put on the table without slicing so he got a good squirt of juice in his mouth when he bit into one).

Peeling potatoes was a job automatically assigned to me daily, as well as holidays. Herschel carried in water, filled the woodbox, and helped Daddy stretch out the big kitchen table by adding more leaves. Camilla (age 14) spread the freshly ironed white linen tablecloth and set the cranberry bowl in the center, surrounded by the dishes of pickles. She filled another pretty glass dish, which Mamma called a "celery boat" heaping full of long celery sticks. Camilla was also trusted with the little salt cellars -- two inch cubes of glass, each with a small hole in the middle to be filled with a teaspoon of salt. She placed one by each plate for dipping the celery. (We used them in summer for green onions and radishes.)

Grandma Warren had given Mamma a set of glass plates. They were an unusual pinkish orange color called "depression glass." Mamma used them for special occasions. Otherwise our odds and ends of unbroken dishes did not match. Eventually I think all of them were broken too.

Harold (age 17) was a big help in the kitchen and took charge of shredding a head of cabbage for cole slaw -- not like Mamma would do, making paper thin slices with a sharp knife on her cutting board. Harold went to the storeroom, got out the long wooden frame embedded with a sharp blade used to shred cabbage when we made sourkraut. (“Not worth the time, for just one head ol’ cabbage,” but Harold like to get mechanical when he could.) I helped make the dressing with heavy sour cream and the right proportion of vinegar, sugar, and salt. Mamma had taught me to make cole slaw many times, so I thought I was a "pro." The main thing I remember to this day is to stir the sauce and cabbage together until it blends with the juices of the cabbage and gets light and frothy. ) We served it in the one pretty bowl that matched the plates. All the other serving dishes were just everyday dishes that didn't match anything.

We heard Uncle Ed's car drive in with cousins, Maxine and Margret, andMamma hurriedly change her apron. That's when the fun began. I was not much help after that.

"Sure smells good in here!" Uncle Ed greeted us as he peeked in the oven and lifted lids on the stove, “I could tell I had come to the right place as soon as I turned in off the road!" He snatched a bite of chicken wing and gave us all a hug.

Harold drained the potatoes, and saved the potato water for Mamma to use in the gravy. He helped mash the potatoes to perfection to which Mamma added pure cream as well as to the dried corn. She carved the chickens that filled two platters, ready to pass. No big beautiful bird the table; that was only in pictures. Mamma made the gravy right in the roaster pan with all the drippings, and finished all the dinner without too much help.

She knew how to manage without enough serving bowls. She lined up the three crockery mixing bowls on the back of the stove to warm. The largest was heaped high with mashed potatoes, with dressing and gravy in the other two. All the side dishes were kept warm either on the back of the big kitchen range or in the warming ovens on the top of the stove.

The three girls sat on the long bench behind the table, Herschel, Melva and I on the wash bench at the end, and Baby Glenda in the high chair. Mamma barely had time to sit down long enough to say the Blessing.

As we ate, we loved to listen to Daddy and his brother reminisce about their younger days.

"Their brother John was the best shot, and always brought in "prairie chickens" or "grouse," and "Ma" would gladly cook them," Uncle Ed recalled.

"Yes, but remember the time we shot a bunch ofsquirrels? We had skinned them and just cut off the hind quarters for her to cook, and she would have none of it! Blanche [their sister] finally fried up a mess, and we sat there and ate them like popcorn!" They both laughed.

When it was time for pie, Harold whipped a bowl of heavy cream for topping.

As for turkeys, it wasn't until 1940 that we actually had a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. I have no clue where they bought it, but Mamma cooked it the same way she had the roosters.

I cooked turkey the first time in 1953, and I learned all the details from watching two good cooks on TV -- Bea Donavin on KING and Kathryn Wise on KOMO. They also taught me the recipe for pumpkin chiffon pie which has been part of our family Holiday fare for fifty five years. My Thanksgiving shopping list is a lot longer than “cranberries and two sticks of celery"!

We may not have had turkeys in the 30's because they were considered too "dumb." I must admit that the past decade, those wild turkeys certainly have been smart enough to migrate into the grain rich counties of Nebraska. There they find good ground cover and many trees. The Wildlife Fish and Game Commission protects them all year, allowing only a short hunting season in the fall. They issue a limited number of permits for Jakes, Hens, or Toms, according to the number of turkeys in each area. Game wardens assess a heavy fine to anyone in possession of a turkey without a proper tag. Any one who happens to draw one of the lucky numbers will tell you that the birds are tastier and fatter than any professionally-raised cooped up domestic birds you can buy in the store.

My apologies to the "Dumb Turkeys."