Last week we celebrated Thanksgiving, a time to give thanks for the many blessings that we have.
It’s a national holiday modeled after a bountiful harvest and the successful colonialization of North America in 1621 when the pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock.
But did you know that the pilgrims were greeted by Samoset, a tall Abenaki from Maine who spoke to them in English?
Yes, you read that right. As they stepped ashore he greeted the colonists by saying, “Welcome, Englishmen.”
Wait a minute: weren’t the pilgrims the first settlers in what they called New England? Definitely not.
Samoset learned English from English fishermen on the coast of Maine. Europeans had been traveling to the northeast coast of North America for many years prior to colonization.
A previous settlement failed because of disease, but Samoset came to the pilgrims’ rescue, providing vegetables and local game.
For some unknown reason historians said it was turkey. There may have been some turkeys served, but it was mostly venison. Wild turkeys wouldn’t feed very many.
For some reason the turkey seemed to be a more memorable food item. But that brings up a rather funny story.
Earlier last week I was visiting a friend between Walton, Trout Creek and Deposit. It’s a hard place to find, located halfway between No Place and No Where.
It seems that her husband was offered a fresh turkey by a friend of his. Art drove all the way to Syracuse to get the freshly dressed bird.
As I stood in the kitchen his wife opened the refrigerator. All I could do was stand there and laugh: the 42-pound turkey was so big they had to remove all the shelves and everything on them to get the turkey in where it was cold.
Barb’s next problem was going to be getting that monster in the oven. I haven’t heard how long it took to cook or if they even roasted that entire bird.
My next question was: how many guests does it take to eat a turkey that size? Heck, the Native Americans could have fed everyone on the Mayflower with a bird that size and still had leftovers for sandwiches the next day. My wife thinks those sandwiches are the best part of the entire meal.
The turkeys we eat for Thanksgiving are domesticated. They’re raised for plenty of moist, juicy white meat.
The wild turkey is a different turkey altogether. I’ve shot many of them over the years. There is really no white meat; it’s all dark.
The breast is small and the legs, because they run so much, are hardly fit to eat. I know people who think the best way to eat a wild turkey is to turn them into jerky.
But there’s something about sitting on the hillside before dawn and listening to the morning come alive.
As the birds begin to sing, the turkeys start to talk on their roosts. With a turkey call, you make a soft yelp and wait. Moments later an old gobbler will answer your call.
Before long that long-bearded tom is on the ground all puffed up, spitting and gobbling, looking for that seductive mate that first called to him.
As the mating ritual continues, your heart begins to race. Your hen calls and his return gobbles are a definite rush. If everything works out, the roar of your shotgun is the highlight of your day, because getting him out of the woods and ready for the oven is another thing entirely.
I found the easiest way to handle that situation is to just give them away.