Untamed Tales
Wild Lands Marketplace Blog
Since 1621 ?
Roll back the clock to the first Thanksgiving, and let's be real. If it was anything like the Thanksgivings at our house growing up, it probably went down a little like this.
In the kitchen, there’s Eleanor, the well-meaning but slightly frantic Puritan wife, wrestling with a turkey like it's some medieval siege weapon as she tries to figure out what to do with it. While The bird’s getting charred to a crisp after being stuffed in brick oven that’s way to small like a cannon ball, Eleanor's at her wit's end. Martha and Prudence are on her like judges on a cooking show, dishing out critiques like they’re Gordon Ramsay’s long lost cousins. “You really should have put more onions in the stuffing Eleanor!” “These potatoes are as dry and bland as our husbands sermons!” Eleanor’s about one jab away from turning that basting brush into a weapon.
Outside, it’s the social equivalent of a cat’s befriending dogs. They are about as conversationally mis aligned as Al Gore Talking environmental politics with Ted Nugent. John, the Pilgrim who fancies himself a wilderness expert, is squawking out turkey calls that sound more like he’s strangling a bear. The chief of the Wampanoag is standing there, palm to face, wondering how these people even made it across the ocean.
The cultural exchange is more heated than a blacksmith's forge. A Pilgrim tries to brag about his homeland, “You call this land? Back home, we had land,” one Pilgrim brags. Oh and there is the classic if someone doesn’t speak your language just yell it one word of a time, that helps! “I S-A-I-D W-H-E-R-E A-R-E T-H-E B-U-F-F-A-L-O……
T—H—E B—U—F—F—F—F—A—L—OOOO!!.”
The kids are the only sane ones around, running around in a whirl of blissful anarchy. And The Puritan kids are learning some choice native slang that’s gonna have their parents praying on Sunday once they figure out what it means.
And let's not forget the speakeasy behind the barn. Uncle Albert’s found his calling as a bootlegger, serving up something that’s definitely not just apple cider. He's already three sheets to the wind, laughing like a hyena at his own dumb jokes. and Samuel’s getting a tippy to and trying to convince Running Dear that he’s praying to the wrong god, he’s more confused than converted.
Then there's Mary, the ditzy optimist, weaving through the chaos with a tray of appetizers. She’s like a ray of delusional sunshine, showing off her kids’ turkey handprint art. “Isn’t it amazing?” she beams, while everyone else is just nodding and smiling, plotting their escape.
When it's finally time to sit down to the charred remains of Eleanor's turkey, the whole scene is like a circus without a ringmaster. Awkward toasts, backhanded compliments, and the kind of tension you could cut with a knife. Half the room's giving each other the 'let's get outta here' eyes, while the other half’s trying to make awkward small talk over the sound of their chewing and the fact that they are all screaming on the inside.
And that can of cranberry sauce that came over on the Mayflower? Yeah, nobody touched it then, and nobody touches it now. But it’s still there, every year….
So yeah, that was the first Thanksgiving? And we’ve been doing this since 1621????