Photo credit: Famartin. Creative Commons License via Wikimedia Commons.
I think it’s been a few years since I’ve performed my Thanksgiving act of public benevolence by sharing with you my mother’s pumpkin pie recipe. This is the only kind of pumpkin pie I actually like. And, since I’m a ridiculously picky eater, you’ll probably like it too.
The recipe is simple. Stupidly simple. You don’t need to print it out — you’ll remember it.
Do everything it says in the instructions on the pumpkin pie filling can (any brand will do), EXCEPT:
Instead of using 2 eggs, use 7.
Pour into 2,, not 1 deep dish pie shells.
Otherwise, continue following step 1.
That’s it. The result is 2 light, custardy pumpkin pies. No need to thank me; the warm sense of magnanimity I feel is reward enough.
I’m almost done reading Graham Greene’s The Power and the Glory, and last night I thought, “Everyone should read this. They should assign it in schools or colleges. It should be something that young people should be expected to read before they are thirty.” Hundreds of churches would benefit from reading of the unmerited grace God shows the whisky priest, his duty and that of the lieutenant, and sparks of faith you can see here and there. It would stir up the pious in a way they need to be stirred.
Patrick Kurp’s son may have a better idea. He suggests making The Gulag Archipelago required reading in high school. Kurp replies, “This simple idea is too commonsensical ever to be adopted. The historical memory of many Americans has almost evaporated, leaving it eminently inflatable with hogwash.” Education, he says, is being trivialized.
Thanksgiving: In Barry Levinson’s Avalon (1990), Titus Techera writes, “Thanksgiving has a double character. On the one hand, it’s a kind of nonreligious expression of gratitude—ultimately, a form of patriotism. These are not religious people, and it seems that, without religion, Americans don’t know who is especially deserving of their thanks. They love America, but it seems no different than loving themselves. . . . On the other hand, Thanksgiving is supposed to save Americans from this individualism by forcing them at least to stop busybodying and rekindling the love of their own family.”
Paperbacks: “Around about the 1950s, the American literary establishment—never exactly nimble on its feet—noticed its world had changed a decade earlier.” And somewhat related, here are 30 fantasy book series with brief introductions.
Rings of Power: Still joking about convoluted story mess in the first season of Rings of Power. There’s a lot of material there. I’ve watched several of Ryan George’s Pitch Meetings skits and feel there’s a cumulative effect to several of the jokes. If this is the first one you see, you may that watching a few more adds to the humor of the whole.
Faithful: Pastors remain in Ukraine, leaning on the Almighty every day.
This is Pastor Mykola Savchuk of Salvation Church in Kyiv. 2nd day of war, he drove his wife & 2 kids to western Ukraine. By 3rd day, he was back in Kyiv to preach. He worried no one would show up. 10% of his church did— the others all fled— and he was pleasantly surprised. pic.twitter.com/AWiPa788SC
In the second tweet, Lee writes, “The 5th day, he woke up alone in bed at 5 am, and began weeping for an hour, for no obvious reason other than a sudden realization of his new reality. 9 months have passed. What did he learn? ‘God is good, all the time. It’s not just a slogan for me— it’s a deep conviction.'”
God have mercy on us and string Ukrainian streets with peace.
I hope everyone here, there, and elsewhere has had a happy Thanksgiving. I realize this is an American holiday, but it’s just one more way you should allow America into your hearts and lives for your own and your country’s flourishing. I’m talking to you, United Kingdom. You never should have let all the good people leave your empire, you sick tyrant.
Okay, what else have we got?
First Thanksgiving: “After a rough two-and-a-half months on the Atlantic, [the Margaret, a 35-foot-long ship with 36 settlers and crew] entered the Chesapeake Bay on November 28, 1619. It took another week to navigate the stormy bay, but they arrived at their destination, Berkeley Hundred, later called Berkeley Plantation, on December 4. They disembarked and prayed.”
Ben Franklin: In a new biography, D. G. Hart presents Benjamin Franklin as an example of a “spiritual, but not religious” American Protestantism. “As much of a cliché as pulling himself-up-by-his-bootstraps is, his wit and striving say as much about Protestantism as it does about American character.”
Cultural Elites:Carl Trueman is thankful for David French‘s articles supporting the Respect for Marriage Act. “Elite evangelicalism is clearly making its peace with the sexual revolution and those of us who will not follow suit are destined for the margins.”
The Ends of History: Michael Bonner has written a defense of civilization. “All this is to say that the ‘whole new world’ we were promised in the 90s is much like the old one, only worse. The theory of irreversible progress seems increasingly implausible. It seems that anyone of any walk of life or partisan stripe could agree with Livy that ‘we can bear neither our vices nor their remedies’.”
Education:Can Christian Higher Education Stay the Course? “I could rattle off a litany of universities that remain under the auspices of Mainline Protestant denominations but where an effort to think Christianly beyond the bounds of theology is foreign to its educational mission and has been for a long time.”
Happy Thanksgiving, Brandywinians. I wish there were more good hymns of thanks. Though there are probably ones that have slipped my mind.
In any case, this is the hymn of thanks they liked best at my church when I was a kid. “Thanks to God for My Redeemer,” by August Ludvig Storm (1862-1914), a Swedish Salvation Army officer.
I always found it a little disappointing, because the translation is weak. Still, my dad and my grandparents would have loved to hear it.
Busy. I am busy. Busy like the bees, and the beavers, and any number of industrious, alliterative animal life forms.
I posted the video above (recorded in Denmark) because I was on a long road trip over Thanksgiving, and I told the story thought to be behind this ballad. I’ve mentioned it here before. “Sir Patrick Spens” is thought to be (loosely) based (with a shipwreck thrown in) on historical events surrounding the death of Queen Margaret of Scotland. Known in Scotland as Margaret, Maid of Norway. And in Norway as Margaret, Maid of Scotland.
She was the last royal heir of the Scottish Canmore dynasty. Her mother, who had already died, was a Scottish princess married to King Erik II of Norway. When all the rest of the Canmores were gone, Margaret became presumptive heir. At 7 years old, she was betrothed to Prince Edward of England (later Edward II) and sent home to assume the throne. But she took sick on the voyage and died in the Orkneys.
The struggle for the throne that followed is the actual background for the “Braveheart” story, but it wasn’t cinematic enough for the screenwriters. So they invented that scene where Edward I hangs the Scottish chieftains, an event that never happened.
Poor Margaret lived on in song and story, the Maid of Norway (or Scotland). Elevated by that “Camelot” instinct we all bear within us, the sense that if some hero (or heroine) of the past had only lived, everything would have been all right. A shadow of Eden, perhaps.
Anyway, I took a long ride over Thanksgiving, and we had a very nice family celebration. Especially nice after last year’s isolation. I came home with leftovers, which is nothing to sneeze at, at today’s prices.
And I came back to work a-waiting. For the moment it seems to be pouring in, and I can translate as much as I can handle.
And that was a little frustrating too, because I had a pile of jobs to do that I’d put off over the holiday. Doing my laundry. Talking to Customer Service at the grocery store about why my gas rewards card isn’t working. Calling my health insurance company to find out why a medication they’d always paid for was suddenly refused (this got straightened out, and required a visit to the store for a refund). Something more that has to be done on my mortgage refinance, for some reason. And now I learn that my internet provider is withdrawing service, so I’ll have to find a new one of those.
Not to mention the Sverdrup Society work I haven’t had a chance to look at for weeks.
Thank you for your time. I must return to my workbench now.
“An Early Spring,” by the American primitive artist Grandma Moses (1860-1961). We had curtains printed with this pattern in our house when I was growing up.
It isn’t often I actually have a busy day. But this was one, at least by my sedentary standards.
However, it was a good day. I’m still slightly elevated in the wake of Atlantic Crossing winning the Emmy award. You can expect me to mention it, ever so casually, for the next few years. Or at least until the next Emmy win. Shoot, I could conceivably be marginally associated with an Oscar someday.
The first big job today, after my obligatory run to the gym, was baking pumpkin pie. Last year, for reasons too obvious to mention, my family did not gather for Thanksgiving. And so I made no pies, because it’ silly to bake two pies for my sole use. But this year – it was just decided – some of us are getting together. So I made my pies. The best pumpkin pie in the world, I say with all due modesty.
I baked them, and I shamelessly sampled one. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had any for two years, but it seemed to me especially good. So the first job was a success.
The second job was paying my bills, which is usually a Thursday job, according to my personal liturgical calendar. But garbage men must adjust on Thanksgiving, and so must I. Thanks be to God, my social security deposit had cleared yesterday. So I was in good shape for writing the checks. (Not sure when I’ll get paid for my new client’s job.)
Then I had to do some minimal housecleaning. Not because the place is mostly immaculate and just needs a touch-up (ha ha). Rather, because someone was coming by on business, and my home was such a magpie’s nest that a few things had to be moved around so there’d be one flat place where documents could be laid down.
The aforementioned business was refinancing my mortgage. It’s a good time to do it, and I found out I could save about a C-note a month without extending my payment schedule much. In times like these, it seemed prudent.
So the notary showed up at last, and he shepherded me through about 67 signatures. Some of them required dates, and the dates have to be entered in a particular format. Nevertheless I made it through, and now the deal is done and I have that accomplishment to savor. Almost as if I’d been productive. A penny saved is a penny earned, as Franklin said (or is rumored to have said). So that’s as if I earned $1200 next year.
If you discount inflation.
I still have some preparation to do for Thanksgiving, but I’m feeling good about the day. And in that spirit, I shall enhance your life. I shall enhance it by sharing my mother’s pumpkin pie recipe, which ought to make your own life at least $1200 better:
MY MOTHER’S PUMPKIN PIE RECIPE
1. Look at the recipe on the can of pumpkin pie filling (I found Festal this year! That’s the brand we had when I was a kid! Haven’t seen it for years).
2. Follow that recipe precisely, with only two changes:
3. First change: Use 7 eggs instead of 3.
4. Second change: Pour it into two deep dish pie tins instead of one.
5. You’ll end up with two mild, custardy pumpkin pies that even people who don’t like pumpkin pie will like.
6. That’s it. Remember to be thankful for Lars Walker’s generosity. Checks and bank transfers will not be refused.
Years ago, Marvin Olasky wrote of his thankfulness for God’s work in his Austin, Texas church and World magazine. He included this anecdote from the Puritans.
The Puritans liked to tell dramatic shipwreck stories concerning thanksgiving in all circumstances. One vivid tale described John Avery and Thomas Thacher clinging to a rock when their boat was shipwrecked. It appeared that the next wave would sweep them away, and Avery, according to Thacher, said, “We know not what the pleasure of God is; I fear we have been too unmindful of former deliverances.”
Neglecting to acknowledge God’s kind provision, attributing it to circumstance or hard work, is common to most of us. Let’s be mindful of Him bought us and saved us for Himself. May He “keep us in his grace, and guide us when perplexed, and free us from all ills of this world in the next.”
It has long been my custom to post about holidays on the holidays themselves, so that whatever I write isn’t generally read until the party’s over. It suits my character.
But today I’m going to write about Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving Eve. Just a few thoughts.
It’s become fashionable to denigrate the Pilgrims of the Plymouth Colony, as you are surely aware. They were bigots, they were imperialists, they spread disease among the native population. And, most of all, they weren’t that important. There were lots of earlier colonies in America – what makes them so special?
My short answer is, the Mayflower Compact, the first voluntary self-government plan in the English tradition, in what became the United States. The English tradition is the one we built on; it’s where we got our concepts of civil rights and self-government.
It will be no surprise to you that I’m up to here with revisionist history (unless I’m doing — or translating — it myself, as with Viking Legacy).
I think a lot of us have a sense that our civilization is senescent now, that it’s growing old and fading. That it lacks the energy to perpetuate itself and must inevitably fall to the new fascists of Wokeism.
But you know, if we’re senescent, it was a pretty accelerated decline. I know I’m old, but one man’s lifetime makes for a pretty brief ride from the robust patriotism I remember from my youth to the contemptuous national self-loathing of today.
It occurs to me it’s possible we may not be in our national old age, but in our national adolescence. Like adolescents, we’ve suddenly discovered the sins, foibles and hypocrisies of our parents, and we’re rebelling. We take the blessings Mom and Dad worked hard for for granted, not understanding the sacrifices they made, the prices they paid.
If we’re just in our adolescence, we might have adulthood to look forward to. Maybe we’ll grow up. Maybe we’ll come to appreciate our parents, as most kids eventually do.
Quaker, poet, and abolitionist John Greenleaf Whittier wrote “The Corn Song” in 1850, and it became one of the things elementary teachers recommended to students to read every Thanksgiving. He was one of our most popular poets at one point, but perhaps you haven’t seen this one.
Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn! Let other lands, exulting, glean The apple from the pine, The orange from its glossy green, The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers Our ploughs their furrows made, While on the hills the sun and showers Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain Beneath the sun of May, And frightened from our sprouting grain The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June Its leaves grew green and fair, And waved in hot midsummer’s noon Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves, Its harvest-time has come, We pluck away the frosted leaves, And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift Apollo showered of old, Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk Around their costly board; Give us the bowl of samp and milk, By homespun beauty poured!
Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth And bless our farmer girls?
Then shame on all the proud and vain, Whose folly laughs to scorn The blessing of our hardy grain, Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root, Let mildew blight the rye, Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit, The wheat-field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adorn The hills our fathers trod; Still let us, for His golden corn, Send up our thanks to God!
(Image: Whittier’s Birthplace by Boston Public Library)
“He who sits by the fire, thankless for the fire, is just as if he had no fire. Nothing is possessed save in appreciation, of which thankfulness is the indispensable ingredient.” — W.J. Cameron
