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Harvest Home at Plimoth Plantation
| Article
# : |
11394 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
11 / 1986 |
3,572 Words |
| Author
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Cornelia Campbell and Elaine Brooks
Cornelia Campbell is a chief, caterer, and food writer who
spent two years as Mistress Bridget Fuller of Plimoth
Plantation. Elaine Brooks is a Boston-based writer and
publicist who specializes in cultural and food-related
subjects. Ms. Campbell and Ms. Brooks are sisters. |
An early morning fog is just sliding back to the sea; ribbons of mist still mingle with smoke from chimneys visible above the palisade which encircles the tiny settlement overlooking the bay. We knew we'd be stepping back in time, but we couldn't have prepared adequately for the scene before us. It is 1627, and we are visitors to Plimoth Plantation, an isolated village surrounded by mostly unknown wilderness, proudly and courageously facing the ocean over which its pilgrim residents journeyed only seven years ago.
The smell of wood smoke is not unknown, even to a twentieth century city dweller, but the aromas floating with it are not quite familiar. Those are sheep grazing across the stubble of recently harvested grain, but their spiraling horns make them appear less than benign. And cows . . . what nature of beasts are these? Such tall, spindly creatures, so oddly marked and colored, are not the same contented twentieth-century cows we've seen in country pastures. There are children tending the animals. They play while watching their charges and yell to one another. Their words are familiar, but the accent and inflection are unusual enough that we listen closely to their calls. We have stepped into a new world.
It is, in fact, a very New World. The inhabitants of this village originally set out for the Virginia Colony. Thus, they were ill prepared for the extremes of climate, which they encountered in New England. Sickness and starvation were constant companions during that first long winter. But that is past. Strong backs and strong faith have worked together, and today, we are joining the good folk of Plimoth to celebrate their seventh harvest.
Entering the village through a gate in the palisade, we are immediately surrounded by activity. Off to our right, a half dozen young girls chatter, seated on the grass amid sheaves of wild flowers and sweet herbs. They move their hands as quickly as their mouths, weaving garlands and chaplets. First one, then another leaves the group to feed the fire which burns inside a domed clay oven under a thatched lean-to nearby.
"Damaris! Damaris Opkins!" A robust woman shouts over a garden fence. "Ave we enough 'eat to that oven? We've all these loaves ready and great quantity of other goods. If we see fit to dally overmuch, we'll spend an 'hungry 'harvest time seated lonely by your father's 'earth!"
A younger copy of the woman at the fence breaks away from the other girls and hurries to put a
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