DRESSED FOR THANKSGIVING

Two days to go before the great and glorious feast of varied origins, and the food is already being assembled ready for prepping and eventual cooking.  In Lewis Towers this is now a truly team effort as we all have our culinary roles and signature dishes to bring to the table.  Gone, thankfully, are the days when I would labor at everything.  Now, having sharpened all the knives, I can relax a little as Sandi makes her squash casserole and creamed onions, and Kate brings creamy French beans to the pot, the turkey roasting all the while.

My main dish is a sausage and bread dressing.  I prefer to cook and serve this outside of the bird as it is crisper and in my opinion (which seldom counts for much) more flavorsome.  And I always make it the day before and reheat it shortly before the main course is served up.  The recipe?

Three tubes of sausage meat.  I prefer Jones’ Sausage, but this isn’t compulsory.  Just watch out for MSG in other brands.

Two medium sized onions, chopped.

Three cloves of garlic, chopped.

I ½ large loaves of sliced white bread, crusts cut off and the slices broken up by hand.  Don’t laugh, but Wonderbread is excellent for this recipe.  Or any cheap supermarket bread.

The zest of one large orange and the juice of two large oranges.

1 Tsp+ dried sage

1 Tsp+ dried thyme

Two eggs.

A little canola or vegetable oil.

Salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Roll up sleeves and wash your hands. They will be your principle kitchen tools!

Heat oil in large pan.

Add onion and garlic.

Break sausage meat into pan and cook over medium heat until well-browned.  Remove from heat and scoop into a large mixing bowl to cool.

Prepare the bread (as described) and when the meat is cool enough to handle mix in the broken bread with your hands. Then add the herbs and the zest. 

Finally mix in the eggs, orange juice  and (to taste) seasoning.

Spread into two-inch deep baking dish, cover with foil, and cook at 375F for about 25 minutes. Remove and cool.  Then keep it in the fridge until the following day.  Remove about two hours before the Thanksgiving meal and when ready heat up in oven.

And where were you?

Now that the media hyperbole surrounding the fiftieth anniversary of the slaying of President John Kennedy has subsided I have had time to recollect myself as much as I can about that violent and bloody event.  But as I was seven years old at the time the memories are blurred to say the least.  The primary questions that those of age have been asking themselves are:  Where was I, or, where were you?  Well I have sat and thought and thought some more and to be candid I have no idea whatsoever where I was at 6:30 pm in Worcester, England, on Friday the twenty-second of November 1963.  Presumably eating an early supper as that was the family routine. And I cannot remember anything involving watching the television news (brief children’s programming having ceased at 5:45) or my parents reacting in any way – or even discussing the event.  Odd, perhaps, but that’s my honest recollection. Or lack of.

My vivid memory is of the following morning, Saturday, when, at St Alban’s Preparatory School, we were all gathered in the small chapel for assembly.  And “Wilf” Thomas, the Housemaster, strode to the front swishing his chalk-streaked academic gown as he always did, and we fell silent.  He told us that last evening the President of the United States had been assassinated (or words to that effect) and that we were now all going to kneel and say the Lord’s Prayer, remembering the people of America.  And this we dutifully did, flanked by other teachers, some of whom I recall stared up at the ceiling during these proceedings.  But this was English public school (American readers may understand this as “private” school) and more than one master and well-heeled pupil would sneer at God and talk about the coming Communist salvation.  Just a passing phase, you understand.  And then we stood, and I was dispatched, as duty pumper, to the chapel organ where the bellows filled and we sang O God our help in ages past.  Followed by double geography.

Burial in the Early Morning

"What voice colder than the wind out of the grave said: ‘It is over’?"  No Time.  RS Thomas 1913-2000

And it was also a bitterly cold morning in Edgewood cemetery that early morning.  Yet the sky was already bright blue and the huge diggers and earth-movers were already at work in the nearby woods, making space for even more houses.  But they stopped work when the cherry-wood coffin was placed on its trestles.  I wonder if the workers stood there and peered through the trees out of curiosity and respect.  Who knows?  The night before gave us the first hard freeze of the season and in shaded parts of the graveyard the grass still glistened white.  With the undertaker I slowly began to feel the cold creeping up my legs.  No amount of cassock and layers can prevent that intrusion.  And gathered around an open grave there was no bodily warmth for any of us.  The words of the prayer book went by quickly.  Tokens of her enjoyment in life were placed with the coffin.  She had been sixty-four years of age.  Death seemed to be in a hurry, as we were to get back into the warmth.

Thou Knowest Not What a Day May Bring Forth. (Proverbs 27:1b)

I have spent what I consider to be a fruitful morning in my study within the parish house. Tasks, once listed, have been completed. The main duty each Wednesday morning is to collate and publish the weekly eBulletin which is sent to every member of the parish but three. But today also demanded that I wrote letters to our sponsored charities; and the parish calendar and associated event schedules for the next few months also needed care and attention. I was also able to meet with the Outreach Committee for some forty-five minutes, call a few parishioners, and email even more people about matters pressing (or not.) And before all of these things I had to take a dog to the “vee-ee-tee” to have a dressing changed.

Ordinarily I would now go home for lunch but I also have one more appointment in less than an hour. So I am enjoying writing a few words and reflecting on the quite extraordinary work patterns of some of my fellow clergy. For many appear to be constantly busy, and thrive on meetings.

Meetings. Meetings. Let’s just see what some of them are doing between now and Sunday morning. One holds a parish staff meeting every, yes every morning with the Parish Administrator, the Sexton and a warden. (The organist attends every Thursday.) Another seems heaven-bent on attending every workshop and seminar that the diocesan study center can offer. Yet another feels duty bound to be present on the church campus whenever a self-help group is meeting in the buildings – just in case. Well, she’s there just in case nine times a week at some most irregular hours. And another… well, I hope that the picture I am trying to paint is becoming clear.

At levels above that of my deanery (and even within that there is one local,weary voice) I hear the clerical complaints all the time. Too many meetings. Not enough time in the day. Diocesan pressure. A visit to the diocesan website confirms that the wheels of administration, education and planning continue to indifferently grind over more traditional models of ministry, and I’m sure that other dioceses do the same. Bless them, but why? Why do they work the way they do, and why have they created a corporate structure that seemingly has no real purpose other than justifying itself?

My honest answer is that I do not know. I once thought that this was some perversion of the Protestant work ethic, but then realized that the Roman Catholic Church is equally guilty. And as they are better at guilt than we Anglicans that destroys my argument. But perhaps it is something to do with guilt – and insecurity. Taking a leaf from the secular book, priests who do not have a full calendar page or a string of visible activities feel guilty. And so they look for things to do, meetings to convene, events to attend. And immediately they feel better, and then have something to complain about!

The traditional template for Anglican ministry was and is never like this. The rector or vicar was never idle, God forbid, but was never busy. His ministry, divided between church and study, was always balanced and calm. And it allowed for many creative pastimes and activities that set him apart from others within the community. Thus within his soul he was content, and so were those around him. 

This afternoon I may make some marmalade…