Thanksgiving

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents
1. Of apples, apple cider, cider doughnuts. Edible autumn in New England.
2. My most memorable Thanksgiving... and oh the memories!
3. Not in the mood for Thanksgiving? Then be grateful for what you don't have!

Thanksgiving

Of apples, apple cider, cider doughnuts. Edible autumn in
New England.
By Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. The bounty of New England's small family farms is now available at road
stands throughout the region. The weather, despite the wallop of Hurricane Irene, has been
beneficial and the crops are ample. There is, therefore, enough for all.
I love this time of the year, and my neighbors do, too. We, though we abide in the region's cities,
make a point of leaving our urban condominiums and walk-up apartments, glad for the opportunity
to taste autumn. This is a yearly ritual which none of us wants to miss, for it calls us, if only for a
moment, back to the land which is a part of all of us and which recalls us to a past which is for all of
us at some point agrarian.
We are all of the land... and the farms and gardens, so picturesque in October, remind us where we
have been... and of our forefathers... who kept faith with this land... tending it... nurturing it...
protecting it... so that the land and their descendants might prosper together. Each rock that they
used to build the fences that make good neighbors reminds us of our own families and the constant
work that the land necessitates. The land demands... and we obey the land... for this is the way of the
immemorial land and richness that comes forth if we but do our part. Apples are part of this land and
this richness... and now is the high season of these apples.
Apples must be picked.
Each apple that you see has been picked. It's something we urban dwellers never think about and
which industrious apple growers must never forget... for apples on a tree are useless to all but the
birds which well know how to get their sweet juices.
In his poem "After Apple-Picking" (published in 1915) Robert Frost reminds us just how laborious it
is to pick the apples. On his tiny New Hampshire farm, Frost tells us that in apple-picking time the
farm and the needs of the crop determine all. Everything else must be put aside for now; this is the
way of the insistent land, the demanding land, the land that dictates that which humans who desire
the bounty of this land must do:
"And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired."
Apples must be packed and promptly moved.
Apples, like every fruit of the farm, must be moved, for we buyers and eaters of apples are slothful
and must be waited on. We will go on a yearly ritual of pilgrimage to the apples... praising farmer,
land and crop.. .but we demand on all other occasions that the apples we so desire be brought close
to us.
The apples I buy, for instance, come from Kimball Fruit Farm in Pepperell, Massachusetts. It is a far
trek from Cambridge and so Carl and his helpers bring the apples to me in a local farmers' market,
held each Sunday in Harvard Square until Thanksgiving. There after 10 a.m. (the strict opening time,
not a minute earlier permitted)... I can fuss over the multitude of varieties, rejecting most, selecting
just the most attractive, aromatic, and (I trust) delicious.
Even after his many other customers purchase (for Carl and Kimball have a following), the piles of
apples are still heaping; each and every one must be re-packed, taken back to Pepperell, to be
packed again tomorrow, moved again, scrutinized again, and so on until at last all the apples are

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Thanksgiving

gone. Carl, like Frost, gets overtired, too.
But apples are the pride of Kimball Fruit Farm... and their website boasts of over 40 varieties.... how
many could you name? Baldwin, Blushing Golden, Brock, Burgundy, Cameo, Chesnut, Crab
Cortland, Elstar... the list goes on an on, each one a pledge by Proprietor Carl that the land will be so
cherished so that each of these apples will flourish in years to come, including one of the most
beautiful apples of all: the Spencers which I crave. And so it has been going on for the thousands of
years apples have been amongst us, starting in Western Asia, where the apple's wild ancestor, the
Alma, can still be found today.
There are more than 7,500 known cultivars, resulting in a wide range of desired characteristics. So
desirable are these characteristics that 55 million tonnes of apples were grown in 2005, with a value
of about $10 billion. China produced some 35 percent of this total; the United States was second
with more than 7.5 percent of world production. Iran is third, followed by Turkey, Russia, Italy, and
India.
Many of these apples are eaten raw... but many are also transformed into that silky mixture called
apple cider. I buy mine from Allen's Cider Mill in West Brookfield, Mass. The reason I initially
bought from this stand at the farmers' market was that the fellow tending it looked so sad. I felt glad
to lift his load just a smidgeon, but in truth I liked the product... and got in the habit of buying from
him, though he is laconic to a degree and has never smiled in my presence or ever said a friendly
greeting. I notice such things. A teen-aged boy of 15 or so helps the man out; it's probably his father.
They look alike. I notice he never smiles either and that makes me wonder at the ways of genetics
and family farms.
The label makes it clear that this cider must be refrigerated at below 40 degrees Farenheit and wants
you to know, too, that it has been ultra light treated for my safety... no preservatives... no additives...
and is made of "washed sound ripe apples." I have never bothered with such cider labels before, but
I am grateful for their care and practical concern, though I'd still like a friendly greeting, a smile, and
a chipper query asking me how I like the cider, since I keep returning for it... and for the cider
doughnuts, too, which I first sampled at this stand...
I was in a relaxed and friendly disposition the day I saw the hand-written sign about cider doughnuts
and asked what they were. The answer was worthy of Silent Cal, Vermont's only president. "Made
with cider, instead of water," he said, as if each word was a treasure to be hoarded, not shared even
for commercial gain. They were 50 cents each; I got one, the minimum risk... The next week I got
4... and devoured them at record speed, a new taste of fall... topped off with cinnamon and sugar. It
is a delicacy indeed, and I can bear even the lack of amiability so long as there are cider doughnuts
near at hand... and great, grand Spencer apples, too... and the smoothness of apple cider. For all of
these together, and each distinct, is truly the apple of my eye... deserving of high praise, no waiting,
please, for I have no patience, none at all.
But I do have a song to accompany so many delicacies. It's by the Four Lovers, "You're the apple of
my eye." (released 1956). Go to any search engine to find it now... and enjoy. For you are "done with
apple-picking now" and must take a moment to eat, savor, and thank. For apples and everything
about them are a great joy and benediction. As you and I have known for a lifetime, haven't we?


Thanksgiving

My most memorable Thanksgiving... and oh the memories!
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. Quick can you name your favorite Thanksgiving song? Unless it's "Over the
river and through the woods" (1844), you probably don't have one. But I do. It's called "Turkey in
the straw", and it is a traditional American folk song from the 1820s. And though strictly speaking it
was not written for Thanksgiving, you'll have to forego its strict history in favor of the elastic
meaning I shall give the tune and its use. I am sure, in due time, you will forgive me. In any event,
start by going to any search engine, find the tune, and put on your dancing shoes... because this
Thanksgiving you'll be dancing, not just filling out your embonpoint, and belching.
What my family usually did for Thanksgiving... celebrated, sanctified, dull.
I was brought up in an Illinois family which, like all our neighbors, believed in the verities of God,
country, and family. These were the bedrocks on which we built our homes, our communities and
our nation. And these three essential parts of American life came sharply together at Thanksgiving,
an event which had to be arranged and celebrated in the grand manner... best china, best crystal, best
silver and food that was quite simply awesome, no stinting contemplated, allowed, or accepted. We
were Americans, part of the great heartland of the nation, and if we didn't have much to be thankful
for, then who did?
Still, this holiday (and Christmas, too) always raised the issue of where to celebrate, for we were part
of large extended families with matriarchs in various branches who made it clear their feelings
would be hurt if we didn't grace their Thanksgiving Day tables, though why they wanted my sister
with her tendency to scream while eating (admittedly she was only in pre-school) and my brother
(but that is another story), I as eldest son and eldest grandson (on both sides) could never
understand. I knew why they wanted me... "let me count the ways...."
The solution to this problem of venue was solved in most years by the simple expedient of appearing
at two (or even more) holiday tables groaning under the weight of families who had done well... and
stuffing ourselves to sickness accordingly. It is no wonder they felt queasy by day's end. Personally I
always saved room (if at all possible) for the desserts... for here amidst so many culinary
achievements... was sweet perfection in so many alluring ways. Pies of every kind (pumpkin de
rigueur of course), cobblers, cookies with holiday themes... strudel (we were of Germanic stock and
proud)... and the cakes... but enough. Suffice it to say there was no thought of mere sufficiency. It
was all about excess... in so many ways so that no one could ever say anything else, or even suggest
it.
Time -- and holiday arrangements -- marches on.
Sadly, over time things changed and my father and mother were significant reasons why the
multi-mealed Thanksgiving came to an end. Specifically, we moved from Illinois when I was just 16
to California, where family (as Charles Manson and hippies from Haight-Ashbury proved) had an
altogether different meaning. And so, unless my father decided (and my mother concurred), for
father's sister and his wife did not love each other, unless, that is, we were going to our Carter
cousins' ranch in Bakersfield, we stayed home... and invited people we liked, who were never
related. In short, we went from the traditional Thanksgiving of too much of this, too much of that,
people we "had" to like because we were related, to Thanksgivings we invented... and, as we
discovered later when sociologists explored American migrations, most other people were doing the
same thing. And that's why my mother, Shirley de Lauing Lant Phelps de Barlais y de Kesoun, and I
were in the port of San Pedro, California en route to Baja California for Thanksgiving, 1985.


Thanksgiving

Fourth book, second Thanksgiving out of America.
I have always been of an industrious nature and my breakneck pace through 1985 made clear that I
was a man on a mission, going places, meeting people. I had my fourth book underway, a publishing
company to oversee, an international consulting business, a multitude of lectures nationwide, and a
nationally syndicated program on the Business Radio Network. Managing time was of the essence..
and this precluded vacations and other ways of wasting time, including voyaging to a part of the
world in which I had absolutely no interest. But, then, my mother did... and she was a very
formidable woman. She named the destination, I ponied up for the tickets, and so we boarded one of
the floating restaurants and bars they call cruise ships, where eating and lassitude are the order of the
day, every day.
We were booked as Dr. and Mrs. Lant, which while absolutely accurate was also the seed for a
memorable (and oh so wrong) deduction... because, you see, on this ship, as on all such vessels, the
ladies of a certain age always out number the gents... and so the hopefulness which always
accompanies these ladies on board always quickly wilts.
My mother was a stylish and youthful looking woman and made a point of so appearing, to best
advantage. I was, as usual, slovenly, a demolisher of clothes, even those from the best shops in
Boston and England. Still, as Agatha Christie once observed, old clothes properly cut are always
suitable attire for a gentleman. My mother strenuously disagreed, but here her jeremiads fell on deaf
ears.
Still...one memorable evening, a woman of the purple-haired ilk sidled up to POM (Poor Old
Mother) and asked how long we'd been married... and how she'd managed it; (no doubt wanting
instructions on how to secure as willing mate one as young, winsome, and obviously God-favored as
I.) Freud must have had a conniption.
And that was just the beginning of the memorable holiday voyage.
My mother and I worked as a team; she was admiral, I cadet. The moment after we arrived on board,
she took a page of her cream colored stationary as Baroness de Barlais y de Kesoun, gold coronet
ablaze at the top, and sent a charming message (of which she was past mistress) to the Captain,
advising him a celebrated author was on board whom she'd like to present. That "celebrated author"
would have been me. That note she delivered post haste to the purser along with a First Edition of
my book "Our Harvard," suitably autographed by that self-same author. She always traveled with a
few copies...
The next day I sat in a deck chair, enveloped in a plaid blanket, hands chilled, writing the current
book, "The Unabashed Self-Promoter's Guide: What every man, woman, child and organization in
America needs to know about getting ahead by exploiting the media." For all that I had to be thawed
out each evening, I was making lickety-split progress... and could still dance attendance on Her
Ladyship, my mother. It was a model that worked...
The Captain requests...
In due course, of course, the Captain responded... not just with an invitation to the table at dinner
where he held court but to cocktails in his luxurious private quarters. We dressed accordingly; (my
Harvard blazer was wrinkled but its insignia buttons were solid gold.) When we discovered he was
Greek, we should have recalled the old maxim "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts..."
He was a man of charm, information, and what we Midwesterners call schmaltz. As such he was
very good company, paying every courtesy to the Double B (as we termed the double Baroness, in
her own right, too). But there was something not quite right... which became instantly apparent
when, in paying my mother an exaggerated farewell he tickled the inside of my hand, in a manner


Thanksgiving

which could not possibly have been misconstrued. I meant to tell her... she would have roared with
laugher and indignation. Which brings us to our unique Thanksgiving on the high seas.
On board, one ate and participated in activities which could never quite obscure their purpose: to let
air out of bloated stomachs. One of these activities was the time-honored "talent show" which would
have been anything but... except for POM. She had an idea to sweep the boards... she always did...
and with her vision, energy, imagination and unparalleled ability to shame people into doing things,
she generally succeeded. "The First Thanksgiving".
POM dragooned one passenger after another into taking part in what was certain to be the winning
entry: a sure-to-please musical rendition of the first Thanksgiving, with dialog by me and direction
by... but you can guess who. Despite frequent (ever escalating) reminders that the script needed to
be written, yours truly did not write the script; instead falling victim to Demon Rum... and so when
POM came to get me for dress rehearsal (a bare hour before the opening curtain) she found her boy
drunk as the lord he was. No script. No excuse. No hope.
But still the show went on, though I had to ad-lib every word, including musical cues to the band,
which gamely played our game. Pilgrims said the silly things they would say... Indians (face-paint
perfect) acted aboriginal... and "Turkey in the straw" rang out frequently as passenger Pilgrims and
Indians ran about the stage capturing passenger turkeys. Then le tout ensemble sang "God Bless
America". Of course we were cheered to the echo, and I got the kind of hugs and kudos I expected...
and she had deserved.
My Thanksgiving this year will be dull indeed without her... for she is making friends and raising
cane in a better place, where she will know, for certain, I would write this article and remember....
***** What are your favourite Thanksgiving memories? Let us know by posting your comments
below.


Thanksgiving


Thanksgiving

Not in the mood for Thanksgiving? Then be grateful for what
you don't have!
by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
Author's program note. Rarely if ever have I seen my fellow countrymen so riled up... irritable,
angry, rude epithets at the ready, bad behaviors endemic. What's going on? Try these for openers...
A rotten economic situation that just won't get better... and you're afraid it never will. And so you
worry (for the umpteenth time) about just how secure your job is. Is there some guy in Mumbai
who'll be glad to do it at half what you get? You've raised the subject with your boss... but his
answer was not reassuring and now he won't look you in the eye.
A president whose leadership style gives us no leadership... and nary a Republican presidential
candidate who doesn't cause multitudes to hold their noses, gagging, and wonder why our mind
boggling lengthy and expensive campaign produces candidates we can't stand or respect, much less
admire.
Sickening scandals like the one still unfolding at Penn State, scandals that make us wake up in the
middle of the night shouting, "What the...... is going on around here?". Sometimes we wonder, and
not just once either, whether anyone is honest, decent, and unarmed anymore... or whether it's only
suckers (you being one) who play by the rules.
Every day we pick up the newspaper and read about another murder in the neighborhood, our
neighborhood. Are our neighbors only "good" because we don't know their secret lives and the
home truths that haven't yet been disclosed?
We read about some drug bust at the school down the street... and are horrified to see the police
photo and recognize our kid's favorite teacher. We run upstairs and check the closet and dresser
drawer to see if this has touched us even closer. You're fortunate today... nothing out of order... but
the word "yet" comes immediately to mind... since these days you expect something bad to happen
any time now and aren't particularly surprised when it does.
We read about... and are as concerned as our busy lives will allow... another species declared
extinct... another Web sex scandal... another political official with a skill for theft and plausible
denial. You feel sure he'll get off easy when his time in court comes up. Is that what the bandage
over the eyes of the statue of Justice is supposed to mean?
You're concerned about America's unending wars in countries whose names you cannot pronounce,
much less find on a map, but which you are paying for. You've got a friend whose young cousin,
proud and handsome in his Marine Corps uniform, was killed by a sniper... a boy just 20 years old.
The thought haunts you all day... You want to believe such early death helps the country in question,
America, the world... but you don't. You see that boy's eyes and feel them boring into you, asking
one question over and over -- "Why?"... and you just can't give a good answer. You feel increasingly
helpless as the barrage of bad news, miseries, muddles, mayhem just won't quit. You want time off
from it all... but these realities, details delivered to us faster than ever compliments of the Web,
constitute the unceasing rhythm of our lives.
And this is only the tip of the iceberg.
We wonder if, after a lifetime of contributing, Social Security will be there when we need it... and
whether Medicare will provide the level of service we'll need. A gal from our office had that acute
breathing problem and was put on a respirator; the hospital didn't want to pay for it... and the matter


Thanksgiving

now resides in their legal department. We want care... we get lawyers. It makes us very, very
nervous.... and sad.
We wonder how some shady Greek and Italian politicians can have so much influence on our lives
so far away. What kind of magic powers have they got that force us (however superficially) to pay
attention to what they're doing... and doing... and doing, all of which threatens the stability and
satisfaction of our lives? You want to say it's "unfair"... but you know no one cares what you think
about the matter... and you don't want people to think you're a wimp. So you stay quiet and
unsatisfied... it's just the way things are. And so the days pass...
... until the calendar tells you it's Thanksgiving, the official day, sanctioned by custom and dictated
by law, you get together with family and friends to eat too much and give thanks for your ability to
do so. But this year, you just don't feel like it, though you wouldn't mind a piece or two of pumpkin
pie. What's a body to do?
I'll share something that works for me... don't waste your time enumerating all the good things
you've got, especially when you realize most of them are flawed and superficial. Instead, focus on
the myriad of problems, inconveniences, woeful situations and debilitating malevolence you don't
have... bullets you have dodged for another year. This will make you feel really thankful about
things that really matter. Here's how it works...
Preparation and The List
This year I attend my 64th Thanksgiving, so I consider myself a man with some experience in the
matter. Put this experience to work by putting aside the usual falderals... don't just hold hands and
ask little Janie to say the blessing. Janie is probably too young to have much insight into the event...
and will be unable to perform her helping role to perfection. Thus the end result will be unutterably
banal, like all the years before.
Instead, seize this bull by the horns and brainstorm a long list of things you are thankful you don't
have to do, think about, or consider in any way. Be brutally frank.
Item: your boss got fired because of that restroom peccadillo, and you never have to see him again.
That was huge!
Item: your estranged cousin Herbie, bete noir of many years, has gone missing, no one knows
where. If he never returns, that would be too soon.
Item: Your darling daughter didn't marry the wild idealist who always played the zither and never
bathed. Delicious.
Item: your neighbor's noisome pooch Mickey, gifted with a piecing yelp and high decibel duration,
ran away in pursuit of amorous freedom. He will of course be missed by someone... but not by you.
Keep going! Don't stint! As you get into the task, you see that the things you don't have, that you
were afraid you would have and forever are the very things you always needed to make this holiday
sing.
Now type your list. You will never remember them all and since each adds its mite to the happy
event, do not rely on memory. Practice, too, reciting them. Read slowly.... with deliberate cadence
and gravitas in your voice.
Having recited this list you will feel, perhaps for the first time in months, truly happy for you have
discovered for yourself and shown the world the ample bounty of happiness at your fingertips,
Thanksgiving now and forever your favorite holiday.


Thanksgiving

** Your response to this article is requested. What do you think? Let us know by posting your
comments below.


Thanksgiving

Resource
About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide
range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Your response to this article is
requested. What do you think? Let us know by posting your comments below.
Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.


Thanksgiving

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