I’ve never set a place at the Thanksgiving table for my father-in-law. He died a few years before I met my husband., so I know him only through pictures like these here, and the stories he told his children, tales that are re-told around our Thanksgiving table.
Durward Mercer, D.B. to all who knew him, was born in Macon, Georgia, in 1920 and like most men of his generation, enlisted in the military after Pearl Harbor. By 1943, he found himself in school training to fly P-47 Thunderbolts with the 356th Fighter Group. By late 1944, he had received the Distinguished Flying Cross and an Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters. The 356th received the Distinguished Unit Badge following Operation Market Garden.
I admire soldiers and sailors of all generations, but the soldiers of World War II have a special place in my heart. Maybe it's from reading and watching "Band of Brothers" and watching Ken Burns' "The War," nevertheless, they are my heroes. Ordinary men and women who volunteered to fight an evil we didn’t fully understand, who gave their lives to, and in many cases, for, their country. When the war was over, the heroes came home, finished school, married and raised families. Many veterans told only the good stories and left out the bad. At least, that was the case with D.B. His children have his medals and wartime papers, but they never heard the guts-and-glory tales. They do, however, remember the tales of a young man from Georgia who, in the war, bivouacked in an English castle. And one of these tales involved, of all things, rutabagas.
The 356th was stationed at RAF Martlesham Heath, near Woodbridge, Suffolk. While walking by a farm in the countryside, D.B. spied a familiar and favorite food from his middle Georgia home: rutabagas. He asked the farmer if he would sell him a few to take back to camp, hoping to convince the cooks to boil the large purple-and-yellow turnips for him. The astonished farmer refused to part with the rutabagas because, he insisted, rutabagas were not intended for human consumption; they were fodder for his pigs. The equally astonished pilot returned to camp without a certain taste of home, and the lucky pigs got to keep their rutabagas.
This story is told whenever we serve rutabagas to friends who've never tasted the earthy roots. I'll admit that I had never considered rutabagas as food for people or beast until my husband introduced me to them. His rutabagas cooked with a smoked turkey leg or country ham pieces are now a cherished highlight of our holiday tables, partly to honor the past, partly to secure a place in the future for solid, earthy, humble food. And that's my Thanksgiving prayer for my family - gratitude for the blessings of the earth and the sacrifices of our ancestors.
1. Fill a large pot with water and add pork seasoning, country ham scraps, or smoked turkey parts. Turn up the heat and bring to a boil.
2. Using a sharp knife and possibly a rubber mallet or hammer, peel and cube the rutabagas.
3. Carefully place the rutabagas in the boiling water, add a moderate amount of salt - be careful, this will cook down and you will greatly regret excessive salt. Let the vegetables come to a boil, then cover and simmer for at least an hour. The whitish raw rutabaga turns yellow-orange as it cooks. The rutabagas are done when they are soft, very much like a non-starchy boiled potato.
4. They need just a bit of pepper to taste, and pepper vinegar or hot sauce may be required.
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Comments
This is two turnip posts today..
My favourite veggie.
Rated with snickerdoodles
We, too, always thank veterans when we see them. My husband has instilled a deep respect for servicemen and women of all kinds in our boys. Their favorite thing to do on a Saturday morning is to "visit the guys" at the local fire or police station, bearing a box of Krispie Kremes in exchange for a look at the cars or trucks. They also always thank soldiers in uniform for their duty to our country. :)
I, too, never met my father-in-law...
A lovely post and such handsome photos! And thanks so much for dropping by my new spot here on Open Salon. Will follow your posts from here on.
Alysa: Thank you & I must say, like father, like son. Find rutabagas in Paris and cook them - you will love them!
Felicia: I can only imagine what delicious concoction you will create when you find rutabagas. I’m fortunate to have storytellers and photographers in the family - they fill in the blanks.
Gavin: Oh, don’t even get me started on country ham. I’m lucky that I can buy country ham scraps in cryovac packages near the pepperoni & bacon at the store. Let me know when you become a rutabaga convert!
Cartouche: Nice to meet another rutabaga lover!
Linda: An extraordinary day when there are two rutabaga stories on OS. Thanks for stopping by!
Bernadine: You‘re very kind, thank you!
Lisa: I love that you take goodies to the firefighters - my church will be sponsoring a project like that next week. Will probably post.
Diana: Thank you, Diana, that means a lot to me.
Grace: I love “Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society!” Again with the WWII era.
Fusun: Thank you, Fusun. We keep Thanksgiving kind of simple at our house. That’s not to say that there isn’t enough food, because there’s always plenty of leftovers, but we tend to stick with homey and rustic.
Christine: Thanks for reading!
Pilgrim: Thank you!
Vivian: Thank you for reading!
Theresa: I wish I had your details for this story - they really round it out!
Linda: Rutabaga is a completely fun word to say and write. Just imagine what Shel Silverstein could have (or maybe he did?) written about rutabagas.
Bellwether: re: rutabagas: agreed. Re: dying breed: my kids love rutabagas. If I can teach them to cut them up, then I can teach them to cook them. We must raise the next generation of rutabaga cooks ourselves.