In November of 1980, I was the director of Juvenile Advocates, a
legal advocacy program for incarcerated teens located in Morgantown,
West Virginia. My job consisted of monitoring the treatment of
juveniles who were locked up in county jails, detention centers and
what were known then, as reform schools. Perhaps the most interesting
part of the job was that about every two weeks I would drive the
roller-coaster roads of the state to interview the kids locked up in
the various institutions from the West Virginia Industrial School for
Boys in
Pruntytown to the West Virginia Industrial School for Girls in Salem
and the Leckie Youth Center, located way down in the coalfields of
McDowell County.
The names “Industrial School” and “Reform School” were vestiges of the early 20th century reform movement. Prior to that age of enlightenment, teenagers who broke the law were treated identical to adults. They were tried in criminal courts, locked up in state prisons along side adult inmates and even hung from the gallows. With the advent of the progressive movement, delinquency came to be thought of more as a social problem having its roots in poverty, discrimination and family disintegration. I could quote the great turn-of-the century social reformer Jane Adams, but I think the Jets provide the most eloquent explanation: “Dear Kindly Sgt. Krupke, you gotta understand, it’s just our upbringing upke that gets us out of hand, our mothers all are junkies, our fathers are all drunks, golly Moses naturally we’re punks.” Rather than punish delinquents in prisons, the thinking went, they should be sent to schools to be ‘reformed,’ made more ‘industrious.’
So you're preparing for Thanksgiving and you’re already irritable just thinking about the cooking tasks that lie ahead of you. You wish that it was your sister-in-law who was the one cooking, as usual, but she is bailing this year and going to Paris (where they have lousy pumpkin pie, by the way).
A couple of years ago I raised a pair of heirloom turkey chicks – a Bourbon Red and a Spanish Black. The Spanish Black Tom was roasted, the Red still struts and preens in my chicken yard. I’ve taken to calling
him MOLE.
It's already in full swing. Thanksgiving turkey mania. You know what I'm talking about. The endless, frenzied debate over how to cook the perfect turkey. With all the food magazines, cooking shows and turkey hotlines available, I know you'll find more information than you ever wanted on the bird. That's why I'm posting about Thanksgiving side dishes: They're much less controversial. You can't brine sweet potatoes or deep fry cranberry sauce. At least, I don't think you can.
Here's the deal about Thanksgiving dinner at our house: it's the same every year, except for one thing. Every year one thing changes.