The Old Man Of Nantucket

On mornings like today, do you know what I want most when I wake up? Ok, after that, what I want most is a blueberry-cranberry muffin. It's cranberry season and unfortunately, similiar to how most people don't understand how wonderful Evelyn Waugh is, most people don't understand how wonderful the cranberry is too.

My family may not understand Waugh, but they have a long history of understanding the cranberry. My grandfather, who was forbidden by threat of disinheritance to marry a Catholic girl from Smith probably understood Waugh and he clearly understood the cranberry. He wrote the following about his contribution to the war effort for his 45th reunion class notes for his Yale 1920 class :

In April, 1942, I became auditor for the Ocean Spray Cranberry Company and moved to Plymouth, Mass. The company dehydrated cranberries for the government during the war years. -

The Ocean Spray Cranberry Company dehydrated berries warded off scurvy in our troops. I wonder if John Kerry got scurvy and that's why he's such angry old puss? However, back to me, so it was of some pride when I went to work that one of my first accounts was the Ocean Spray Cranberry Company. My, were those fun days and the shoots were a ball. As I was most earnest in my career, I learned everything I could about the cranberry industry. I became so enamored of it that I made a vow to myself -not a solemn vow- that if I ever met a man that owned a cranberry bog, I would have to marry him. Just have to was my thinking. We could grow old together watching the berries turn red every year. Imagine my surprise when just two years later, while at a black tie cocktail party, I did indeed meet a man who owned a cranberry bog. He was dressed superbly and had a two-seater parked outside. When he told me that his business was in cranberries, I asked him if he owned a bog. He said, "Yes, a few, They've been in my family forever." I asked, "Are you married?" He said, "No." "Do you have a serious girlfriend? I queried. He said, in a rather slow surpirsed manner, "No." My roommate, who was standing next to me, jaw had already dropped to the floor when I said rather enthusiastically, "Well, then I have to marry you!" The guy almost dropped his scotch right there. I then told him about how I used to do the advertising for Ocean Spray and how I love the cranberry business so much that I had long ago promised myself that if I ever met a guy with a bog or two, that I had to marry him." He didn't turn around a walk away. Instead, he spent the better part of the evening chatting with me and even gave my roommate and I a ride home through Boston in the two-seater, which considering he also was giving his best male chum a ride home, made for a most interesting carride... The next day flowers arrived. The day after a dinner invitation was extended with very warm expressions. This was when I started to clue in to the idea that it's not a wise thing tell a well-dressed man with a sportscar and a cranberry bog that you had to marry him after only about 5 minutes of chatting with him. When the very nice, well-dressed, sportscar-driving, bog-owner asked for the second date to be to a visit to his bogs in Plymouth -where else-, I had to say no. That's the sad tale of how I almost became a -what else- red sportscar-driving mistress of the bogs.

Anyhoo, when we were very young, my grandfather used to amuse us at the table by reciting limmericks. This one was always the most requested:

There was an Old Man of Nantucket
Who kept all his cash in a bucket.
His daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man --
And, as for the bucket, Nan took it.

Pa followed the pair to Pawtucket
(the man and the girl with the bucket)
And he said to the man,
"You're welcome to Nan."
But as for the bucket, Pa took it.

Then the pair followed Pa to Manhasset
Where he still held the cash as an asset
And Nan and the man
stole the money and ran
And, as for the bucket, nan tuck et.

And that limmerick was the perfect set-up for this Nantucket Cranberry Pie. It is really a cranberry cake that is remarkably simple to make. Try to warm it before you serve it. Mr. P and the children enjoy it every Thanksgiving weekend along with my great-aunt Marion's must-have Cranberry-Orange-Walnut bread. The recipe hails from the late foodwriter, Laurie Colwin:

Nantucket Cranberry Pie

1. Preheat the oven to 350F. Chop enough cranberries to make 2 cups and enough walnuts to make 1/2 cup.
2. Put the chopped cranberries and walnuts and 1/2 cup sugar into a buttered 10-inch pie plate or springform pan.
3. Mix 2 large eggs, 3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) melted and cooled, unsalted butter, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup flour, 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/4 almond extract. Stir the batter until it is smooth and pour over the cranberry walnut mixture. Bake the cake in the middle of the oven for 40 minutes, or until a tester comes out clean.

Laurie Colwin was fond of all things British, even suet crusts. This is not a modern American cake. Nantucket Cranberry Pie is a low, dense cake recalling our English roots and New England Colonial history. You'll love it. Maybe, if fortune is shining on you, it will help you understand the cranberry a bit better. As for helping you to understand Waugh, forget about it.

Mrs. P

Comments

[MCNS]

Well, that was a tour de force. Kudos.

And you are fortunate you never made this man's acquaintance at Daisy Buchanan's.

http://www.baseballhalloffame.org/hofers_and_honorees/hofer_bios/Boggs_Wade.htm

[Mrs. Peperium]

Au contraire. I once featured Mr. Boggs and his teammate a Mr. Clemmons in a commercial.

[Old Dominion Tory]

Thank you for the recipe, Mrs. Peperium. I'll try to make it this weekend in fact. It's forecast to be a relatively cold one here in The Valley and such a dessert will be a splendid end to the roast beef dinner I have planned for Sunday.

[Andrew Cusack]

As ever, Mrs. P, I urge you to come to New York. You might find Rockefeller Center to your liking:

http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/11/03/cranberry_bog_i.php

[Mrs. Peperium]

Oh, Andrew, I've always wanted to bounce on a bog. It's like bouncing on a trampoline, or so they say. Do you think the gaurds will let us bounce? It can't be against the law yet? There's a store in Rockefeller Center that has my house numbers and I do have to go in there and order them -they carry those English ones - we were having so much fun last summer I forgot to. Mr. P has forgotten to to do it for his last 5 trips into the city and I'm quite convinced the house number police our going to show up on our door someday soon... Anyhoo, if we came for Thanksgiving, we could bounce on the bog and attend the Bad Boy's going-away party too. Will Fiendish join us in bouncing? He could provide legal cover. Wait until you see the Bad Boy's gift! For a starter, you can actually see it unlike poor Boy Mulcaster's....

[Old Dominion Tory]

Cranberries at Rockefeller Center. Come now.
I recommend a trip to Cape Cod and a "bounce" on an authentic bog at the corner of Station Avenue and White Rock Road in Yarmouth. Then refresh yourself with lunch and pint or five at the Old Yarmouth Inn in Yarmouth Port or the Daniel Webster Inn in Sandwich.

[Mrs. Peperium]

I love the Daniel Webster. I love Sandwich. Oh, well, another lifetime or two ago...