After almost two months living in England I was beginning to feel at home. When the Air Force opened a new Wing to fly the European U-2 mission, housing was scarce, but I managed to find a place to rent in the tiny village of Sudborough, Northamptonshire, right in the middle of the country.
My little house was called Brewery Cottage, so-named because it was part of a defunct brewery yard. The courtyard behind me contained a malting house, cooperage, brewing house, and cottages for the workers. Next door was Brewery House where the beer was stored in the basement and the pub was located on the ground floor. The brewmaster had lived in my cottage.
My little house was called Brewery Cottage, so-named because it was part of a defunct brewery yard. The courtyard behind me contained a malting house, cooperage, brewing house, and cottages for the workers. Next door was Brewery House where the beer was stored in the basement and the pub was located on the ground floor. The brewmaster had lived in my cottage.
My landlord and landlady lived in Brewery House. Lovel was a proper English gentleman, a retired English literature professor who had been an infantry officer and POW in WW II. Lettice was his perfect partner as a slightly aristocratic and reserved country lady who nevertheless took very good care of me.
Sudborough contained about 100 people, a post office that also sold snacks and a few groceries, a riding stable, and, of course, a pub. Most of the younger generation had gone off to the big city to make their way. I was a big hit as the first American to live there since WWII among the population that was still fighting the War. I felt right at home among the thatch-roofed houses and the farm buildings and animals and fields. My 1700’s house was the new place in a village where my neighbor’s toll house was restored in 1620 and the church was dedicated in the 1180’s. I felt even more at home when I was greeted at the pub with “The usual, Mike?" which in my case was a pint of Ruddle’s County ale.
Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and, being on my own and in a foreign country, I was determined to have a traditional holiday meal. I went to the base commissary to buy a turkey, only to discover that the smallest birds weighed about 25 pounds. Since Brewery House still contained lots of beer, I went next door for advice.
Of course, the English know little to nothing about Thanksgiving. When Lettice heard that I was going to have cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and actually eat a turkey, she was astounded, but interested. Lovel said that I could not get a turkey, but that the local butcher shops sold all kinds of game, and pheasant was abundant.
In fact, Chinese ringneck pheasants were everywhere. On my walks and drives through the countryside I would see them darting among the hedgerows and hear them calling to each other. They were actually a hazard as they ran across the roads.
My informally adopted parents, my “landparents” as I called them, invited me to Sunday dinner, provided that I would bring some cranberry sauce and a pumpkin pie to share with my explanation of the traditions of Thanksgiving. Wanting to make a real pie from a real pumpkin, I consulted my 1938 copy of The American Woman’s Cookbook for a recipe. It began, “Take one #2 can of pumpkin. . .” I gave up on scratch pie and made it from a can. I was still determined to fix a Thanksgiving dinner for myself, though.
On the way home from the base I drove slowly past the butcher shop in Thrapston, the only town large enough to have real stores. Sure enough, they had pheasants hanging in a row in the window. Just the thing. As soon as I got to Brewery Cottage I changed out of my uniform, jumped in my Austin Mini, and headed back to Thrapston. The drive took me through the countryside between tall hedgerows. I had not gone a mile from Sudborough, when a pheasant darted across the road and I hit it.
Now, Lovel had told me that if you hit any game with your car it is considered hunting without a license, and you can’t take it, though the person behind you can. I stopped the car, and went back to look the pheasant over, which was laying beside the road with scarcely a mark on it. Well, since I was on my way to buy a pheasant anyway, and since no one was looking, I considered it a Thanksgiving gift from Mother Nature, threw it in the back seat, and headed for home.
The pheasant was easy to pluck and dress in my tiny scullery, fit just right roasting in my apartment-sized stove, and as delicious as it was as part of my Thanksgiving dinner, tasted even better for being poached illegally. I felt a little like Robin Hood, except that I wasn’t stealing from the rich, but I was feeding the poor -- me.
Sudborough contained about 100 people, a post office that also sold snacks and a few groceries, a riding stable, and, of course, a pub. Most of the younger generation had gone off to the big city to make their way. I was a big hit as the first American to live there since WWII among the population that was still fighting the War. I felt right at home among the thatch-roofed houses and the farm buildings and animals and fields. My 1700’s house was the new place in a village where my neighbor’s toll house was restored in 1620 and the church was dedicated in the 1180’s. I felt even more at home when I was greeted at the pub with “The usual, Mike?" which in my case was a pint of Ruddle’s County ale.
Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and, being on my own and in a foreign country, I was determined to have a traditional holiday meal. I went to the base commissary to buy a turkey, only to discover that the smallest birds weighed about 25 pounds. Since Brewery House still contained lots of beer, I went next door for advice.
Of course, the English know little to nothing about Thanksgiving. When Lettice heard that I was going to have cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and actually eat a turkey, she was astounded, but interested. Lovel said that I could not get a turkey, but that the local butcher shops sold all kinds of game, and pheasant was abundant.
In fact, Chinese ringneck pheasants were everywhere. On my walks and drives through the countryside I would see them darting among the hedgerows and hear them calling to each other. They were actually a hazard as they ran across the roads.
My informally adopted parents, my “landparents” as I called them, invited me to Sunday dinner, provided that I would bring some cranberry sauce and a pumpkin pie to share with my explanation of the traditions of Thanksgiving. Wanting to make a real pie from a real pumpkin, I consulted my 1938 copy of The American Woman’s Cookbook for a recipe. It began, “Take one #2 can of pumpkin. . .” I gave up on scratch pie and made it from a can. I was still determined to fix a Thanksgiving dinner for myself, though.
On the way home from the base I drove slowly past the butcher shop in Thrapston, the only town large enough to have real stores. Sure enough, they had pheasants hanging in a row in the window. Just the thing. As soon as I got to Brewery Cottage I changed out of my uniform, jumped in my Austin Mini, and headed back to Thrapston. The drive took me through the countryside between tall hedgerows. I had not gone a mile from Sudborough, when a pheasant darted across the road and I hit it.
Now, Lovel had told me that if you hit any game with your car it is considered hunting without a license, and you can’t take it, though the person behind you can. I stopped the car, and went back to look the pheasant over, which was laying beside the road with scarcely a mark on it. Well, since I was on my way to buy a pheasant anyway, and since no one was looking, I considered it a Thanksgiving gift from Mother Nature, threw it in the back seat, and headed for home.
The pheasant was easy to pluck and dress in my tiny scullery, fit just right roasting in my apartment-sized stove, and as delicious as it was as part of my Thanksgiving dinner, tasted even better for being poached illegally. I felt a little like Robin Hood, except that I wasn’t stealing from the rich, but I was feeding the poor -- me.
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