ECONNECTION
Cranberries
by Karen Dusek

It is November. What better time to talk about cranberries, one of only three fruits native to North America that are considered to have commercial value, the other two being the blueberry and the Concord grape. Having spent a goodly amount of my life in the "Cranberry Capital of the World" where we were virtually surrounded by commercial cranberry bogs and, before that, in "America's Home Town" (every town has its claim to fame, although there are those who would, justifiably, take issue with that latter designation), itself. I have a strong affinity for the tart, maroon berries, the wild version of which grow throughout the northeast region all the way to Wisconsin, including Michigan.

Where in the world is the Cranberry Capital of the World, you may ask? I'm not sure it's listed on the Ocean Spray labels any more since the packaging plant there closed down a few years ago and Wisconsin has taken over as the leading producer, but let's see if you can guess by the end of this piece. I've already thrown a couple of hints your way.

Anyway, wild cranberries were used by the Native Americans before the Europeans ever ventured forth onto this continent's soil. Mashed and mixed with venison, they became "pemmican," a staple for long trips. They were also used in poultices to clean arrow wounds, while the bright red juice that leaves annoying stains on modern carpets that no amount of scrubbing will remove, was, not surprisingly, highly valued as a dye for clothing, blankets and rugs. For the Delaware Indians of New Jersey, the cranberry was also a symbol of peace.

Of course, the Native peoples did not call this source of food, color and comfort "cranberry." They used words like "sassamanesh" (Eastern), "ibimi" (Cape Cod Pequots and South Jersey Leni-Lenape) and "atoqua" (Algonquins of Wisconsin.) The English version was dreamed up by Dutch and German settlers who, thinking the delicate pink blossom looked like a crane's head, aptly named the plant "craneberry." Since this is America, where names are routinely shortened at the drop of one of those funny-looking, black, buckled hats, the low-lying plant at some point became known as a cranberry.

But, here I am, bouncing all over the place, just like a fresh cranberry bouncing over the boards at the packaging plant so the inspectors can decide whether they are good enough to be packaged raw or should be relegated to the juice and sauce department. (Yes, they really do this little test, or at least they used to. I witnessed it myself when I took a tour of the packaging plant in my hometown with my 4-H club. I vividly recall feeling sorry for those berries that were too old and soft to make it over all three boards. I feel like
that sometimes, myself, now).

Cranberries can't grow just any old place. They need a particular set of soil conditions, collectively known as a "bog," that were created millions of years ago when the glaciers retreated and left behind a layer cake of sand, peat, gravel and clay. A water supply and an eight-month growing season are other necessities.

I remember walking around the edge of a commercial cranberry bog back home, which, back in the day, was a borough half-way between Plymouth and the next major town of Taunton, and finding splotches of cushiony wild cranberry vines. It was fun to watch the tiny blossoms develop into hard green berries, which eventually turned red, the signal that they were ready to eat. How many times did I pop one into my mouth, fully aware of the puckery sourness that a cranberry, even a ripe cranberry, hides beneath that lipstick red skin, yet I was always a little disappointed that it didn't taste more like the sauce on our Thanksgiving table. Little did I realize how much sugar was required to make that sauce palatable until I made it myself many years later.

My mother always served two kinds of sauce - whole berry and jellied. I preferred the texture of the whole berry but the perfect shape and silken sheen of the jellied fascinated me - the way it slid out of the can with a little burp and jiggled on the plate in a cylindrical lump, its smooth surface interrupted only by the two imprinted circles left by the indentations on the can. It looked nothing like the berry that was the inspiration for its creation, and I have little respect for it as a food, but, somehow, it's just not Thanksgiving without the jellied.

Growing up I always assumed both kinds were served at the first Thanksgiving, too. Imagine my disillusionment when I learned that cranberry sauce was probably not even on the menu! It seems they didn't have enough sugar to sweeten it properly. Now that I can understand!

Here are a few other interesting facts I dug up from various sources:

• Cranberry juice was made by settlers as early as 1683.
• The first cultivated cranberries were grown by Captain Henry Hall in Dennis, Mass. in 1816.
• Cranberry scoops were first used for harvesting in the 1850s.
• Cranberries were eaten on board ships in the 1850s to prevent scurvy.
• By the 1930s women were allowed to use cranberry scoops.
• The first use of the English word "cranberry" was in 1647 in a letter written by John Eliot, a missionary.
• President Abraham Lincoln made Thanksgiving a national holiday in 1863, setting the date as the fourth Thursday in November, which falls close to the date the Mayflower landed in Plymouth (November 21 by our calendar, November 11 by the calendar used by the Pilgrims).

The picture we usually carry of cranberries nowadays, if we carry one at all, is of cellophane bags in the produce section of the supermarket or islands of red floating on a flooded bog waiting to be herded onto the conveyor belt of a truck that will take them to the packing plant in the Cranberry Capital of the World, which, at least for many years, was my hometown of - have you figured it out yet? Middleborough, Massachusetts.

Happy Thanksgiving. May you be blessed with both whole and jellied, and may you have the good fortune to discover the little native plant that made them possible.

You may email Karen at karen@lakeshoreguardian.com.