Thanksgiving in Barrow
Earlier in the week, Doreen had invited me to the Presbyterian Church for a Thanksgiving feed. She had mentioned caribou soup and maktak. I was interested in the caribou soup, so I thought, why not.
I arrived at the church right before noon as Doreen had instructed. As I entered the church, I walked into a big crowd. Doreen had told me where she and her family would sit – in the choir seats, the pews located behind the pulpit – so I found them quickly. The church was packed and the floor of the congregation room was completely covered in sheets of plastic.
I also noticed that people had coolers and totes with them in the pews, racks of soda. As the room got more and more full, fold-up chairs were taken out, children were sitting on their parent’s lap. I saw that Doreen and her family also had stuff with them. Inside one of the bags I saw Tupperware containers and spoons, and realized that I had forgotten to bring my own bowl and silverware as Doreen had told me to do. Her niece, Kristin, said it was ok, that they had extra. They also brought a new roll of paper towels and big empty zip-lock bags.
I assumed the feed would be buffet style and figured it may take a while. The big crowd at the church would mean long lines. But I was wrong. Kristin explained to me that the food is brought to us. The servers – teenagers within the church – were all assigned a section of pews to serve food to. Everyone attending the feed did not have to leave their seats in order to eat. This explained the plastic covering the floor. Kristin said she had been a server for ten years.
It all started with a church service. A Thanksgiving church service. I didn’t feel like I had been duped into going to church because Doreen seemed genuinely surprised that there was a service once it began. I realized I was going to have to sit through this if I wanted caribou soup. And so I did.
It wasn’t that unbearable as I began to see it for what it was – a cultural experience. Yes, I was inside a Presbyterian Church, but I was among Inupiat people and the service was indicative of that. Most of the service was conducted in Inupiaq – the prayers, the hymms (translated from traditional hymms), but I still found myself able to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the one prayer that’s been lodged in my brain since childhood.
Before the food was served, they had some of the servers and some of the deacons present the food. They walked down the aisle each carrying a plate of what we were about to be served and lined up before the congregation. One of them counted off, “1-2-3,” and they all proclaimed in unison, in English, “Happy Thanksgiving.” They filed out of the room and this was cue to get ready for the food.
Doreen handed me a Tupperware, a spoon, and piece of paper towel, as well as a bottle of water. As I looked around, people started taking stuff out of their coolers – vegetables and dip, drinks, salt and paper shakers. People started opening soda cans and boxes of triscits. Some people pulled out stools. They were picnicking inside the church, families sharing their food amongst each other, waiting for the main dishes to be served. I had never seen anything like it.
Wearing plastic aprons and rubber gloves, the servers poured into the congregation room and broke off into pairs, each pair carrying a huge pot of soup which they generously ladled into paper bowls and Tupperware containers.
When the pot was empty, they’d leave and emerge with another one. First I tried a caribou soup, then a duck soup, and the third was another caribou soup. All the soups were made by different people, so each had a different flavor and I wanted to be sure to sample the best. The soups contained bones with meat and fat still on them, and rice. At one point during the soup devouring, Doreen turned to me and said, “I’m so glad you came.” I replied with the same sentiment because it was true.
After the rounds and rounds of soup, the maktak was next. This time the pairs of servers carried plastic totes containing frozen slices of whale fat. Some people pulled out ulus and sliced just one brick of frozen maktak into bite-size pieces and ate it right there and then. The other bricks of maktak were destined for home.
Throughout all of this, individual people would go up to the pulpit and share a message of thanks, or at least that’s what I assumed they were saying. Others came up and sang. It was during a couple of women singing, as the fourth round of maktak was being distributed, that I decided to make my exit. I had sat there for two and half hours, drank a lot of soup, ate two pieces of raw maktak, and was getting antsy. Plus, I still needed to make a butternut squash soup for the American Thanksgiving meal I was attending later that evening.
Even though I had never seen anything like it, the atmosphere was familiar – the Inupiat people regard food in the same way the Chinese do. They aren’t bashful about food. There’s no polite etiquette to eating. They eat and enjoy, making a mess in the process. The people in church eagerly held out their bowls for more soup as the servers were approaching; they didn’t wait to be asked if they wanted more. Everyone had a spoon, but most people just drank the soup out of the container it was in, as if it was a cup. They called out if someone’s bowl had been overlooked by a server. When the maktak was served in various rounds, large zip-lock bags and used plastic grocery bags were held out in anticipation. The frozen pieces of maktak were meant to be horded, taken home, put back in the freezer, or into packages to be sent to distant family members. It was nice to be among such a food frenzy. As odd as it all was, I very much felt comfortable and at ease.
Later that night I ate a more traditional Thanksgiving meal with the Saxton family. There was the usual – turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, squash soup, green bean casserole, a yam and marshmallow dish, stuffing, rolls, canned cranberry sauce – as well as the largest selection of homemade pies I had ever seen. Everyone served themselves, took their time eating, and ate their soup with a spoon.
I arrived at the church right before noon as Doreen had instructed. As I entered the church, I walked into a big crowd. Doreen had told me where she and her family would sit – in the choir seats, the pews located behind the pulpit – so I found them quickly. The church was packed and the floor of the congregation room was completely covered in sheets of plastic.
I also noticed that people had coolers and totes with them in the pews, racks of soda. As the room got more and more full, fold-up chairs were taken out, children were sitting on their parent’s lap. I saw that Doreen and her family also had stuff with them. Inside one of the bags I saw Tupperware containers and spoons, and realized that I had forgotten to bring my own bowl and silverware as Doreen had told me to do. Her niece, Kristin, said it was ok, that they had extra. They also brought a new roll of paper towels and big empty zip-lock bags.
I assumed the feed would be buffet style and figured it may take a while. The big crowd at the church would mean long lines. But I was wrong. Kristin explained to me that the food is brought to us. The servers – teenagers within the church – were all assigned a section of pews to serve food to. Everyone attending the feed did not have to leave their seats in order to eat. This explained the plastic covering the floor. Kristin said she had been a server for ten years.
It all started with a church service. A Thanksgiving church service. I didn’t feel like I had been duped into going to church because Doreen seemed genuinely surprised that there was a service once it began. I realized I was going to have to sit through this if I wanted caribou soup. And so I did.
It wasn’t that unbearable as I began to see it for what it was – a cultural experience. Yes, I was inside a Presbyterian Church, but I was among Inupiat people and the service was indicative of that. Most of the service was conducted in Inupiaq – the prayers, the hymms (translated from traditional hymms), but I still found myself able to recite the Lord’s Prayer, the one prayer that’s been lodged in my brain since childhood.
Before the food was served, they had some of the servers and some of the deacons present the food. They walked down the aisle each carrying a plate of what we were about to be served and lined up before the congregation. One of them counted off, “1-2-3,” and they all proclaimed in unison, in English, “Happy Thanksgiving.” They filed out of the room and this was cue to get ready for the food.
Doreen handed me a Tupperware, a spoon, and piece of paper towel, as well as a bottle of water. As I looked around, people started taking stuff out of their coolers – vegetables and dip, drinks, salt and paper shakers. People started opening soda cans and boxes of triscits. Some people pulled out stools. They were picnicking inside the church, families sharing their food amongst each other, waiting for the main dishes to be served. I had never seen anything like it.
Wearing plastic aprons and rubber gloves, the servers poured into the congregation room and broke off into pairs, each pair carrying a huge pot of soup which they generously ladled into paper bowls and Tupperware containers.
When the pot was empty, they’d leave and emerge with another one. First I tried a caribou soup, then a duck soup, and the third was another caribou soup. All the soups were made by different people, so each had a different flavor and I wanted to be sure to sample the best. The soups contained bones with meat and fat still on them, and rice. At one point during the soup devouring, Doreen turned to me and said, “I’m so glad you came.” I replied with the same sentiment because it was true.
After the rounds and rounds of soup, the maktak was next. This time the pairs of servers carried plastic totes containing frozen slices of whale fat. Some people pulled out ulus and sliced just one brick of frozen maktak into bite-size pieces and ate it right there and then. The other bricks of maktak were destined for home.
Throughout all of this, individual people would go up to the pulpit and share a message of thanks, or at least that’s what I assumed they were saying. Others came up and sang. It was during a couple of women singing, as the fourth round of maktak was being distributed, that I decided to make my exit. I had sat there for two and half hours, drank a lot of soup, ate two pieces of raw maktak, and was getting antsy. Plus, I still needed to make a butternut squash soup for the American Thanksgiving meal I was attending later that evening.
Even though I had never seen anything like it, the atmosphere was familiar – the Inupiat people regard food in the same way the Chinese do. They aren’t bashful about food. There’s no polite etiquette to eating. They eat and enjoy, making a mess in the process. The people in church eagerly held out their bowls for more soup as the servers were approaching; they didn’t wait to be asked if they wanted more. Everyone had a spoon, but most people just drank the soup out of the container it was in, as if it was a cup. They called out if someone’s bowl had been overlooked by a server. When the maktak was served in various rounds, large zip-lock bags and used plastic grocery bags were held out in anticipation. The frozen pieces of maktak were meant to be horded, taken home, put back in the freezer, or into packages to be sent to distant family members. It was nice to be among such a food frenzy. As odd as it all was, I very much felt comfortable and at ease.
Later that night I ate a more traditional Thanksgiving meal with the Saxton family. There was the usual – turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, squash soup, green bean casserole, a yam and marshmallow dish, stuffing, rolls, canned cranberry sauce – as well as the largest selection of homemade pies I had ever seen. Everyone served themselves, took their time eating, and ate their soup with a spoon.
posted by Siapiau | 8:27 PM
1 Comments:
My favorite part is that the score of the hymn does not have the Amen in the english version. Also of interest is that these scores are likely from different editions or publishers. They use different fonts and have different conventions of notation.
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