The Harvest Festival (Sept. 26)

The Service

In a country covered by farmland – 75% of England is farmland – you need to pay homage to the Lord for the harvest. The church service was held in the Norman church in our little village. We were joined by Phil, Kate and Ralph. Phil is Sarah’s partner in their practice. The trio are good family friends.

To set the scene succinctly, the day was rainy and raw. As we sat in a dank stone church, I understood why tweed jackets and corduroy (wide-wale) trousers were in abundance. They looked so warm and comfortable. Sarah forbade me to wear my wide-wale corduroys and guffawed at the mention of my tweed sports jacket (I really have one, with vents even) in the closet.

The vicar introduced the purpose for our gathering and led the service efficiently. After fifteen minutes, Ted Barclay, as the prominent farmer in the area, was asked to speak. Standing beneath the large plaque dedicated to his father, Major Barclay, Ted shared a crop report and compared Britain’s yield to India and China, reminding us of our relative imperviousness to any great variance in weather (drought, floods or other natural disasters). Seamlessly, he transitioned to thanks giving for the abundance of food. Hey, thanksgiving!

After Ted’s speech, the vicar launched forth with questions about the ingredients in bread. She asked what prayer mentions bread. Unable to resist an ecumenical moment, I yelled out, “The motzi.” (The Hebrew prayer over bread: Baruch atah adonia eloheynu olam, boray pree hagafen, hamotzi lechem Minnie Horowitz.) The congregants were stunned, momentarily taken off course, but as they witnessed Sarah’s elbow into my uncushioned, tweedless flank, were able to regain their focus and resume the service.

(I revert to some fictional accounts because I missed parts of the service due to a child, directly behind us, who talked and whinged (whining for you Americans) throughout the hour-long service. I know I sound like a curmudgeon but I’ve never witnessed anything like it.)

The service hummed along nicely with recitations by children and reached its pinnacle with the children’s choir leading “Pears and Apples.” Phil had mentioned, over breakfast, that he loved this hymn and he and James sang to the nave rafters with the fervor of Mahalia Jackson.

Pears and Apples – Lyrics

Pear and apples, wheat and grapes

Many textures, many shapes

Falling leaves in golden drifts

Thank you God, for harvest gifts

Flashing shoals of silver fish,

Every colour you could wish;

Fishing boats, for you and me

Reap the harvest of the sea

Deep beneath the ocean floor

Fuel and power have lain in store,

Brought to use through dangerous toil

Thank you, God, for gas and oil.

Coal black diamonds in the earth,

Ancient forests gave them brith;

Skill and labour now combine

Raping harvests of the mine.

Earth and ocean, plant and beast,

Altogether make the feast;

All who long to share your grace

At your table have their place.

Loving Lord, we know you care;

May we all your goodness share;

Save us from all selfish greed,

Finding you in those who need.

The Meal

The service was followed by a Sunday roast – leg of lamb and many other fixin’s – in the village hall across from the church. The meal for 50, prepared by 3 women in the hall’s tiny kitchen, was delicious. We chatted with village folk, giving me a better opportunity to see the character and community spirit of Brent Pelham in full. 

The real focus of the meal was the three blackberry-apple crumbles including one by neighbor Jo. Jo is the standard-bearer and the one I look to take the measure of my crumbles. I chose not to embarrass Sarah (or myself) and only partook of Jo’s crumble.

By the way, the following day, I made another crumble after a walk to pick blackberries. This time I reduced the amount of cinnamon and didn’t overcook the apples when I carmelized them. James had tea at Jo and Woody’s with Tom and then they came back to our house for pudding (what we Americans call “dessert”). Jo, with a discerning palate, gave the thumbs up. I still haven’t gotten the magical response that you see in Chocolat, Babette’s Feast, or Like Water for Chocolate - a sort of mesmerized, transported glaze in the eyes. My standards may be too high or it may take more than an apple-blackberry crumble.

After the meal, we lingered a while. The skies relented and we headed back home, bellies full and glad that the whingeing child lives at the other end of the village.