Editor’s note:Upon request of content from friends with the idea of recipes, Mark Goldwater asked Vienna Scheyer to send him the recipe of the Mashed Turnips they made during their trip to Cape Cod. This story was too good to skimp on, and I asked for more. Prior to making these Mashed Turnips, they had gone to a Turnip Festival. This is their story.
The Turnip Festival
Tell me more about where it was, when it was, why you attended, and how you all chose to attend this?
As our peers headed home for Thanksgiving break, we decided to embark on a Great American Pilgrimage. This time, though, we elected to break from the storied traditions of our forefathers and head Due East – more specifically, to Eastham, Massachusetts, to the Eastham Turnip Festival hosted by Eastham Public Library at Nauset Regional High School. We expected it to be a small event – we were not sure how many people lived on Cape Cod all season long, and we were even less sure how many of them would spend a beautiful fall afternoon in a high school gymnasium celebrating an underappreciated root vegetable. We quickly had that assumption turned-upside down when saw just how much traffic there was to enter the parking area.
Much like the pilgrims, we arrived at land that clearly was not ours and decided to push forward anyways – we parked on grass a short walk away from the entrance and followed the crowds of fellow turnip enthusiasts into the high school. We were kindly greeted at the door and were handed a schedule and map. Much like the high school itself, the schedule was packed – there were bands playing all day, a juggler performing for literally four hours in the auditorium, a turnip cooking competition in the cafeteria, local vendors, concessions, the “Turn Up Zone For Kids,” turnip games, and probably even more events that we could remember if we had not returned the map and schedule on our way out so the next festival attendees could use it. We started our day by checking out all of these events. At a table among the vendors, we even got to guess the weight of the enormous turnip (note that Google does not provide great results when you try to find the density of a turnip). We are still waiting on the call to confirm that we clearly had the correct value.
The highlights, however, took place on the center stage (half of the gymnasium) – there we got to experience the blessing of the turnips, the crowning of the turnip king and queen (the library volunteers of the year), and performances from a competition for song parodies with turnip-themed lyrics (hearing a turnip-themed rendition of ‘Wagon Wheel’ was especially painful). There were also opportunities to experience turnip line dancing and a turnip shucking competition. Truly a wonderful day!
The Turnip Blessing
Please write something here about the experience. Pictures are allowed if you don’t want to write something.
One of the most special parts of the turnip festival happened right at the beginning, with the blessing of a single turnip. A radio host from WGBH took the mic at center stage, held up a turnip with one hand, and with the backdrop of some wonderful instrumental music, freestyle rapped (or recited?) an ode to the humble turnip. We all cried.
Later, when trying to make mashed turnips in our home, we tried to recreate this blessing. While we definitely did not capture the beauty of the blessing we witnessed, we did replicate the emotional depth.
The Mashed Turnips Recipe taken from The Spruce Eats and can be found by searching on Google, “The Spruce Eats Delicious Mashed Turnips.” Recipe was written by Molly Watson and rewritten by the contributors of this article.
Ingredients: Blessed turnips, a small amount of butter, and misc. spices.
Instructions: First, bless the turnips. This is the most important step. We honestly just peeled turnips, cut them into cubes, boiled them for 30 minutes, added a small amount of butter and misc. spices, and then beat the shit out of them with a (washed) nalgene.
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“My favorite movie is Big Fish because it is a unique story with amazing cinematography. It celebrates stories, imagination, love, and seeing things in different ways! It gets me right here (points to heart)!”
– Adva, Staff
“I’m thankful I have enough time in my life to think deeply about my values”
– Anonymous, Second Year Student
“No matter where you land on the political spectrum, The Bell Curve, by Richard J. Herrnstein & Charles Murray is worth a read. It discusses the relationship between socioeconomic status and intelligence, equality of opportunity, and the consequences of large scale migration. If you’re interested, it’s pretty easy to find a free PDF online.” – Anonymous
– Anonymous, Third Year Student
“‘IF THINGS WERE A LITTLE DIFFERENT YOU WOULD DIGEST YOURSELF THROUGH A CUT IN YOUR MOUTH. IT’S A RELIEF TO KNOW THERE ARE PROVISIONS AGAINST THIS.’ – Jenny Holzer”
– Anonymous, Third Year Student
“The following is an email that I sent to my sister in 2006. She replied to it last week/13 years later. Unrelated second paragraph included for my own on-brand-Librarian time capsule lolz.
‘I have one final left, in two and a half weeks. The rest of that time I plan to spend reading books and seeing blockbusters. We saw Mission Impossible 3 last night and if you do anything in life, it should be to see that movie. It’s all that you could ask for in a movie. There’s even a scene where Philip Seymour Hoffman beats up another Philip Seymour Hoffman!!!
My new form of procrastination is Wikipedia. They have EVERYTHING on there. Today I won a fight about zorses, in that they do exist. Wikipedia proved it. I LOVE Wikipedia.’
2019 notes: I still all-caps LOVE every Mission Impossible. If you want a truly terrible Mission Impossible movie, just watch Hudson Hawk (but don’t).”
While it took the white supremacist who aimed to kill the “growing Hispanic Population” 10-11 hours to get to El Paso, he could’ve easily have gone to my hometown of Laredo, which is only eight hours away from Allen, the suburb off of diverse Dallas. If you remember my story slam piece, I’m from Texas. Specifically, I was born in Laredo and now live in San Antonio. Except I kinda live in New England these days as I’ve been at Olin and have worked here over the summers for two years now.
Sometimes leaving makes me feel like I’m guilty of a crime. When I was in highschool, I left Laredo for San Antonio because my mom got married. He had a job; my mom had just lost hers. It made sense. We didn’t choose San Antonio because it was safer. When I left San Antonio for college, I left to escape “events I can’t speak of sober” that happened at home. Not because Texas was unsafe. I mean it was, for me, but not because I was a documented Mexican-American.
But the truth is, I went to a safer place for brown immigrants. People are more likely to be massacred at a highly Hispanic city, like the ones I left, than a small white college no one knows about. “Is my city going to be the next location of another domestic terrorist attack?” is a thought I share with friends and family, even other Oliners. I should feel safe knowing that I’m not in those cities anymore, but leaving the violence feels wrong. I left, I did. But I didn’t bring my family with me. I left them to the coyotes.
They are people leaving violence, seeking asylum and dying doing so. If they don’t die along the way, they are put in concentration camps. They’re being starved, denied health care, left to die, and being sexually abused, again. But don’t forget why they’re seeking asylum. These people (families, children, or whatever you want to call them, just don’t forget they’re humans) are seeking a better place than the ones they’re leaving. I’m not going to detail what they’re leaving or what they’re experiencing because those articles just make me hurt all over. IWhat those who are crossing and those being detained are facing, whether they’re wrong or not, is inhumane. Maybe the right word for what I’m feeling isn’t guilt. Maybe it’s shame. I feel ashamed for not suffering with everyone else like me. Maybe it’s fear. I’m waiting for the next attack to be closer. Maybe it’s disgust. I’m complaining about American Cheese while so many inexplicable horrors are happening. I left my neighborhood, but I didn’t leave the violence on the news. I didn’t leave my worry behind. I didn’t leave the desire to be at home. A home currently targeted by white supremacy and over run with fear. Because even as El Pasoans are buying self defense weapons, they’re still afraid.Why would they need to defend themselves if they weren’t? My friends are all sharing posts warning of the next attack even if they’re false because we are all afraid. We don’t even know what to say about this fear, except the same thing over and over again: “It could’ve been us. It could be us.” I have wanted my family. All this time, I’ve struggled to feel comfortable at this college and at my summer jobs. I was just one of the few like me. I was brown, but apologetic. I’ve struggled between knowing I should be worried about all the things happening in the border but being unable to cope if I was. Maybe if things were bad at college like at home, I’d feel like I found the right place. Maybe if instead of going to therapy to cope with the past, facing my nightmares would feel familiar enough that I could feign comfort.
I have dealt with terrible things often in my life, but my mom has helped me get through them. At college though, I’m alone in processing what events like the El Paso shooting mean. I’m isolated from my family in a time where I want them around me for safety. No matter how many times I video call my mom, that will not change. No matter how good our wi-fi connections are, our phones are incapable of sharing the warmth and hope my mother radiates.
Last year, when the children crossing the border started being separated from their parents, I could not drag myself out of bed. I could not stop crying. I couldn’t show up to work. During that period, I went to therapy and was talking to my mom. My therapist talked about how maybe my obsession with the safety of these children was because I almost lost my mom several times, but that did not make me feel better. It was only when my mom lied to me that I had a sense of relief. She told me it was going to end soon. Here we are a year later. I knew that it was a lie. I was still able to tell people my mother lied to me and yet feel comfort me as it was the truth. My mom’s lie felt like a prayer. I didn’t ask her to, but maybe she knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it together without her trying to make me feel better. So here I am, finding myself seeking lies, feeling guilty, ashamed, disgusted, and afraid. I’m not sure if I’m losing myself or growing a thicker skin. I’m just trying to get through college, like you are. I’m not trying to focus on the news and crumble instead of getting a degree. I’m trying to focus on the new problem set and grow, just like you are. I want to thank everyone who has donated their time by protesting or volunteering with those affected or donating money to charities. Thank you for being public about it and calling those around you to help as well. Doing that makes Olin feel a little bit safer to call home.