Baby It's Cold Outside

Our latest cold snap has been bitterly cold.  Snow and ice have covered almost everything.  My car windows have been frozen shut for 5 days, which makes entering and exiting parking garages ridiculously difficult.  It's been nice to snuggle warmly inside and gaze at the frozen tundra through frosty windows. 

 

This kind of weather begs for  slow simmered beef stews, cassoulets, or soup beans with cornbread. Food that warms the house and soul.  Or does it?  Of course it does...sometimes.  Last night, I decided to defy mother nature and eschew that concept.  I wanted to cook something bright and fun.  Something  unexpected.  I needed to shed my flannel pajamas and don my light-as-air Heddy Lamar silk ones, if only for one night.  Grilling was the answer.  Grilling inside, that is.  I had a blast.

I lugged our 25 pound cast iron grill pan from the top shelf of the cabinet and plunked it onto the stove top.  I had a few grilling options and couldn't decide on any of of them, so I simply combined them into a mixed grill with gorgeous fresh-water jumbo prawns, ground italian sausage, roma tomatoes, green peppers, and purple onions.  Skewers.  I threaded  wooden skewers with alternating tomatoes and prawns alongside skewers with rolled italian sausage balls, peppers, and onions.  After battling our kitten during the process, I slid the skewers  into the refrigerator to chill.

I wanted playful side dishes to accompany the mixed grill skewers.  For a fun take on potatoes I decided to roast Hassleback/Accordian potatoes.  With a wee bit of care, they're simple to prepare.  After peeling and rinsing two large potatoes, I carefully sliced slits from one end to the other without cutting all the way through the potatoes. When the oven beeped at 350 degrees, I brushed the potatoes with an olive oil butter combination and slid them into the hot oven to roast. As they roasted, the potatoes fanned out and looked like little potato accordians. Cool.

Although there were snippets of vegetables on the skewers with the meats, I needed more.  I braised radishes.  Yep.  After snipping the ends from the radishes, I halved a few, quartered some, and left the rest whole before tumbling them into a small skillet with slivered purple onions, 3 butter pats, olive oil, honey, 1/4 cup water, salt, pepper, and a splash of vinegar.  When the braising liquid reached a boil, I reduced it to a simmer, covered the skillet, and let it bubble away until the radishes were tender.

While the potatoes roasted and the radishes braised, I whipped up a quick fresh chive parsley pesto to accompany the grilled skewers. 

A few glasses of wine later, it was time to fire the grill.  I got our heavy grill pan screaming hot, rubbed it with oil, and carefully placed the prawn/sausage skewers onto the smoking grill ridges of the pan.  It didn't take long for the vegetables, prawns, and sausages to caramelize, blister, and char.  I swiped  ribbons of the fresh chive parsley pesto onto our plates and topped them with the skewers.  I carefully plated the potatoes, nestling the beautiful braised radishes beside them.  On a whim, I brushed the italian sausage with red pepper relish for sheen and sweetness.

Holy Moley!  Flavor explosions.  The prawns were butter tender and sweet with collapsed caramelized tomatoes encasing them.  The  pesto grounded the smoky flavor, bits of char, and succulent prawn meat with nutty herbal undertones. In contrast, the blistered pepper-relish glazed grilled sausages were meaty and moist, rendering their pork juices into puddles on our plates.  Earthy bright pesto swirled with sweet pork fat.  The grilling went quickly which allowed the peppers and onions to retain a caramelized bite.

The accordian potatoes were fantastic with snappingly crisp golden exteriors revealing buttery soft white potato flesh.  They tasted like sauteed potatoes standing at attention.   

The braised radishes were an utter surprize. They completely aborbed the buttery sweet salty braising liquid and turned almost translucent when cooked.  Like edible jewels, they glowed with soft bites releasing a mellow subtle radish flavor. Remarkable, really.  

It was a fun meal.

Although seemingly outlandish, the bold ingredients actually enhanced each other and melded together with  quiet crazy nuance.

Yeah, it was freezing outside.  The heat from our indoor grilling steamed the kitchen windows, creating a heavenly aromatic sauna.

It was a delicious respite from the cold.

Buck Rarebit

Old school Welsh Rarebit. Cheese on toast or, more importantly, melted cheese sauce on toast. In the 18th century it was considered poor peoples food because only the wealthy could afford butcher's meat in Wales. The poor man's meat was cheese.  Rarebit is simply toast topped with a basic sharp cheddar cheese sauce that includes  beer, worchestershire, cayenne, and dijon mustard.  The sauce is poured over toasted bread and broiled. That's it.  There are a few varients on Welsh Rarebit. Adding tomato to the cheese sauce creates a Blushing Bunny.  The Hot Brown is a variation with turkey, ham, bacon, and tomato.

Crowning Welsh Rarebit with jiggly fried eggs elevates it to Buck Rarebit.

On our way home from church yesterday I asked Michael if he'd like pizza for dinner.  Pause.  Or, Welsh Rarebit topped with sunny-side-up fried eggs and home fries.  He thought about it for a moment and said, "I'm leaning toward the Rarebit."

I should have just asked, "Do you mind cooking dinner?" It wasn't intentional.  Really.  I can't fry eggs.  I can poach the hell out of any egg.  I can make lovely omelettes, souffles, and quiches, but  I can't properly fry a stupid egg.  On top of that, Michael's home fries are better than mine.  He takes the time to coax the natural caramlization from the  potatoes' exteriors while retaining their luscious creamy interiors.  I don't.  I turn an oiled cast iron skillet to high heat, toss in the potatoes, and leave the room.  Why?  If I knew, I wouldn't do it.  I just do.  Frying eggs and making home fries are two of Michael's many kitchen fortes.

I made the cheese sauce for our Welsh Rarebit last night.  While I sat on a kitchen stool drinking wine, Michael masterfully cooked the rest of our dinner.

I must admit, it was enjoyable. 

The eggs were perfectly cooked.  The white edges were crisp, grasping onto the gooey cheese. The jiggly runny yolks oozed into the cheese sauce when sliced.  Egg heaven.  The potatoes were crisp and creamy with salty bites of country ham and bacon dotted throughout.  Perfect foil to the rich Rarebit.

Snipped chives added color with a gratuitous  nod to freshness, but were totally lost in the creamy cheesy egg goodness. 

Eggs are always delicious on top of anything and everything. Welsh Rarebit turned into Buck Rarebit is a stress free way to enjoy them. 

 

Especially when someone else does the cooking.

The Festival Of Lights

We visited and toured the Holocaust Memorial Museum on our last trip to Washington, D.C.  Upon entering the musuem, we were handed indentification cards representing real life prisoners of Nazi concentration camps.  The I.D. cards contained their photographs, biographical profiles, and accounts of their lives in the concentration camps  from 1933-1939.  We carried those cards with us as we journeyed through the museum experiencing the horrors of the Holocaust. The concept was remarkable because it personalized the journey by matching faces and personel stories to the suffering that was endured in those camps. It was sobering. Somber. Solemn. When we exited the exhibit portion of the Holocaust Memorial Museum, we turned to the final pages of our I.D. cards to find out the ultimate fate of our people.  Did they survive or did they perish?

They perished.

We were so moved by the experience that we purchased a Menorah in the Museum Shop;  and have celebrated Hanukkah every year since that day with the lighting of our Menorah.  Although we are not Jewish, we honor the Jewish traditions with the Festival of Lights.  Hanukkah.  The Menorah.  Candles.  Light.

There are three blessings that are recited at different times when  lighting the Menorah during Hanukkah. The first year we celebrated, we read the blessings in Hebrew. It wasn't pretty. We now recite English translations.  The opening prayer is read only on the first night of Hanukkah.

   Bonukh Ato Adoynoy Eloyheynu Melekh Ho-oyton Asher
   Kiddeshonu Be-mitsvoyosv Va-tsivonu

   Ladhadik Ney Shel khanuko.

   Blessed are You, Lord our God, Kings of the Universe, who has
   sanctified us by his commandments,and
   has commanded us to kindle the lights of Hanukkah.

The candles are lit at sundown from right to left on successive nights for eight days. They burn until they are gone.

Food is traditionally an integral part of most Jewish holidays.

One of our traditions is to eat Matzoh Ball Soup during the first weekend of Hanukkah. Yeah, pretty safe. But, it's easy and delicious.

I made a very simple chicken stock the night before the actual soup came together.  I pulled chicken backs, parts, and wings from the freezer to thaw before tossing them into a small stock pot with bay leaves, peppercorns, carrots, celery, onions, parsley sprigs, and enough water to barely cover the meat. I brought the stock  to a boil, reduced it to a simmer, skimmed the scum, and let it gently bubble away for a few hours.

Unlike traditional stock making, I didn't strain the stock when it was finished.  I placed the cooled pot into the refrigerator to chill and coagulate the chicken fat.  I needed the fat (shmaltz) for the matzoh balls.

The next morning, I pulled  the chicken meat from the bones, tossed the spent vegetables, and skimmed the congealed fat from the surface of the stock. I whipped the shmaltz with two eggs before incorporating it with 3/4 cups matzoh meal, minced parsley, salt, and pepper.  I slid the matzoh batter  into the refrigerator for an hour to allow it to chill and set up.  Once firm, I rolled the dough into balls and simmered them in a large pot of boiling water. While the matzoh balls cooked, I sliced fresh carrots, parsnips, celery, and onion; and added them to simmering  chicken stock  to gently poach and soften.

After an hour of simmering, the vegetables and matzoh balls were ready to combine into  glorious bowls of soup.

I placed a few matzoh balls into large pasta bowls, adding the reserved cooked chicken, the poached vegetables, fresh squeezed lemon juice, and a shower of  snipped chives.

It was a very humble soup.  No thunder claps shook the culinary universe.

It was comforting and warm.  The stock was rich, silken, and bright from the lemon addition. Sweet carrots and parsnips poked through adding body and depth.  The parsley-studded matzoh balls were light and pillowy, having plumped from the long stove top simmer.  Like dumplings, the texture was soft and chewy, but the matzoh meal provided a grainier bite.Tiny snipped chives added fresh grassy hints of onion. Simply delicious.

Happy Hanukkah! 

Meat & Potatoes

I needed a potato dish to serve with grilled steak last night. A lot things came to mind.   Although baked potatoes seemed the obvious choice, I wasn't inspired by the thought of them. My father baked a mean potato.  He'd slice them halfway through and stuff them with thinly sliced carrots, onions, and celery.  Before wrapping them in foil to bake, he'd wrap a slice of bacon around the cut sides of the potatoes.  They were fantastic.  Very aromatic.  We'll ocassionally have them like that, but last night I didn't have carrots or celery. We usually prepare baked potatoes with the method I learned in school; rubbed with olive oil, covered in kosher salt, skewered with metal skewers, and roasted.  The salt draws the moisture out of the potatoes, leaving flaky light baked potatoes.

I thought about scalloped potatoes, but had no cheese or cream. Classic Potatoes Anna or Pommes Anna  consists of thinly sliced potatoes, melted butter, salt, and pepper.  I certainly had those ingredients.  I''ll admit, I always thought Potatoes Anna had gruyere cheese between the layers.  That just sounded right...and tasty. Nope. Potatoes, butter, salt, and pepper.  Period.

Using my mandoline, I thinly sliced potatoes  before layering them in a heavy skillet with salt,  pepper, parsley, and a lot of melted butter. I baked the potatoes for 45 minutes until browned, inverted  the huge potato cake onto a plate, and cut it into wedges to serve.  Easy.

 

When sliced, the crisp exterior gave way to creamy buttery potato layers.  Nudged alongside orange-zested creamed spinach, The Anna wedge paired beautifully with grilled  garlic-marinated  sirloin steaks.  I served the steaks on a pool of reduced red wine swirled with creme fraiche topped with butter and parsley.  Words fail.

Outrageous.

After The Bird

Another Thanksgiving has quietly slipped away.  One of the joys of a low key holiday is that it comes and goes without trauma. There were no decorations to take down.  No furniture to  re-position. Thanksgiving simply.....happened.  We ate, drank, ate, and napped.  Beautifully, I might add.

We had no stress.  In fact, I had to wake Michael up from  napping when it was time to eat. He came down  our grand staircase as I was whisking the turkey pan jus into glorious thickened giblet gravy.

It was a great day of cooking and lounging.

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving.  Michael, through tears, read our Thanksgiving blessings from his original tattered Book Of Common Prayer. We ate.  We moaned.  We ate more.

We had  oysters on the half shell well before our meal as an amuse bouche.  A gigantic amuse bouche with a peppery vinegar mignonette sauce, cocktail sauce, fresh lemon, and saltine crackers.  Gulps of briny goodness. Briny clean tasting oyster bombs housed within muddy shells with ocassional pea crabs poking through. Heaven.

Leftovers.

 We had plenty of leftovers.  A 15 pound turkey for two people goes a long way.  A very long way.  Last year, we forgot to buy bread, which meant no turkey sandwiches. Not one. This year, bread was boldly underlined three times on our shopping list. We had sandwiches this year.   Michael took the traditional route.  I had mine with double mayo, pickles, lettuce, tomato, sliced onion, Sriracha, salt, pepper, and a pile of Grippo's Bar-B-Q chips.

We had plate after plate of Thanksgiving turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, dressing, and gravy.

The leftovers were fantastic.  Familiar.  Delicious.

Tedious.

Though wonderful, the usual line-up got old.  Weary.

I couldn't take it anymore.  Really.  Nope. No. Nada. I couldn't stare at or eat another plate of brown food.  Not even a shower of fresh parsley could  jar my palate from its unctuous culinary labatomy.

We weren't tired of turkey.  We were tired of those flavors.

 I promised Michael I wouldn't make another turkey soup this year.  Or Hot Brown.  Or Turkey Hash.

Last night, I ventured very far away from traditional Thanksgiving flavors.  1,200 miles away for the tastes of Mexico. We would still have turkey leftovers, but they would  be jacked up. Way up.  Leftovers on steroids.

 I needed to clear stuff from the refrigerator and pantry.  I decided to treat the turkey like ground beef and make  piccadillo stacked tostados with cheese filled chili rellenos.

I placed poblano chilis over a gas flame to char and blister the skins.  Once blackened, I dropped them into a pastic bag to steam and cool down. After removing the smoky blistered skins, I carefully cut  small slits on one side of the peppers, removed the seeds, stuffed them with queso blanco cheese, and set them aside.

Picadillo is traditionally a dish of sauteed ground beef, onions, garlic, and green peppers.  Some recipes add raisins.  Puerto Rican recipes include green olives.  I had olives.  I didn't have raisins.  I sauteed sliced green peppers, onions, garlic, and quartered tomatillos until softened  before adding sliced turkey, chicken stock, tomatoes, coriander, annatto, roasted red peppers, and halved spanish olives.  I let the picadillo simmer for 30 minutes while I prepared the tostados.

After arranging six fried corn tortillas on a baking sheet, I topped them with sharp cheddar cheese, crumbled cotija cheese, dried mexican oregano, and dried epazote.  I slid the tostados into a 350 oven to crisp the shells and melt the cheeses. 

While the picadillo simmered and the shells baked, I dipped the roasted stuffed poblano peppers  into  whipped egg whites, dropped in the deep fryer to brown, and set them on paper towels to drain.

I pulled the shells from the oven and spooned the turkey picadillo over the melted cheeses, stacking the tostados three layers high. 

Soft runny mexican crema  drizzled over the tops dripped down the sides of the stacked tostados.  I tumbled tart fresh quartered tomatillos and green peppers around the stacks for bright freshness. Halved limes and yellow rice finished it off.

It was a far cry from Thanksgiving turkey.  The sleepy flavors of our previous turkey meals were thankfully gone. Briny olives, acidic tomatoes, sharp tomatillos, sweet onions, and sauteed peppers replaced the  richness of giblet gravy.  The piccadillo was bright, spicy, and alive, soothed by the silken oozing dripping crema.  The crunches and crackles of the stacked tostados were welcome relief from the previous days dreamy soft food. Fun to eat.  Messy.  Loud.

The chili rellenos were gratuitous. Yeah, they were tasty. But, they didn't beg devouring like everything else on the plate. 

Our dinner last night was a great finale for Thanksgiving leftovers and a fantastic ending to a Thanksgiving weekend.

This morning, I bagged the remaining turkey and tossed it into the freezer.  It'll get lost in there for a while, hiding under shrimp shells, frozen meat, and chicken backs. 

When rediscovered, maybe we'll have a proper plate of turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

And, be thankful for it.

Before The Turkey

The last few days before Thanksgiving can be a funky time for food.  We're all thinking about roast turkey, side dishes, and desserts.  Not only are we thinking about them, we are usually prepping them for the big day and getting everything organized. I don't want to eat anything on those funky days prior to the big meal that has anything to do with the flavors of Thanksgiving.  I want to anticipate the aromas, textures, and tastes of Thanksgiving while waiting for the actual day to unfold itself in gutteral gluttonous glory. 
Retaurants and fast food chains can be tricky during the funky days, offering turkey, cranberry, and dressing sandwiches.  Pre holiday offices parties can also pose problems for the pre-Thanksgiving-day-meal taste avoiders with their joyous holiday potluck lunches.  Why can't everyone just wait?  There is nothing better than those first bites of the Thanksgiving meal.

It takes will power.

We have been strong.  A few nights ago, I prepared an appetizer buffet for Arts & Appetizers, an event sponsored by the Lexington Opera House.  It lasted through our dinner hour, so we ate a few nibbles from the buffet: Teriyaki Meatballs with fresh ginger, sesame seeds, cilantro, and pineapple; smoked salmon with capers, minced egg yolks, minced egg whites, minced purple onions, and capers; and Salmon Caviar-topped new potatoes with sour cream.  Later that night we ate cheese on crackers while watching  television.

A couple of nights ago, we ordered out for chinese delivery and devoured plump thick steamed pork dumplings with a sweet soy sesame dipping sauce.  I loved taking  small bites from the ends of the dumplings, pouring the dipping sauce into the cavities, and eating them whole for  porky dumpling-sauce-filled  mouth explosions. Yep. Messy.  So good.
Thaksgiving flavors averted.

Last night, I needed to clear space in our refrigerator and freezer  for the upcoming Thanksgiving leftovers.  I had a bag of lemons, heavy cream, purple pearl onions, a scraggily green pepper, grape tomatoes, and fresh pasta from a meal that never materialized.  Jumbo shrimp was occupying valuable space in the freezer, so I pulled it out to thaw.  The ingrediants practically cooked themselves.

It was an embarrassingly simple no recipe recipe.

I prepped everything in advance knowing the actually cooking would go fast.  Stir fry fast.  I diced the pepper, split the tomatoes,  peeled the purple onions, thinly sliced  garlic cloves, and set  them aside. Before juicing two lemons, I pulled thin zest strips from the skin  to use as garnish.

I sauteed the onions, peppers, and garlic in butter until translucent.  After they had softened without browning, I tossed  the halved grape tomatoes into the pan to break down and release their juices.  Once the tomatoes  collapsed, I  poured in 1/2 cup of lemon juice along with thinly sliced lemon wheels and let the lemon juice reduce before adding 1 cup of heavy cream,1/2 cup of parmigiano reggiano (rule breaking),  minced parsley, salt, and pepper. 

While the lemon cream bubbled away, I got a cast iron grill pan smoking hot before carefully placing the seasoned, peeled, and deviened jumbo shrimp onto the smoking grill ridges. The shrimp crackled, spat, and popped as it sizzled over the high heat.  Before turning the shrimp over to mark the other side, I tossed fresh linguini into the cream bath to simmer, absorb, and finish cooking.

I pulled the shrimp from the heat, twirled the linguini into large pasta bowls, and wedged the shrimp around the pasta.  I tumbled a few whole grape tomatoes around our plates along with  thinly sliced lemon wheels for bursts of freshness.  Fleur de sel, lemon zest,  and parsley finished it off.

The pasta totally absorbed the creamy lemon sauce.  Each linguine strand was gorgeously coated with buttery lemon alfredo sauce. Interesting.  I didn't realize pasta could absorb that much sauce.  It wasn't swimming in a cream bath, it became  the cream bath. Weird.  Though rich, it wasn't icky rich.  The fresh lemon juice lightened and brightened it.  The tomatoes added very sweet acidiity while the tiny pearl onions popped with quiet  pungency. The seared shrimp snapped when bitten, revealing moist briny meat.

Unbelievable good.  Slurpingly good. Linguini strands slapped our cheeks between bites of shrimp. Creamy lemony cheesy facials.  Wet naps? Nope. Tongues were made  for licking.

We  survived the final Thanksgiving preparation days without tasting Thanksgiving flavors.

We can't wait for tomorrow.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Traditions

What makes up our Thanksgiving traditions?  The food?  Our memories? Our families?

My Thanksgiving traditions got off to a slow start. I don't recall ever celebrating Thanksgiving in Europe as a child.  Frau Olga wouldn't have thought to roast a turkey.  It wasn't her tradition.  She was simply  happy to be alive and thankful to have escaped  communist controlled  Czechoslovikia to live safely with our family in Vienna.  That was something to be thankful for. Was it worthy of a beautifully browned roasted turkey? Hardly.  Never happened. Crispy fried schnitzel with cups of garnished consomme, maybe. Turkey? Not a chance.

After a few years in Austria, we moved to Africa. We were housed on an army base surrounded by 20' concrete walls topped with swirling barbed wire to protect us from phantom enemies. Hot and sand-ridden, it was a far cry from the  Black Forest of Vienna. Ababa, my Ethiopian nanny, was bussed onto the army base every day (from the other side of the concrete wall) to care for our family.  She lived a very simple sparse life, but was always joyous, content, and thankful to have a job. I worshiped her.   Although she loved us dearly, we wouldn't have asked her to roast a turkey for Thanksgiving.  Doro Wat with injera bread? Yep. Turkey?  In Africa?  Nope.

My Thanksgiving traditons started building  after my father retired from the army and we moved to Western Kentucky to live with my grandparents on their farm. Their farmhouse was perched on a hill, overlooking rolling fields, white picket fences, oil wells, and trees. With a hen house teetering against  a rickety smoked-ham shed, frightening  roosters freely roaming the grounds, and aggressive herds of cattle stampeding at whim, their farm was fascinating and horrifying. Because my grandmother spent every summer canning everything from her garden, her cellar housed what she needed for her part of the family Thanksgiving feast;  canned green beans, dusty canned tomatoes, creepy twisted potatoes, bright flourescent-green lime pickles, murky bread and butter pickles, and greyish canned corn.  

Even with a bountiful cellar, our family Thanksgiving dinners  were potlucks affairs at my grandparent's house. Like clockwork, the extended family arrived toting all kinds of food.   Her long kitchen counter would be lined  end to end with our traditional family feast.  All the food was grouped by likeness. The beige section featured stuffings, dressings, mashed potatoes, sweet poptatoes, corn pones, biscuits, yeast rolls, and  several varieties of ground beef laden baked beans topped with sticky sweet gooey bacon. The green category consisted mostly of Campbell's Soup casseroles.  Different versions of green bean and broccoli casseroles were lined up side by side as if they were to be judged for a county fair. Occasionally, an "other" casserole made an unexpected appearence. 

At the farthest end of her kitchen counter, near the fresh lemonade, assortments of  green, orange, red, and yellow gelatin salads jiggled with  crazy varieties of nuts, marshmallows, coconut, canned fruit, and whipped cream. They glowed from the sunlight streaming through  the lone kitchen window.

Every year, the Thanksgiving turkey was prepared by our designated turkey-cooking aunt.  She baked it overnight in a very low oven for 14 hours. A very, very low oven.  It was  tender and moist, but  never brown. There wasn't a hint of beautifully browned turkey skin. Nope. Nada. Nein. Was it moist and tender?  Yes. Was it pretty?  Uh, no.  The giblet gravy was the highlight of the meal for me. I was crazy about the hard boiled eggs suspended in thick brown gravy dotted with tender sliced  livers, gizzards, and hearts. Being an offal kind of kid,  I loved that stuff. While everyone else picked around the organs, I scooped them out with righteous ferver.

4 years after we moved to Kentucky, my father married Marge. Our families merged into a blended family. Marge was a sophisticated townie who cooked beautifully.  She brought her family's Thanksgiving traditions to our table. They were much different than my grandmother's traditions. Much different. Marge awoke very early on Thanksgiving mornings. She'd don her blue and white polka-dotted dress with matching navy heels and coordinating apron. Methodically, she would prepare our Thanksgiving meal from start to finish. From scratch. She never stressed, gliding through the kitchen like  Giselle sans Albrecht.  She'd dirty every dish in the kitchen, plate everything  on my mother's  bone china serving platters, and graciously place the food around the table.  After closing the kitchen doors to shield the unyielding mess, she'd come to the table with such relaxed ease, you'd have thought the entire meal had been prepared and air-dropped by the military.  I admired that. She was my hero.

Marge made a killer turkey. Deeply roasted, tender, and moist.  When sliced, the skin crackled.  I'd never seen or tasted anything like it.  Her wonderful dressing,  moist with crunchy edges,  was equalled only by  her smooth and rich giblet gravy dotted with organs and eggs. Creamed pearl onions (made with jarred Aunt Nellie onions), scalloped oysters, broccoli casserole, whipped potatoes, mashed yellow squash, and old school stuffed celery rounded out her meal. Without apology, she served sliced canned cranberry sauce over iceberg lettuce topped with dollops of mayonaise.   Betty Crocker elegant.  I adored it.

Simple.  Beautiful. Delicious.

After  the china had been carefully hand washed, she'd  gently pour hot steaming coffee  into tiny delicate mismatched porceline cups and serve it with pecan pie, pumpkin pie, and Bryer's Chocolate Chip Mint ice cream. 

The routine never changed.  It was Thanksgiving.

After Marge passed away, we continued our family Thanksgiving traditions.  My father insisted on it. Everything stayed the same. It had to. We kept her memeory alive with our food (her food) for 7 years until my father died.

I haven't been back for Thanksgiving since my father passed away, but it warms me to know that my  family keeps their traditions alive in various towns with their expanded families and new generations.  Memory making.  Tradition building.

Nowadays, it's just Michael and me here in our home for Thanksgiving. We spend our day wrapped in flannel  pajamas, caccooned from the world,  drinking bloody marys and screwdrivers.  We leisurely cook all day, happily enjoying the anticipation of our meal. No deadlines. No pressure. Just the two of us, bringing our individual family traditions together on Thanksgiving day. Although our traditions are different, they make up our whole. Our traditions.

Over the years, I've prepared our Thanksgiving turkeys every way imaginable; brined, herbed, larded with bacon, stuffed, unstuffed, and bagged. I've never ventured into world of deep fried turkey. The notion of deep frying a whole turkey in 1000 degree oil on our wooden deck next to our 130 year old wooden house maked me shiver. Nope.

Although the standards remain the same, we change things a bit up every year.  I now use fresh pearl onions instead of jarred Aunt Nellie onions, creamed with soft melted brie, heavy cream, fresh nutmeg, and sherry. Either fresh oysters on the half shell or Oysters Rockefeller have replaced  the familiar scalloped oysters. Michael whips potatoes into pillows of air and we serve his mother's fresh cranberry relish over split poached pears.  We wing the rest of the meal, depending on our moods. No pressure.

We haven't planned next week's Thanksgiving. meal...yet.  Whether we go old school, new school, or somewhere in between, the food will taste like home and remind us of all our Thanksgivings, families, and traditions.

The two of us will  sit in our pajamas at my parent's long dining room table, eat from my mother's beautiful wheat-patterned German  bone china,  pray our blessings,  enjoy a few glasses of Beuajolais Nouvous, and eat our Thanksgiving meal.  As a family.

 Traditions.

We all create them, live them,
and need them.