Privacy Matters

Humans are distinguished from other life forms by their opposable thumbs.  And Americans are distinguished from the subjects of other nations by the Fourth Amendment.  Anyone who watches TV has probably mastered the 4^th amendment fundamentals:  search and seizure without a warrant is unlawful, evidence gathered from an illegal search is “fruit of the poison tree,” and the government requires a court order to tap your phones.  It leaves us with a false sense of security, believing that we have a Constitutional right to our privacy.

Unfortunately, nothing can be further from the truth.  We live in a world where it is nearly impossible to cover our tracks.  If you use a cell phone, email, and Facebook, your every move is already recorded.    It may not be carved in stone, but you are certainly leaving a trail of bytes and cookies, as well as facilitating the rapid evaporation of your personal data, letters, pictures, and preferences into the cloud.  If you are like me, you are already bulging out all over cyberspace, getting thoroughly SPAM’d and phished many times daily.  I have lost count of how much of my life I have signed away by checking the “accept terms and conditions” boxes on various apps and websites.

I remember when the paradigm was to get everything “in writing.” As a child, it was fun to play with those thin shiny sheets of carbon paper.  I got a thrill from stacking alternating layers of paper and carbon, testing which writing implements got the greatest yield of layers.  Nothing made carbons like a Bic ballpoint.  I was excited to work as a temp in college, hoping for the opportunity to create multiple copies of official documents.  Sadly, my early employment years coincided with the mainstream deployment of Xerox machines, an adequate but far less satisfying method for cloning letters and reports.   It was just the first time that technology got out in front of me.

These days, we sign contracts, pay our bills, and file our taxes electronically without ever putting pen to paper.   We think nothing of giving our credit card numbers to any online retailer, along with our name, email address and phone number.  We do not think beyond the transaction, never questioning what happens after we log off.  And the disclosures in these transactions pale by comparison to the personal information that is exchanged by email.  Because emails are one-on-one conversations, we are foolish enough to believe they are private.   Snarky gossip or heartfelt confessions among friends or co-workers have a life well beyond the send button.  No one should make the mistake of expressing their anger or criticizing their bosses by email.   I used to advise the people in my department never to say anything by email they wouldn’t want their mother to see.

Given the recent revelations about David Petraeus and his assorted women friends, new questions about Internet and email privacy are being raised.  Many people, for example, are unaware that the government can access emails left on a server for more than 6 months without a warrant.   We are entering new territory that render our laws obsolete and leave the beloved Constitution sorely in need of updated reinterpretation.  No one wants wiretapping laws from the 1960s to determine whether the government can put GPS trackers on our cell phones!

Government abuse of private information is one thing.  What most online consumers are unaware of is the extent to which private companies, such as Google, Yahoo, and Facebook, collect and deploy our personal information.  It wasn’t until someone saw their neighbor’s photo on a billboard in Europe that we realized that we assigned property rights of our personal photos and other information about us to Facebook.   The games and apps on Facebook actually encourage the spilling of personal information, asking you to give up your friend lists and preferences.   

One of the most suspicious things I have seen is the suggestion that I use my Facebook username and password to tie in to other websites and applications.  While this cleverly masquerades as a convenience, it is nothing more than encouragement to give up my behaviors to Facebook.  Other sites create incentives in the form of large percentage discount coupons just for subscribing or “Like”-ing them.  The subscription is a license to hit you with one of those obtuse “Terms and Conditions” statements.  Buried in those annoying statements (that are conveniently tucked away off screen), they assert their right to put our preferences to use.  The results seem innocuous on our own computers, but we will never know exactly how deeply or widely our information is being used.  Consider those bandwagon teases in the side margins of Facebook and Google products declaring that Anna likes Whoopie Pies or Justin likes Plain Brown Wrapper Adult Products (fiction alert).  I always imagine my own name and picture in that spot.  Do I want my web purchase of undergarments to be advertised to my high school English teacher or former clients? 

We are badly in need of a consumer revolution.  The Internet industrial complex arose so quickly that a few private corporations are setting policies and practices that far exceed our ability to scrutinize or fight them.   I believe that we are being held hostage by unfavorable terms and conditions.  It is an all or nothing game where we are being forced to compromise our standards of privacy in order to play.  For now, these corporations have unchecked monopolistic powers.   In the meantime, I offer the following advice:

·         Do not use employer computers or email for personal communication.  Many employers have policies that state that their emails are not private.  Many websites use cookies to store information on computers that could violate employer guidelines.

·         Do not agree to participate in games and applications on Facebook that grant permission to share your Friends lists and preferences.  Be aware that many applications (Calendar, Spotify, Farmville, Words with Friends) broadcast every more you make to your Friends list.

·         To the extent possible, when you wish to read or access links posted to Facebook, copy the URL to a fresh browser.

·         Check your privacy settings frequently as the features and capabilities change periodically and without notice.

·         To the extent possible, vary your passwords from application to application.

If all this sounds a little pessimistic or cynical, start paying attention to the relationship between where you go on the Internet and the Facebook adds you see, the email SPAM you receive, and the unsolicited phone calls you get (I get several per day despite being on the National Do-Not-Call Registry).  The Internet may be a superhighway, am not giving up trying to keep my hands on the wheel.

Influenza

Fear gives birth to poetry.  The punchline is, "Ouch."

 

Influenza Tales

Historically, the quest for public health

Meant quarantine and leeches were your fate--

It mattered not if you were born to wealth

Bacteria do not discriminate.

To find a cure requires many trials--

Experiments are hard to replicate,

Sly Nature likes to tease with mutant wiles,

Making viruses tough to eradicate.

So thankfully we have a flu vaccine

To get us through the winter in the pink,

But needles change me to a drama queen,

And push my disposition to the brink.

Beware of husbands bearing gifts and charm--

It’s time for me to take it in the arm.

Use Your Noodle

All this recent talk of holidays and recipes has made me nostalgic and hungry.  So many holiday traditions get typecast, forcing us to limit our thoughts about those foods only around the appropriate holiday.  For example, I love turkey, but I only go through the trouble of roasting one for Thanksgiving.  In truth, it is an affordable and lean protein that keeps on giving for days afterward.  Every Thanksgiving I make a mental note to try buying boneless turkey breasts, allowing us to enjoy the flavors of fresh roasted turkey frequently throughout the year but with considerably less fuss.    Before I get around to doing this, however, it seems that Thanksgiving is once again upon us.

One holiday flavor from my childhood that I love is ‘Lokshen Kugel.”  Kugel means ‘pudding’ in Yiddish, and ‘lokshen kugel’ is a sweet pudding made from flat noodles.  It is a staple of Eastern European Jewish holiday tables, although as it is rich in eggs and dairy, traditionally it would not be served with meat.  Kugel finds its way into everything from observing Shabbat (the Sabbath), breaking the fast of Yom Kippur, and celebration of Shavuot—a holiday following Passover that commemorates the giving of the Torah.  Shabbat and Yom Kippur rely heavily on foods cooked in advance while Shavuot is celebrated traditionally with dairy products.  In our house, Lokshen Kugel makes an appearance year round.

I am surprised that lokshen kugel has not made its way into the culinary mainstream the way bread pudding and French toast (known in Iron Chef circles as “pain perdu”) have.  It uses a similar construction of custard and flavorings tossed and baked with a starch.  Strictly speaking, it is a sweet macaroni and cheese.   The noodles give it a luxurious texture, trapping the sweet essence within their folds.  It works just as well warm or cold.  The stripped down pure version (recipe below) is my favorite, but it could easily be dressed up with everything from raisins and chopped pineapple (traditional, but not good to my taste) to Medjool dates and pistachios.   Imagine a rich bourbon sauce or sweet crème anglais paired with it.  Kugel is not just for dinner anymore!

I make lokshen kugel and hide it in the refrigerator before my kids come home from college.  I don’t say a word; I simply wait for the deep sigh to emerge when it is discovered by hungry scavengers.  It is one of the few delights that will cause my vegan daughter to stray into the land of eggs and dairy.  I use it as reward for a job well done, or as motherly comfort after a tough day.  Even more importantly, it is one of those foods that perpetuates my cultural DNA, connecting me to generations long past and to landsleit dispersed across the globe. 

A brief technical note about the noodles:  You can use any broad, flat noodle, such as a type appropriate to serve with Beef Stroganoff or Goulash.  Pennsylvania Dutch Extra Broad egg noodles are acceptable, however, I find that they have become curlier in recent years.  The variety called “No Yolks,” which is an egg-free product, produces a nice wide noodle with a good taste, despite its missing ingredient.  Sometimes the kosher section of a supermarket will sell a broad egg noodle (Friedman’s is a good brand) that has the ideal width—about ¾ of an inch.  The wider and flatter noodles pack better in the baking dish, making it easier to cut the finished kugel into neat squares with a knife.  I have not yet challenged myself to make homemade egg noodles for my kugel, but hmmm, that's an idea!

Lokshen Kugel

1 lb broad egg noodles

4 eggs, separated, at room temperature

1 cup of butter or margarine, melted and cooled

1 lb. of cottage cheese

1 pint of sour cream

1 cup of sugar

¼ cup of graham cracker crumbs

 

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.  Grease a 9 x 13” casserole dish.   

In a large pot of boiling water, cook the noodles to al dente according to package directions.  Drain.

In a medium bowl, beat egg whites to stiff peaks and set aside.

Combine the wet ingredients (yolks, cottage cheese, sour cream, sugar) in a large bowl and mix together.  Add the cooked noodles and toss with the wet mixture until thoroughly coated.  Fold in the egg whites.  Do not overmix.

Turn the mixture into the greased baking dish.  Sprinkle the top with graham cracker crumbs.

Bake 45 minutes until the top is golden brown.

May be served warm, at room temperature, or refrigerated.  To serve, cut into squares.

Christmas Morning

In honor of Mommadods' Blogarhythmz reaching the 12,000 hit mark and the ushering in of the holiday season, here is a recipe for my family's Christmas morning favorite.

We celebrate a lot of holidays around our house.  It does not take much for us to declare a reason to hug and give presents.  For us, Christmas is very food-driven—there are smells and tastes that my family associates with the joy of the season.  For many years after we were married, my husband had to find his way “home” to his mother’s house to partake of her special Swedish Tea Ring—a labor of love that involved making an impossibly large batch of sweet bread dough.  Some of the dough was fashioned into a cinnamon-rolled, icing-dripped delight for Christmas morning, while the rest was made into buns on which we later made turkey and ham sandwiches. 

Eventually, as my husband and his four brothers each married and had families of their own, the five Dodson boys came to prefer a holiday morning with their own kids in their homes.  I confess I have always found the early morning giggles of little kids infectious.  I love to listen for the first child to awaken, followed by the pitter-patter of feet as one runs to wake the other up.  There is an expectant energy while they crawl down the stairs silently to survey the spoils.  They know never to touch a thing; everything is taken in its time.  Before the first gift is opened the stockings must be revealed, and before that can happen the dishes of a celebratory breakfast must be cleared and stacked.   It is a ritual that builds on expectation, assuring that each gift has its moment, appreciated for the thought that went into selecting it and the appreciation that must be expressed.  In our house, only one gift is opened at a time.  Each member of the family is presented with a package from the array of gifts, watching while first the youngest, and then the next oldest, and the next, tears the wrappings.  We go in rounds like this, one gift per person at a time, until nothing remains.

For all these reasons, breakfast must be assembled easily, but substantial enough to cause us to linger.   It must be worthy of the day, yet it must hold its own against what comes next.  I am challenged to create a spread that gets the kids involved in the joy of being together, causing them—although only momentarily—to forget about the consumer excess that awaits.  This is why I have put Christmas breakfast into a gift box of sorts, scrambling the main ingredients of a full and lavish spread into a simple casserole that can be prepared the night before.  Before even a mouse is stirring, I sneak into the kitchen and fire up the stove, slipping the 9 x 13 baking pan into the oven and setting the timer that will later call the gang to the table.  In the 45 minutes it takes to cook, I can have a hot shower, boil water for the coffee and hot chocolate, and pull out the fresh fruit I cut up the night before.  To compensate for the nostalgia of Gram Arlene’s Swedish tea ring, I used to procure Cinnabons from the one store left in New England.  Now that it’s gone, we resort to Pop n’Fresh’s own version that features the Cinnabon flavors.  It’s not really a substitute; some things just can’t be replaced.

Christmas Casserole

Ingredients

1 lb of bulk sausage (or uncooked breakfast sausages removed from their casings)  I love a variety called “Maple Syrup sausages” that I can get fresh in my local market. 

6 eggs, beaten slightly

2 cups whole milk

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon of freshly ground pepper

1 teaspoon dry mustard

Dash of Worcestershire sauce

3-4 slices of bread cut into cubes (white, challah, or even whole wheat will work) 

2 cups of grated cheese (I like sharp cheddar, but Monterrey Jack also works.  Don’t be afraid to blend cheeses together according to your tastes.  My kids do not like Swiss cheese, but a blend of Swiss and parmesan would give this a quiche-like flavor.)

The night before, grease 9 x 13 inch baking pan, or spray with non-stick spray.

In a medium skillet, brown the sausage.  Drain well on paper towels and break up into crumbly pieces.

In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs with the milk.  Blend in salt, pepper, dry mustard, and Worcestershire sauce.  Add the bread cubes and stir (I leave the crusts on because it will soften overnight.  If you prefer not to use the crusts, use 4 slices rather than 3).

Pour the entire mixture into the 9 x 13 baking pan and refrigerate overnight.

In the morning, preheat oven to 350 degrees.  Bake pre-assembled casserole on middle rack in oven for about 45 minutes until puffy and golden brown on top.  Remove from oven and allow to set for 10 minutes before serving.

Cut into squares and serve while still warm.  Makes 6-8 servings. 

Leftovers may be refrigerated and reheated in the oven of microwave.

Live. Love. Latkes.

We all get a bit flustered when the mall begins setting up the Santa photo booth before Halloween has passed.  I visited New York on November 16^th and was annoyed when Barney’s announced the reveal of its Christmas window display the weekend before Thanksgiving.  Certainly, we have come to anticipate (and even enjoy) the excess of Black Friday, but the more recent habit of opening retail establishments at 8pm on Thanksgiving Day is just ridiculous.  It was very refreshing when Nordstrom bucked tradition, insisting that it would take its holidays one at a time.

Even so, many of us are not off the hook until Christmas.  Chanukah is upon us, beginning at sundown on December 8^th.  And for those of us who live blended, multi-cultural lives, this means an entire week of unique foods and festivities inserted between the Turkey of Thanksgiving and the Standing Rib Roast and Yorkshire Pudding of Christmas.  Many people believe that Chanukah is about 8 days of gifts compared to Christmas’ just one.  In fact, gifts have no place in traditional Chanukah celebrations.  It is a holiday about miracles in oil, and that can only mean one thing—Latkes!

I have been asked by more than one person for a good recipe for latkes.  I am certain that you can find one in any Jewish holiday cookbook.  For me, latkes are imprecise and dynamic—more of a direction than a destination.  Even in my grandmother’s own recipe box, one of my most treasured possessions, there is no impeccably written card for latkes among the many for other traditional holiday foods such as kugel, rugelach, Mandelbrot, and Passover sponge cake. 

I am no culinary anthropologist, but I believe latkes to originate from Eastern European traditions.  My good friend Betty, who is an Israeli culinary master born in Morocco, had her very first latkes at my own dinner table.  In Israel, the Chanukah tradition is Sufganyot (soof-gone-yote), another fried-in-oil delight that resembles a traditional jelly donut.  Although I grew up in one of the most saturated Jewish communities in America, I never heard of eating jelly donuts for Chanukah until I visited Israel.  My family always celebrated Chanukah with latkes, and it was made more special by the fact that we never ate them at any other time of year.  Before the advent of the Cuisinart, latkes were incredibly laborious to produce, the potatoes oxidizing quickly while my grandmother grated away her manicure with the spuds.  I remember my father begging my grandmother—his mother-in-law—to make latkes, promising to do all the grating if she would just please fire up the skillet of oil.

Today, with my handy Cuisinart, latkes are less daunting but still a major production.  The smell of hot oil lingers in the house for days afterward (like this is a bad thing?).  I have ruined more than my fair share of clothes with irrevocable splashes of oil, always landing conspicuously outside the edges of the restaurant style apron that I keep specifically for this purpose.  No matter what precautions I take (towels, newspapers), there will always be grease all over the kitchen floor, later tracked from the low-maintenance tiles to the hardwoods throughout the house.  For this reason, I have learned to make latkes in advance of any celebration.  I flash freeze them individually, laid out so as not to touch each other on a special sheet pan that fits the narrow shelf of my side-by-side Sub-Zero.  Then, I throw the frozen pancakes into a large Ziploc bag, keeping them in the freezer.   Because the pancakes retain so much oil, you can reconstitute them by heating them in the oven and they will taste as if they were just fried!  When my kids were still at home, I usually kept a supply of latkes in the freezer.  They made a great go-to snack when lots of kids were in the basement watching a movie!

So in the absence of a recipe, I will describe my latke production in narrative form.  I use good medium russet potatoes, about ½  to 1 per person—or if I am making them just for fun, I consider how many will fill the processing bowl of my food processor.  I use canola oil, because it is the lightest and least flavored oil I know.  I usually pick up a fresh quart bottle in the store, because whatever is sitting in my pantry probably isn’t enough.  I use matzoh meal, which is a Passover staple yet is always available on the kosher food aisle of the supermarket.  Latkes can also be made with flour—and I have done this on occasion—but for me there is a certain flavor and texture that comes from the matzoh meal.  I use one or two yellow onions, depending on the size of the onions and the number of potatoes I am buying.  One onion can stretch over as many as 4-5 potatoes.  Sometimes I will buy fresh chives, snipping them finely into the potato mixture to give it color.  Sometimes I simply add the chives to the sour cream, which is served on the side as an accompaniment, along with apple sauce (made from scratch when I have the time) and my personal favorite, ketchup.

You will need a food processor fitted with a shredding/grating disk, a very large mixing bowl, and a large skillet (cast iron is ideal).  Cut the potatoes into ¾ inch cubes.  (The size of the cubes determines the size of the shreds in the food processor.)  Feed the cubes through the feed tubes in batches.  Transfer the grated potatoes to a large cotton dishtowel.   Wrap tightly and let stand for 30 minutes over the mixing bowl.  Wring as much liquid as possible from the potatoes, discarding any liquid that drips into the bowl.   If you have a smaller “grating” disk, use that to grate the onion, or grate the onion on a box grater.  Put the dried potatoes and grated onions in the mixing bowl, mixing the onion through the potato shreds.  Sprinkle generously with salt and pepper.   Break a room temperature egg into a small bowl and scramble until it is light yellow; add to potato mixture and mix to coat.  (If you have a lot of potatoes, use 2 eggs)  Sprinkle matzoh meal over the potato mixture and stir to incorporate.  I do this by sight and feel, but perhaps a cup is about right.  The texture should not be too wet or too dry—enough for the potatoes to hold together but to still have some of the wetness pancake batter. 

Heat about 1/3 inch of oil in the skillet.  It is ready to go when the handle of a wooden spoon placed into the oil causes small bubbles to congregate.   Make sure the oil is hot before placing any of the potato mixture into it.   I use a large table spoon or soup spoon to heap the mixture into the oil.  Spoon the mixture into the oil and then press with the back of the spoon or a spatula to flatten it.  Continue adding about 4 or 5 more into the pan.  Do not overcrowd the pan or it will lower the oil temperature and they will poach rather than fry.  Turn each latke as it browns on the bottom and then cook until it is brown on the other side.  Remove with a slotted spoon and allow to drain on paper towels.  Remove every latke from the pan before beginning the next batch, giving the oil a minute to return to high temperature.  In between batches, remove any errant scraps with a strainer or slotted spoon to avoid burning.  Continue this way in small batches until all the potato mixture is used up. 

The uncooked potatoes will continue to give off liquid as they sit.  Lift the potato shreds from the liquid, or drain the mixture occasionally to avoid getting too much moisture into the batter.  I use a slotted spoon to pull the mixture up the sides of the large bowl and out of the pooling liquid.

It is a good idea to make latkes in large batches.  The clean-up is the same no matter how much you make, but you will always want more around.  The freeze and re-heat method assures that you can have latkes regularly with minimal mess.  Just make sure that you only serve these delicious and fattening treats to people you really, really love!

Things That Go Bump in the Night

A couple of years ago, my daughter introduced me to one of her favorite television shows:  Ghost Adventures.  This Travel Channel sensation is a skeptic’s bane, glorifying so-called evidence of the paranormal.  A quirky team of investigators travels to paranormal hot spots, trying to capture and debunk accounts of spirit activity.  This show has been on for several years, recording orbs and moving shapes while interpreting voices captured in “EVP” (electronic voice phenomena) sessions.  Their escapades are made more dramatic through all-night “lockdowns,” where the intrepid team provokes spirits in complete darkness, recording unexplained bumps and thuds through night vision cameras.

My daughter grew up almost pathologically scared of unseen frights inspired by movies and stories.  Now twenty, she still sleeps with a light on, the closet doors firmly closed, and the negative space under her bed so packed with “stuff” that the buggy man would have no place to go.  Nonetheless, she rushes to see every new horror film on opening night.  And, she begs me to record every new episode of Ghost Adventures.  With every visit home, she cannot wait to begin her marathon of archived episodes.

There have been those that have mocked my daughter for her enjoyment of these shows.  I began watching with her, as much to understand any latent fears she has as to expose an open mind to the general premise.  We are all taught not to believe in ghosts, but who’s to say that there aren’t things in this world that we cannot understand?  I feel a certain sensation when I set my holiday table with my grandmother’s silver flatware, and a loving spirit when I open my father’s violin case.   There have been other moments in my life when I felt bolstered by strength I did not think I had.   

One of the most compelling episodes of Ghost Adventures featured a family that had lost their teenage daughter on the eve of her high school graduation.  At the moment her car swerved off the road, her father experienced a sensation of her loss; he was not surprised when the police came to confirm her death.  On her birthday, the Ghost Adventures team set up their equipment to try to help the family communicate with their beloved daughter.  It was a heart-breaking scene when the daughter’s voice was captured on a “Mel Meter”—a device the girl’s father invented that has now become a standard tool in the ghost hunter’s arsenal.

I assure you that I have not lost my mind.  Despite the range of so-called documented events—ranging from benevolent spirits to those who are far less so—I enjoy watching this show with my daughter, bracing ourselves against the unexpected and remarkable.   I remain fully capable of distinguishing between reality and entertainment.  Nonetheless, it is fun to relinquish my disbelief to these escapades, particularly when they take place in locations with which I am familiar.  Unfortunately, I have yet to experience personally the things about which others have testified:  no disembodied voices, no unexplained moving objects, no pokes or scratches, no gusts of chilled air.

We are all skeptics, anxious to disprove incredible accounts of otherworldly activity.  It is the force that makes us want to catch a magician in a blatant act of sleight of hand.  At the same time, I think we all reserve a little bit of hope that there is a connection between this world and the next.  Many times I have wished to linger a little longer with a love one I have lost, needing to resolve unfinished business and express words that were left unsaid.  And if this were possible, it would bring me comfort to know that perhaps I could preside over those I love even after my time has passed.

Meals for Which to be Thankful

If you are like me, you have a refrigerator or two filled with Thanksgiving leftovers.  I am thought to be an accomplished cook, but I have a problem estimating the right amount of food for the number of people I am serving.  The Jewish mother part of me tends toward overkill; it is better to have too much than too little.

The general rule of thumb is 2 pounds of turkey per person.  While this ensures that I have sufficient remains for sandwiches, it also neglects to take into account what else is on the table.  In my case, we have a large amount of stuffing and a farm’s worth of roasted vegetables.  Strangely, there is less leftover pie than left over Brussel’s sprouts!  So we spent our lunchtime today discussing the many things that can be done with Thanksgiving leftovers.  I hope some of my recycling projects can help your family put good food to good use.

Among our roasted vegetables, we have butternut squash (tossed with a little brown sugar and maple syrup), along with parsnips, celery root, and Jerusalem artichokes (also called sunchokes).  These vegetables—or any combination of root vegetables—can be pureed in a blender and reheated as soup.  Depending on the texture you achieve, you can stir in a little chicken or vegetable stock or broth, or a little cream as well.  Garnish with a dollop of sour cream or some chopped pistachios.

This year, I chose to roast a collection of small potatoes (red, yellow and blue) with fresh chopped rosemary instead of making cream and butter laden mashed potatoes.   These can be combined with chopped turkey, sautéed onions and peppers to make a great gourmet hash.  Include a tablespoon of leftover herbs, like parsley, sage and thyme.

At my daughter’s request I made spaghetti squash—a great vegetable for a large dinner because it can be roasted a day ahead of time and then reheated before dinner in a little brown butter and sage.  Leftovers can be transformed as a low carb pasta alternative, tossing with a good marinara or meat sauce.  These Italian tastes are a great departure from the Thanksgiving flavor profile.

When the turkey dwindles down to scraps that are no longer fit for sandwiches I like to recycle them into a sort of barbeque pie (think Shepher'd pie).  I chop about a cup each of turkey and smoked sausage (polska kielbasa), and dice a red onion and leftover roasted carrots.  In a cast iron skillet, I sauté the red onion in a little olive oil, and then add the meat.   Stir in the carrots (and any peas, or chopped green beans).  To complete the pie, you can use leftover mashed potatoes or stuffing, or a prepared box of Jiffy corn bread mix (add chilies and/or cheese), covering the meat mixture complete to the edges of the skillet.  For potatoes or cornbread, sprinkle with grated cheese over top.  The entire skillet is then placed in a 350 degree oven and baked until the topping is brown (or the corn bread mix is baked according to package directions).

Don’t be afraid to use Thanksgiving leftovers for breakfast.  Cranberry sauce makes a tasty addition to a toasted bagel with a schmear of cream cheese. 

Every family gets tired of eating the same foods night after night.  A little creativity and the addition of unexpected flavors helps traditional Thanksgiving foods to masquerade as fresh cuisine.  When you can get a few extra meals out of a single dinner—now that’s something for which to be thankful!

Over-Stuffed

When my grandmother used to make Thanksgiving dinner there were no FDA guidelines or warning labels that frightened her into attaining minimum internal temperatures.  She got up early in the morning and put the turkey in the oven.  When her house smelled so good that we could no longer stand it, she would take it out.   It would stand on the counter while she baked the marshmallow-clad yams and turned the pan drippings into mushroom gravy.  There was no debate about stuffing; half of her mixture went into the bird while the rest of it was packed into a spongecake mold to be baked and then sliced into neat portions.

When we were almost ready to eat, my grandfather would be prevailed upon to carve the turkey.  He went to the closet and poked among the many cardboard boxes he stacked in there until he found a special box with golden hinges and a fancy clasp.  I would run over to watch while he opened it, revealing a bone-handled carving set that included a scary, long-bladed knife, a large 2-pronged fork and a funny tool that he used to scrape along the carving knife.  Each tool was set into a velvet-covered space that hugged it precisely, indicating that these were not ordinary, everyday tools. There was a certain pomp and circumstance to it all, like a king opening his treasure chest to count his gold.  I remember the first time I saw him sharpen the knife, making broad gestures with his arms as the stone ground across the blade.  I wondered how he knew exactly what to do.  It was one of the mysteries that defined the gulf between adults and children.

It was from these experiences that I first learned to love Thanksgiving.  Years later, when my parents moved into my grandparent’s home and my grandparents moved back to New York, my mother took over the Thanksgiving rituals.   It was remarkable how faithfully her version of Thanksgiving reproduced my grandmother’s concoctions—evidence of the role cooking plays in our heritage and oral histories.  My mother’s stuffing tasted exactly like my grandmother’s—something I find remarkable given the wide range of stuffing styles I have witnessed during my life, but not so remarkable when I realize that she did just as her mother did.  It was a delicious but not aggressive stuffing, made of dried Pepperidge Farm bread cubes, onions, celery, and mushrooms. 

Over the years, I have had the opportunity to experience Thanksgiving through the lens of a wide array of friends, hailing from many corners of the country.   Until recently, most people liked the idea of “stuffing” their birds, distinguishing this preparation from “dressing,” which was cooked in a casserole.  Regardless of how and where it was cooked, I became fascinated by the regional variations in stuffing traditions.  My midwestern friends featured wild rice in their stuffing.  Among my northeastern friends, I was treated to chestnuts on one occasion, and oysters (something I could not quite swallow) on another.  A lot of people like to add pork products like bacon, sausage, or pancetta to their stuffings.  Others like to go sweet, adding an assortment of dried fruits (even prunes!) and nuts.

My stuffing preferences have followed my personal journey.  For my first Thanksgiving cooked in my own home—a tiny San Francisco apartment—I made stuffing according to my mother’s specifications.  As my palate awoke to greater possibilities, I began to experiment with the range of ingredients, realizing that stuffing is nothing more than a savory bread pudding.  As such, the possibilities are limitless.

My first step outside the box was when I decided to break with my mother’s tradition of “bagged stuffing” cubes, making the stuffing from actual loaves of bread.  Inspired by the rich San Francisco sour-dough bread, I bought a prized loaf of Boudin’s, stripped it of its mighty crust, and broke it down into tiny dice.  The tang of the sourdough was an interesting blend with the sage and thyme flavors of Thanksgiving, but it looked rather like white bread.  The following year I got even bolder, creating a diverse mixture of sourdough, rye and pumpernickel cubes.  It created an interesting looking stuffing, bringing an enticing visual appeal to a dish that is often “beige” on the plate.

On the way to my current New England home I spent 8 years in Atlanta.  For this reason, my taste in stuffing has swerved toward cornbread.  Unlike all other breads, cornbread has a unique sweet flavor and heavy texture—more like a cake than bread.  I find cornbread to be a natural for stuffing, working well with savory or sweet or a mixture of both.  I use real cornbread that I cube myself.  I’ve noticed that a lot of cornbread stuffing recipes use pork fat (a common affliction in the South), but I have never been moved to add meat to a turkey side dish.  For tonight’s dinner I stuck to a traditional mixture of savory vegetables (onions, celery, mushrooms) with the sweetness coming from sautéed apples and chopped walnuts.  I used a bunch of chopped sage and parsley with a healthy seasoning of salt and pepper.   I used chicken stock for moisture, and a custard of egg and cream for texture.  The cream is a relatively new addition for me.  I only use a small amount, but it dramatically elevates the quality of the finished product.

I have fantasized about getting really experimental with stuffing recipes, but I feel a certain responsibility to my guests.  After all, stuffing is the comfort part of a Thanksgiving dinner.  If you depart too much from tradition, you risk disappointing those who have placed their trust in your ability to deliver the holiday spirit.  But then again, it’s my kitchen.  What’s to stop me from substituting challah or croissants for the bread, spinach and artichokes for the vegetables, or tossing in a bowl of chopped dates and pistachios?  We live in a world where all things are possible.  Stuffing isn’t just for white bread anymore.

Thanksgiving Ceasefire

Almost every culture around the world has an occasion where the noise of life is paused, allowing everyone to take stock and give thanks.    Because of distance and financial limitations, I stopped celebrating Thanksgiving with my parents and siblings from the age of 18, when I was a freshman in college.  Fortunately, in the spirit of the season, there was always a friend, a professor, or a co-worker who opened their home and their family to include me—and in later years, my husband.  I learned the joy of sharing from these many years of experience, as well as the fun of sampling the wide variety of traditions that people have for this holiday.  Even today, we enjoy spending Thanksgiving with close college friends whose family has become close to our own.  As put so beautifully on “The New Normal,” there are your relatives and then there is the family you chose.

As I write this, my daughter’s flight just landed and I am breathless waiting to hug my little girl who I have not seen since August.  I am also exchanging frequent texts with my son, whose college location makes a long weekend at home logistically impossible.  Fortunately, he has relatives close by and dear friends who fight over including him.  He is not alone, but he is not home either. 

For many people Thanksgiving is a stressful time, inflamed by the need to get along with extended family members.  I choose to spend my Thanksgiving burning my nervous energy with a lot of cooking tasks.   After years of celebrating in other people’s homes, there is nothing I enjoy more than celebrating in my own home.  I love to fill the house with the smells of spices, sage and thyme.  I love the cooler air outside that allows us to build a raging fire inside.  And I love the savory leftovers that make a special celebration linger for days afterward.

This year, as always, there is so much for which to be thankful.  Unfortunately, this day I enjoy so much is coming on the tails of a horrific storm that has caused so many people’s lives to be devastated.  In addition, it punctuates a week-long barrage of violence in Israel.  It feels a bit self-indulgent to count my blessings while so many people are finding their own come up short.  Please join me in saying a special prayer of peace and healing.  As many families do on this day when they sit together to break bread, let us all lay down our differences and find common ground as human beings.   Let us help instead of hurt.  Let us take time to listen and understand.   Let us appreciate what others bring “to the table.”   There is nothing to gain from looking backward; we must look forward to peace.

Impressed

In the midst of continued news of attacks in the Middle East, I find myself seeking comic relief.  I do not wish to minimize the lethalness, or the impact of the dangers that families are facing, but I find the situation impossibly frustrating.  Having spent time in Israel on several occasions—working, as well as visiting--I know how much the average person on the street values peace.  Nothing is more frightening to me than extremist points of view.  They are deadly, offering no basis from which to negotiate.  If I were remotely capable of solving the Middle East conflict, I would use this platform to outline my solution.  There is no easy answer.  How much better the world would be if collective peace were prized more than personal ideology. 

But that will have to wait for another day, for today we live in a country where the senseless loss of life is trending behind the demise of the Twinkie.  Yes, for days now we have heard endless laments on the failure of the Hostess company—headquarters for plasticized mass-produced desserts that represent everything that is wrong with our nutritional industrial complex.  I heard a report on NPR the other day claiming that the cream filling inside a wholesome Twinkie will never, ever spoil.  Shouldn’t we, as parents, be protesting the FDA’s willingness to allow enduring inorganic compounds to infiltrate our children’s snacks?  Or are the resources of our government agencies better spent reading torrid emails?  And just when I thought front page news couldn’t sink any lower, Elmo turns out to be a pedophile.

But one story among the others caught my eye and actually made me chuckle.  McKayla Maroney, the world champion gymnast and onetime Olympic gold-medal hopeful, who failed to qualify for the all-around and then settled for the silver on the vault after an uncharacteristic bobble, was photographed with an “unimpressed” smirk on her face at the Olympic medal ceremony.  Criticized for bad sportsmanship, Maroney later explained that she was disappointed in her performance—not the medal itself.  Turning the adverse publicity around, the gymnast gave birth to a “meme” of photos of celebrities and notables mugging similar “unimpressed” expressions for the camera.  Her favorite moment: sharing the signature facial gesture with President Obama.  In fact, it was the President’s idea to contribute to her collection, explaining to McKayla that he, too, must use that expression “at least once a day.”  I was amused.

I was struck by the range and diversity of stories in this single news cycle.  President Obama was with Hillary Clinton in Myanmar just yesterday, after which Clinton flew to Israel to reiterate our nation’s unwavering support of their right to defend themselves against attacks from Gaza.  At the same time, Maroney appeared on the Today Show touting the President’s unwavering support of her “unimpressed” face.  The President then continued his Asian tour, visiting Cambodia--I imagined--with a rare and forbidden case of Twinkies, made possible because health-conscious Michelle was back home in Washington, DC with the girls.  After exchanging a few intimate emails, the Obama women were no doubt busying themselves ridding the White House of any and all remnants of Elmo.

My distraction was short-lived as  new reports indicated that attacks in Israel have become more lethal over the last few hours.  This is not without precedence; violence is often escalated when a ceasefire is near.  One can only hope and pray this will be the case.  If a restabilization is accomplished on the heels of Clinton’s visit, then I will flash a face of my own.  Call it “impressed.”

In Search of Cheddar Cheesecake

Many years ago, my husband and I spent a weekend in a romantic bed and breakfast on the border between New Hampshire and Vermont.  Not only were the accommodations charming, but the Inn also featured a well-renowned restaurant run by a Cordon Bleu-trained chef.   Our lovely suite ended up serving as a “recovery room” for post-dinner discomfort.  Such was the food that we felt obligated to try almost everything on the menu.

One of the most unusual items we sampled was an appetizer called “Cheddar Cheesecake.”  I was curious by the description; it conjured images of everything from a mini wheel of cheese to a fried, crispy latke-like patty that oozed when you cut into it.  In fact, this turned out to be a rather traditional looking slice of cheesecake—like the dessert—except that it was savory.  By the looks of it, my tongue expected the familiar sweet and creamy deliciousness that I love to eat at the Carnegie Deli.  But when I bit into it, it tasted like a slice of the finest extra-sharp Vermont cheddar cheese.

It has been decades since that dinner, but the flavor and texture of that single appetizer remains among my memories of great bites.  I have searched high and low for the recipe—trying to procure it from the Inn itself (which is no longer in business) and from other sources that might have served as that chef’s inspiration.  Even with the vast sources of internet recipes, I still have not found a single recipe that would seem to reproduce that tasty dish.

Each year at Thanksgiving I try one “high risk” recipe—something I have not made before but wish to add to my repertoire.  This year I have decided to take on the elusive Cheddar Cheesecake.  Gone from the menu is my usual wintery soup, replaced instead by my own attempt to whip up an authentic Cheddar Cheesecake. 

I make a pretty good classic cheesecake.  I once had a co-worker who worked part-time as a caterer.  She shared with me all the secrets of a top-notch cheesecake—techniques that are conveniently omitted from most  cookbook recipes.  Most people do not know that you should add eggs last and beat them in one at a time.  It also helps to release a cheesecake from its springform pan if you line the removable bottom and the straight sides with wax paper.  Most importantly, a cheesecake is best baked at the bottom rack of the oven at a low temperature (300-325 degrees).  When it sets up, it is important to turn off the oven and open the door, allowing the cake to stand and cool slowly in the residual warmth until it slumps and flattens.  Those who rush this cool down process, or stick a warm cheesecake in the refrigerator, are likely to discover that their beautiful cake has developed a hideous, irrevocable crack through its surface.

So how to turn my beautiful, thick and flawless sweet cheesecake into the Cheddar Cheesecake of my memory?  I decided to keep it as close to my own cheesecake recipe as possible.  I substituted panko for the graham crackers in the crust, adding a little salt, pepper and Cajun seasoning, then mixing it with melted butter and pressing it into the pan.  For the batter itself, I retained the cream cheese, sour cream and eggs, but omitted the sugar and vanilla.  Instead, I added a few shakes of Worcestershire sauce to impart a salty low note behind the cheese.  I grated 8 ounces of Extra Sharp Cabot Cheddar with a fine grater and mixed it into the cream cheese mixture.  The final batter had as much body as my traditional cheesecake with small lumps from the cheddar.  I assumed (correctly) that these would melt down during the baking process.

I am happy to report that the final product looks pretty good!  It cooled to room temperature without even the tiniest of cracks.  I covered it and popped it in the refrigerator until Thursday.  I plan to serve it next to a small toss of baby arugula and dried cranberries, dressed in homemade champagne vinaigrette.  If it tastes like the Cheddar Cheesecake from that beautiful weekend in Vermont, I will have something else for which to be thankful.

Perfectly Black and White

On the confectionary chain of being, the black-and-white cookie is king.  I have travelled the world, sampling sweets from pistachio Turkish Delight in Istanbul’s Spice Market to Ladurée’s pastel-colored macaroons on the Champs-Elysees.  I have savored many a sundae drenched with Ghirardelli’s famous fudge, and stood in line for an hour at Modern Pastry in Boston’s North End for the perfect fresh-filled cannoli.  But given a choice, I would select the iconic half-chocolate-half-vanilla-glazed cookie that is really a tiny cake.  And I would choose it every time.

It is hard to know if the sensory joy I feel from a black and white cookie is a vestige of my childhood or if it derives from its balanced perfection.  All I know is that my husband, who never heard of black and white cookies until he married me, is a willing co-conspirator in any effort to procure the binary bite.  We have faux arguments over which side is better; I fight on behalf of chocolate while my husband defends vanilla.  In truth, we agree that G-d’s plan for this cookie is prescient, as choosing either flavor to dominate would diminish its glory.

So now that I have confessed my weakness for the black-and-white, I must explain how rare it is to find a truly authentic and accomplished one.  Not all black-and-whites are created equal.  In fact, the market is glutted with black-and-white mediocrity--containers boasting visually promising incarnations that turn out to be imposters, posers, or just plain bad.  Even good kosher bakeries can harbor frightfully bad examples slathered with thick chocolate and vanilla frosting.  Just because they are half chocolate and half vanilla does not mean that they are true black-and-white cookies. 

A good black and white cookie starts under the icing.  ‘Cookie’ is a misnomer.  It is not a crunchy, crumbly cookie but rather a soft pillowy cake redolent of vanilla and a whiff of citrus.  Imagine if you scooped chiffon batter onto a cookie sheet and baked it, allowing it to spread slightly and puff in the middle.  It should have a similar consistency to the now defunct “Twinkie.”  But the defining characteristic of a black-and-white is the icing.  It is a translucent sugary glaze that hardens to a shiny dry crack.  The final product is a marriage of hard and soft.  A true black-and-white cookie fractures on top when it is bitten, then bends underneath with gentle elasticity.

When the urge escalates, there are reasonable mini black-and-whites distributed to Costco stores nationwide, where they sit for weeks and weeks until they just pass their expiration dates.  Whole Foods also imports a very good specimen from New York, also in the ‘mini’ size.  The black-and-whites from my childhood are the size of my full hand, spanning at least 5 or 6 inches in diameter.

On my quest for the perfect black and white there have been many red herrings.  Once, while strolling through Greenwich Village I came face to face with beautiful array of cookies in a bakery window.  My husband suggested that we duck inside for a “coffee,” which, of course, is code for pastry.  I ordered one of the black-and-whites that called to me from the window.  It arrived looking perfect in every way, but after the first bite I nearly cried.  It was an Italian bakery, and they had spiked the unsuspecting cookie with anise flavoring.  It was as heinous as dropping a vanilla bean in a pot of matzoh ball soup.

Then, a few years ago, I found it:  black-and-white nirvana.  Up in Morningside Heights, near the Columbia University campus, is a café-bakery called Nussbaum and Wu.  They produce the last remaining authentic rendition of black-and-white cookies in the free world.  I discovered these cookies with a chance encounter, an afterthought tagged onto a late lunch.  After feasting on a delectable disk, I went back inside and bought all the black-and-whites left on display.

Nussbaum and Wu has become a pilgrimage for us—a necessary stop on every trip to New York City.  Last year we arrived in New York by train.  Without a car at our disposal, we endured a $60 cab ride uptown and back for a box of cookies to bring back to Boston.  Today we stopped at their store at 113^th and Broadway on our way out of town.  When there was a street parking spot in front of the door, we knew it was meant to be.  I apologize to anyone who came in after me for one of Nussbaum and Wu’s amazing black-and-whites.   I took them all.

New York State of Confusion

On those special weekends when my husband and I steal away to New York, I try to clad myself in a layer of authenticity.  I pull out my classic yet upscale black wardrobe, fill a designer bag with essentials, and apply a little more make-up than usual for a day of schlepping and shopping.  We try not to be caught gawking at landmarks, avoiding Rockefeller Center (except to procure a few of my husband’s favorite Teuscher dark chocolate-covered salted caramels) and the 10-block stretch of 5^th Avenue from 59^th street south.

My favorite way to see New York is without any plans, allowing for the appeal of a cute Soho boutique to draw us in, or for impossible cross-town traffic to hold us captive.  New York is a place where I prefer go with the flow; swimming upstream is a fool’s errand.  But during those times when we need to get from point A to point B, our cover is blown, betraying us as the geeky tourists that we are.  It is the simple yellow taxi cab—that icon of metropolis—that gives us away every time.

Taxi cabs are the plasma of New York City, the life force that brings vitality and circulation.  Without taxis, this greatest of all cities would come to a grinding halt.  I have sat on street corners studying as seasoned New Yorkers saunter off the curb, making a nuanced gesture in the direction of an approaching cab.  Instantly, the yellow car pulls up like a regal coach, offering its assistance as the lucky riders tuck themselves inside.  The roof lights switch off, telling wannabe riders that they are not worthy while the taxi speeds away in line with the flow of traffic.

Though commonplace among the natives, to us, getting a taxi in New York is like trying to jump onto a speeding locomotive.  The hackney industrial complex is engaged and operating at full speed, unable to accommodate the clumsiness of an unpracticed tourist.  We stand on corners as dozens and dozens of taxis drive by, signaling and gesturing in vain.  I loathe making such a scene, being left with my hand in the air for no apparent reason.  It’s like waving to someone you think you know in a crowd, or offering a high-five to someone who is too cool to complete the motion.  I cringe as I am left hanging, hopelessly uncool against the backdrop of the chic New York populace.  I am a fraud.  I am a tourist.

The rules for hailing cabs elude us.  We have tried standing at the end of the block before the light, at the beginning of the block after the light, on the right and on the left.  We walk to the nearest one-way street facing in the direction we wish to go.  We have even learned to avoid the interval between 4 and 5pm when taxis “turnover”—the dead hour when drivers will not go uptown for any amount of money.   This is when hundreds of taxis fly by empty with their “Off Duty” lights on.  Strangely and inexplicably, they stop for other people on the street, but never for us.  Shouldn’t a driver heading downtown at the end of his shift prefer to be paid and tipped for his final excursion?

Last night, I watched three Off Duty taxis in a row stop to load up people who had signaled them at a red light.  When a fourth approached, I waved knowingly.  I was delighted when he pulled up in front of the curb where we were standing.  I walked over and tried to open the back door.  It was locked.  The driver rolled down his window and asked, “Why you touch my door?  I am off-duty?”  “Why did you stop?” I asked, sincerely confused.  “I don’t need your permission to stop!” he shouted at me.  He then gunned the engine and screeched away from curb back into traffic.

I love New York.  I love the hustle and bustle, the fabulous restaurants, and the glittering lights of the Great White Way.  I love the street-corner pretzels, the magnificent Chrysler Building, and the refreshing deliciousness of the tap water.  But although New York is deeply inside my heart, I never seem to be able to get my head around the New York taxis.  The difficulty with which I procure transportation makes me question my need to get where I think I want to go.  It sends a subtle message that perhaps I belong at home.

Countdown to Thanksgiving

There is no occasion that is more of a showplace for my inner Iron Chef than Thanksgiving.  Many people try to avoid making that big Thursday meal; I beg people to come to my house and eat with us.  For me, as more people gather at my table I can add proportionally to my menu.   And when all else fails, I just cook and bake what I like, reveling in the leftovers for days to come.

I have a few basic rules for my Thanksgiving feast.  First, it is a time for the good china.  Yes, it is inconvenient to pull all the gold-rimmed dishes from their hiding places, and it is a pain in the neck to hand wash the plates (they really should NOT go in the dishwasher), but it is also a day with a large captive workforce.  For as long as there is football on the television, it is easy to enlist washers and dryers.

Second, I always get a fresh Turkey.  I live close to a farm that procures local birds, so there is no reason to tolerate a frozen bird.  Also, my method of choice is brining.  Brining is a foolproof approach to a moist bird.  Those of you who baste all day long are unnecessarily heating your kitchen by opening the oven door.  I brine the day before and then fill the space between the skin and breast with a compound herb-butter (garlic, parsley, thyme).  This makes a moist and delicious no-fuss turkey.  I roast my turkey early in the day and then wrap it loosely in foil.  It will stay warm for hours, freeing the oven for all the other delights of Thanksgiving.  In my next life, I will have two ovens.

Third, I plan and prep in advance.  On Monday I bake pies (apple and chocolate pecan pies keep well when covered in the refrigerator), make compound butter, and set the table.  On Tuesday I bring home my reserved turkey and buy all the vegetables.  I roast and tease out my spaghetti squash, storing the stringy goodness in a large Ziploc bag in the refrigerator.  It is easily reheated before serving by tossing in some brown butter and sage.  On Wednesday, I prep my stuffing.  This involves cutting up cubes of cornbread and toasting it in the oven, as well as chopping onions and celery.  All of these are packed in Ziploc bags, including the seasonings (Bell’s poultry seasoning).  I like apples (and sometimes sausage or walnuts) in my stuffing.  Apples must be dealt with fresh as you compile the stuffing, so getting everything else prepped and out of the way early is a great help.  And for the record, never put stuffing that will be eaten inside a turkey.  To impart added flavor, I pack onion, celery, thyme, and a bay leaf inside the cavity, but it is all discarded before serving.

Once my turkey goes in the oven on Thursday morning I begin veggie prep.  My daughter is vegan and loves to help chop the vegetables that make up her Thanksgiving feast, so I keep this task for after she has returned home from college.  I like to get a huge array of vegetables (butternut squash, Brussels sprouts, red onions, baby potatoes, turnips, baby carrots, Jerusalem artichokes, celery root) and roast them in the oven (it is the best way to cook almost every vegetable), separating them by their seasonings.  For example, I toss thyme springs with the carrots, maple syrup with the butternut squash, balsamic vinegar with the Brussels sprouts, rosemary with the potatoes, and salt, pepper and extra virgin olive oil on everything.

I have one cheating contingency for Thanksgiving:  gravy.  I am not one who covers my meat and starches with gravy—it is fat mixed with butter and flour, for heaven’s sake! On the other hand, I understand that to many of my diners, gravy is as important as the turkey on which it congeals.  As a concession to them, I pick up a quart of frozen homemade gravy from my local farm store, mixing it with some of my pan drippings as I reheat it.

Cranberry sauce comes in two varieties in my house.  I make fresh whole-berry sauce from local berries picked in Plymouth, Mass, adding a little orange zest and juice.  I also make a more complex cranberry chutney with onions, garlic and vinegar.  These are made on my stove.   Anyone who needs cranberry sauce from a can, can sit their can at someone else’s table.

Finally, my house is a no-yam-zone.   I do not like marshmallowed yams; I do not like them, Sam-I-am.

Many families have traditions of blessing and prayers at their Thanksgiving feast.  At our table, we start with the youngest person present and go around the table expressing the things for which we are thankful.  I like to let the kids go first, because it is humbling and heartwarming to hear what they express without echoing the adult sentiments.  Kids today are remarkably aware of the world around them.  Although in my experience they seldom take the time to say thank you to their parents, it can be surprising and reassuring to hear how much they appreciate what they have.