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.