I am thinking about past Thanksgivings. I’m not going to get all Christopher Kimball on you; you cannot out-crazy that level of crazy. To put it another way, if you find yourself on the street corner smearing poo on your hair and lighting yourself on fire just to compete then you have probably taken a wrong turn somewhere. I am just remembering.
The first time I cooked Thanksgiving dinner I was living in Phoenix, away from family and home and anything that seemed familiar, like snow and Polish people in giant coats. November in Phoenix is when things just start to cool off a little. The air smells like orange blossoms and it is possible to open your windows without candles melting in their holders. The air-conditioning bill finally drops below $100.
I made wee Cornish game hens. I had been cooking steadily for about a year-and-a-half at that point. I think I wanted to do something different, and I think the other half of me was too chicken (nyuk) to make a whole turkey. My mother was there; she complained about the lack of turkey. The meal was good, I think. I don’t really remember any other detail of it, other than the terrible counter space in the 1950s kitchen of that rambler, and my mother complaining.
The last time I suffered through my mother’s Thanksgiving dinner was probably 2004. The turkey was dry, as usual, and the stuffing was Stove Top. The gravy was her usual miasma of grease, hard-boiled eggs, and too-large giblet chunks. I didn’t get gravies and sauces until I discovered fine dining–reductions, demi-glaces, jus, and thick pan gravies that I learned how to make myself. She was as happy as a clam, which is an apt comparison, since clams are unsophisticated creatures with no taste buds.
The following year I made Thanksgiving at my apartment, my first year brining. Strudel was 6 months old and we passed her around all night while I poured wine and mashed and chopped and stirred. I made a gorgeous turkey with a mahogany skin, since I accidentally had a red wine on hand to baste it with instead of a white. It looked like a work of art, like it had dragged itself off a cover of a food magazine and beached itself on my counter. It tasted wonderful.
“This is okay,” my mother said. “It all needs more giblets, though.”
The lesson I took from this, beyond how to be tactless to one’s host, was that she likes it her way, and I like it my way. That’s all.
My house has vomiting right now, and assorted other unpleasantness. There is a turkey breast brining in the refrigerator…will anyone want to eat it? It is a mystery! Stay tuned. Happy Fangsgiving.
I am not brining this year : ( My friend, who’s hosting t-day, bought the turkey for me to cook, and it’s already been injected with… liquid things?… and so I am afraid to brine it. Because Chris Kimball says don’t if you are burdened with this sort of a turkey.
Not brining is a little sad. It’s such an easy fix for turkey mishaps.
Hope y’all feel better soon.
Hard boiled eggs?
What?
WHAT.
I invited some friends over for Thanksgiving a few years ago. I’d never made a turkey before. It turned out AMAZING (I did not brine it). One of the biggest skills cooks need is the ability to not show fear. Once your turkey gets wind of your fear, it’s all over. ALL. OVER.
I’m not a fan of Thanksgiving though, and my ideal would be ordering Chinese take out and watching episodes of “Futurama” with my husband and our friend Brian.
I hope your pukey household starts feeling better soon.
Happy, Happy Happy Fangsgiving! I hope the bar-fomit stops real soon in your home. Also, I applaud you for using one of my very most favorite words – miasma- in your post!
Our moms are not so different. It is a hard type of mom to live with.
Though mine could cook and raised me to expect good cooking from scratch w/good ingredients. I guess it is the critical-ness (?) that is the common denominator. Glad you learned about good foods on your own. It is important. You are doing such a good job with your smalls.
Hope you have a happy t-day all the same, despite vomits and prior bad Thanksgivings. Today is better than those bad days.
I remember that Phoenix thanksgiving like the back of my hand. The hens were stuffed with pears. You made those wine soaked sugared grapes. We listened to Chet Baker Sings all day. Mom complained but I blocked her out pretty well because that was the first good thanksgiving meal I had. So there. :)
Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you postponed the fancy cooking until well after the barfing had passed. I spent most holidays sick when I was a kid so I got turkey breast bits which I could dip in melted butter. I have no idea how this is appropriate sick person food, but that’s how it was.
I love “fangsgiving” and I used it many times this year. Fangs for that.
My mother could not cook and then as I was growing up I became this ambitious cook (or so I remember it–I cooked chocolate cakes and souflees and beef wellington and poached fish in papier from Julia Child and all sorts of crazy 1950s gourmet food).
Then I suddenly stopped cooking for years.
Then I could not cook. Like that little part of my brain that had the patience for anything simply does not work anymore and I take shortcuts and don’t care about results and lose interest in the middle.
So I envy you. Honestly, I don’t think there is anything better or more useful than being able to create delicious food. Once in a while I do it and then it is an accident and I can’t do it again.
I am thinking about cooking a whole nother thanksgiving dinner at home since we ate at my Mom’s house and there are no leftovers, which, let’s face it, is the best part.