It’s early morning Thanksgiving Eve and I’m sitting
at my computer reading “brine” recipes. Do I have the right container? All the
ingredients? The juniper berries, the gallons of cider, the elderberry leaves
and fresh sage and candied ginger? Should I be at the door of Williams Sonoma
as they open to get exactly the right bag that will hold a 20 lb bird? Did our
mothers brine? I don’t think so.
Of course that was all pre-internet
and Alton Brown.
My mom, excellent cook that she was, grew up on a farm but by 1975 one would never have known that. Long past plucking feathers, she
took her turkey cues from modern science: a Butterball injected with various
growth hormones to get the breasts large and moist, defrosted for days and
stuffed with day old bread. Pumpkin and apple pie, mashed potatoes, turnips, and (slightly overcooked)
green beans (no, not haricots verts). The fanciest dish on our dinner table was
creamed onions.
I daren’t suggest we return to chemistry kitchens.
But as I ponder the plethora of means to prepare sweet potatoes (OK, yams- let’s
get it right), my head begins to ache. I'm waxing nostalgic for the simple days of Betty
Crocker and Peg Bracken (some of you will know her). Will my guests suffer if I
don’t soak the almonds in rum? If my piecrust is (heaven forbid) Pillsbury’s
Best? If I don’t marinate, macerate, use mirepoix and roux, will my dinner be a
disaster?
I love Thanksgiving because it’s about food and
family, that's it. I shopped for the hordes and will overfeed the masses. We laugh, we eat too much, rest a while and recover over the last play of the last game of the day with a leftover turkey sandwich on (yikes) white bread. And this year I’m attempting to keep it simple. So that by the end of the day tomorrow? I won’t fall
headfirst into my crème brulee.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone- eat well, kiss those
you love, relax a little and have fun!
