Ever-so-slowly

Turkey Lurkey is roasting, ever-so-slowly, tantalizing aromas wafting through the rooms of this old homestead. Bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, roasted sweet potatoes all wait in refrigerated abeyance to be warmed when Mr. Lurkey comes out of the oven and rests after the long hours of roasting. Cranberry relish has been mellowing for several days. The plastic wrap looks to have been rearranged. Antler Man thinks he can fool me and that I won’t notice he’s been sneaking tastes. I’m onto him, though, especially now that I have ditched the walking boot and can maneuver around with more speed. Vegetables, fruit and cheese will whet our appetites before the meal, once family arrives and we gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing, chat, catch up on news, and enjoy the company of two young lads who are growing up fast, two of our grand-nephews.

Thanksgiving.

It is my favorite of holidays. The menu is pretty well set, with regional, cultural and ethnic and other additions. It is a uniquely American holiday, and one I think we need more than anything this year.

I think I’ve touched upon Thanksgiving often in all the years I’ve written, here on the Cutoff. I’ve shared memories of the cranberry relish that graces our table each Thanksgiving. It is a common recipe, but, it came to me from a dear woman, Mary, who sadly passed on a few years ago. I’ve written about family gatherings, my Greek grandmother’s chestnut and meat stuffing, and of the memorable car ride in which a frozen twenty pound turkey hurled toward me at 35 miles per hour and my split second interception at a local turkey bowl.

Thanksgiving.

It remains a favorite holiday of mine, even as I remain mindful of those who are hungry, cold, without hope, and those who are grieving,  lonely, disenfranchised, ill, far away from home . . .  I think of them and I pray for them, and for you on this Thanksgiving Day.

The buzzer went off. It is time to baste Turkey Lurkey, put the finishing touches on the table, and check for platters and serving pieces.

For those of you celebrating Thanksgiving today, I wish you a happy one. For all of you, please accept my gratitude for your friendship, good and kind words, and visiting me here on the Cutoff.

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Taking the time

As the clock ticks towards our Thanksgiving Day meal, my thoughts wander from the turkey roasting in the oven, family soon to surround us, and the bustle of activity that comes with this annual November cooking frenzy. The reason for all this November cooking frenzy in the first place?

Thanksgiving.

Taking the time to count one’s blessings and to be thankful.

We have had a rough year, for sure, but, we have also had more blessings than not, experienced grace, and been shown mercy. Our home is warm, our stomachs regularly filled. Loving family and friends are ever-present and we are sheltered from the winds and snow and cold. We are also mindful that not everyone is as a fortunate as we are.

I sit in a quiet moment of this Thanksgiving Day and I think of my ancestors, boat people all, who sailed across the Atlantic; some at the turn of the 20th century, others much earlier in time, and of those already here who opened their doors, fed them, housed them, found them jobs until they could find their own way in this vast land. I think as well of those my family in turn sheltered, tended their children as they worked, fell ill, buried husbands or wives, mothers and fathers. Each in turn, taken in, shown the way, keeping to customs and religious beliefs and slowly assimilating to others.

I sit here in my quiet moment and remember those Thanksgivings of change as loved ones passed away or moved distances afar, when money was tight and when it was plentiful. I think of the Thanksgiving when our world seemed to tilt in its axis when John Kennedy was assassinated.  We have broken bread on Thanksgiving with authors and musicians, students and immigrants; some at our table, some at the tables of family and friends.

One Thanksgiving our little, fledgling family hosted one guest. and I remember him this Thanksgiving. Gabrielle came from Croatia, by way of a Soviet gulag. Arrested and sentenced to years in a prison, his crime was distributing leaflets while a young man studying to be a priest. This kind man entertained our young daughters with stories of the kitten who befriended him during his darkest hours in jail; a kitten he shared his meager meal of bread with, and he shared his faith, which did not waver. It was a Thanksgiving so long ago now, but, still as fresh as the meal now roasting, for its poignant moments and Gabrielle’s joie de vivre.

I chuckle at the recollection of the frozen turkey that almost killed me, propelling toward my head at 35 mph and of the turkey whose giblets I left in the bird, only to find upon carving. There was the pumpkin pie I dropped trying to move it up a rack in the oven, shooting pumpkin custard all over the kitchen, including the ceiling and me and the youthful Thanksgiving when it was just my immediate family – a rarity growing up. My mother decided to roast a capon, whilst I worried how in the world she could cook, and worse yet, we all eat a bird with a cape on.

I sit here in my quiet moment, smelling the aromatic scents of our own roasting “bird” and can recall the flavors of my life along with the many faces across our table and other tables we have dined around. As I remember, I wonder and I hope that this simple gift of Thanksgiving on a Thursday in November will always be a day of Thanksgiving, no matter where our ancestors came from, and will be more  than a prelude to Black Friday, a paragraph in history.

My bird needs basting and some vegetables need to be diced, so, I best end this quiet moment of memories. Before I do, I need to say thank you, one and all, for visiting here on the Cutoff, reading my words, sharing your thoughts, taking the time to be here.

 

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Thoughts . . .

I’m still a wee bit under the weather.  Actually, it’s more like a wee-wee bit under the weather, which occurs each time I cough, which is most of the time right now. So, enough of my lack of bladder control, my coughing and sneezing and general malaise. This, too, will pass.  Until then, I thought I might share an older post as we here in the States prepare for Thanksgiving.

Turkey Lurkey and Henny Penny, first posted here.

I have a fear of turkeys. Frozen turkeys.

It started when I was 26 years old. It was my maiden voyage in the fine American culinary tradition of roasting the Thanksgiving turkey. I come from a long line of extraordinary cooks and married into a family of equal expertise. Big shoes to fill – and I only wore a size 5½ myself. The pressure to roast a good turkey was on.

On a crisp November day, on my way home from a day of teaching first graders, I stopped at the grocery store, which was a newly opened Jewel Grand Bazaar. A precursor to the big box stores of today. At four in the afternoon, it was already crowded, and parking my 1972 green Ford Pinto hatchback took a few passes down the rows to find a parking spot.

Once inside, I grabbed a cart and selected produce, then dairy, bakery, then canned goods, saving a space in the cart for Turkey Lurkey. What a pair we were that afternoon. Henny Penny and Turkey Lurkey. My mom and Tom’s, as well as his sister, Maura, were all bringing accompaniments, but, this bird and his stuffing were my responsibility. All mine.

I’d never bought a turkey before. This was long before Mr. Google could answer any question asked. With my 1972 red and white checked Better Homes and Gardens spiral bound cookbook as my guide, I picked out a frozen turkey, the biggest one I could find, loaded it onto the cart, and headed to the checkout, confident that the twenty-two pound gobbler would feed our guests and yield plenty of leftovers.

Bill paid, groceries bagged, I loaded up the hatchback of my Pinto and headed home as dusk settled in. Rush hour traffic was in full throttle, but, I only had a few miles to go and was thinking about all I still had to do to prepare for our first Thanksgiving hosting.

I’ve always loved Thanksgiving, from when I was a child, but, never more so than when I was young. Do you remember a time when we only had turkey for Thanksgiving and maybe Christmas dinner? We had our Thanksgiving meal, maybe turkey sandwiches later, leftovers a day or so more, and that was it. The scents and tastes were put in abeyance until the next year.

I was thinking about these things, I am certain, as I drove home. Anticipation and great expectations as I listened to the news on the tinny car radio (I was a news junkie even then).

Suddenly, the car in front of me stopped. I slammed on my brakes, just in time, and checked my rearview mirror to see if I was about to be hit. In an instant, I saw it, hurling at me at 35 miles per hour with me at a dead stop. My life actually flashed before my eyes, as did all my Thanksgivings and a few misgivings as well. It was two or three seconds of pure terror as 22 pounds of frozen turkey hurled, straight from the hatchback, over the back seat, and straight toward my Farah Fawcett coiffed hairdo!

Turkey Lurkey catapulting like a shot out of a cannon toward Henny Penny. I truly thought the sky was falling!

The back of my car seat stopped that frozen fowl. Stopped him mid-flight. There I was, saved, in a backhanded sort of way by foul play in the last second of the ’72 turkey tourney. The car in front stalled, the driver behind me staring, mouth agape. I can only imagine his view from his steering wheel as he witnessed a turkey on the loose in, of all cars, a Ford Pinto.

I managed to get this year’s turkey, all twenty pounds of frozen poultry promise, into the cart, into the car, out of the car, and into the freezer. It is now in a slow swoon in the refrigerator.

I thought about the turkey of yore each and every step of the way.

I still have the 1972 red and white checked Better Homes and Gardens cookbook.

The 1972 Ford Pinto hatchback , dubbed “the horsey car” by Jennifer in her toddling days, eventually went on to greener pastures.

 

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Thankfulness

Thanksgiving on the Cutoff; an exercise in orderly chaos. It is a holiday that comes on the fourth Thursday of every November, is almost always cold, but not frigidly so, starts with viewing the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, is followed by endless football (and equally endless Hallmark Channel runs and reruns when I can wrestle control of the remote). It is a day of thankfulness, interspersed with dicing and slicing, basting and mixing, and the ultimate touchdown of getting the entire meal on table with everything warm! Order, then chaos . . .

. . . and it is my favorite holiday. What’s not to like? The menu is set. The entertainment, as well.

Of course, the clean up is, well, like I said, orderly chaos.

This little fellow, now walking and exploring, brought constant smiles to our faces,

while this young miss was quite the conversationalist at the dinner table.

There was much to be thankful for around our table, dear reader. Among the many things I am grateful for is each and every one of you.

I hope you had an enjoyable weekend.

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In the Soup!

Here on the Cutoff, and through a great portion of the midwest, we woke to heavy fog. The eerie aura was both exciting and dangerous, especially for those out driving, catching the school bus, or attempting to get from here to there for Thanksgiving with visibility less that a quarter of a mile. We were, as the saying goes, in the soup! It was noon before the fog burned off, though we could see the sun shining throughout the haze of our day.

As I dusted and arranged things in our dining room for Thanksgiving,  I felt I was being observed. Indeed, I was. The deer were lounging just outside the windows, looking in at me. This one turned away, rather indignantly, when I noticed her. 

This afternoon, as I write with the sun streaming through the windows, a pumpkin pie, laced with chipotle, is cooling. A pan of shortbread is about to go into the oven. While it is baking, I think I’ll read a bit from “The Madonnas of Leningrad” before peeling the sweet potatoes for tomorrow’s feast.

An acorn squash sits on the counter, waiting to be halved, baked, then adorned with a bit of cranberry relish, brown sugar, and marmalade; another new recipe that will round out the leftovers for tonight’s supper.

It is quiet within and peaceful without. I am reminded me that I have a great deal to be thankful for. Our house is warm and dry, our electricity is on, bombs are not hurling towards us, the earth is not quaking under our feet. It was a great U. S. president, Abraham Lincoln, who first declared a national day of Thanksgiving in the midst of the Civil War, reminding us then, reminding us now, that we have much to be thankful for.

On another note, I wonder if this gobbler failed to get the email that warned turkeys against high visibility in November!

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Henny Penny and Turkey Lurkey

I have a fear of turkeys. Frozen turkeys.

It started when I was 26 years old. It was my maiden voyage in the fine American culinary tradition of roasting the Thanksgiving turkey. I come from a long line of extraordinary cooks and married into a family of equal expertise. Big shoes to fill – and I only wore a size 5½ myself. The pressure to roast a good turkey was on.

On a crisp November day, on my way home from a day of teaching first graders, I stopped at the grocery store, which was a newly opened Jewel Grand Bazaar. A precursor to the big box stores of today. At four in the afternoon, it was already crowded, and parking my 1972 green Ford Pinto hatchback took a few passes down the rows to find a parking spot.

Once inside, I grabbed a cart and selected produce, then dairy, bakery, then canned goods, saving a space in the cart for Turkey Lurkey. What a pair we were that afternoon. Henny Penny and Turkey Lurkey. My mom and Tom’s, as well as his sister, Maura, were all bringing accompaniments, but, this bird and his stuffing were my responsibility. All mine.

I’d never bought a turkey before. This was long before Mr. Google could answer any question asked. With my 1972 red and white checked Better Homes and Gardens spiral bound cookbook as my guide, I picked out a frozen turkey, the biggest one I could find, loaded it onto the cart, and headed to the checkout, confident that the twenty-two pound gobbler would feed our guests and yield plenty of leftovers.

Bill paid, groceries bagged, I loaded up the hatchback of my Pinto and headed home as dusk  settled in. Rush hour traffic was in full throttle, but, I only had a few miles to go and was thinking about all I still had to do to prepare for our first Thanksgiving hosting.

I’ve always loved Thanksgiving, from when I was a child, but, never more so than when I was young. Do you remember a time when we only had turkey for Thanksgiving and maybe Christmas dinner?  We had our Thanksgiving meal, maybe turkey sandwiches later, leftovers a day or so more, and that was it. The scents and tastes were put in abeyance until the next year.

I was thinking about these things, I am certain, as I drove home. Anticipation and great expectations as I listened to the news on the tinny car radio (I was a news junkie even then).

Suddenly, the car in front of me stopped. I slammed on my brakes, just in time, and checked my rearview mirror to see if I was about to be hit. In an instant, I saw it, hurling at me at 35 miles per hour with me at a dead stop. My life actually flashed before my eyes, as did all my Thanksgivings and a few misgivings as well. It was two or three seconds of pure terror as 22 pounds of frozen turkey hurled, straight from the hatchback, over the back seat, and straight toward my Farah Fawcett coiffed hairdo!

Turkey Lurkey catapulting like a shot out of a cannon toward Henny Penny. I truly thought the sky was falling!

The back of my car seat stopped that frozen fowl. Stopped him mid-flight. There I was, saved,  in a backhanded sort of way by foul play in the last second of the ’72 turkey tourney. The car in front stalled, the driver behind me staring, mouth agape. I can only imagine his view from his steering wheel as he witnessed a turkey on the loose in, of all cars, a Ford Pinto.

I managed to get this year’s turkey, all twenty pounds of frozen poultry promise, into the cart, into the car, out of the car, and into the freezer. It is now in a slow swoon in the refrigerator.

I thought about the turkey of yore each and every step of the way.

I still have the 1972 red and white checked Better Homes and Gardens cookbook.

The 1972 Ford Pinto hatchback , dubbed “the horsey car” by Jennifer in her toddling days, eventually went on to greener pastures.

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Preparing . . .

We have finally experienced our first hard frost here on the Cutoff. While I won’t say I welcomed it, I know its time has come. We been fortunate with warmer weather this fall. I don’t really mind the change in the air, but, a steady and sturdy wind has been blowing these past few days, reminding me once again that I am not in charge. The last of the leaves and pots need tending to and there is some cutting back of roses and such to do. All in good time, I know, and then there is Thanksgiving to prepare for, reminding me today that the turkey needs thawing, the linens pressing, the silver polished, and thankful thoughts remembered.

These grasses were ethereal, swaying in the November breeze, and breathtaking in their simple elegance. They had a rather “America the Beautiful” air about them when I passed by.

A pot of Jerusalem Cherries that I bought at the Oak Park Farmers Market in October is still bright and colorful in a sunny spot on our deck.  What a wonderful site it is from the kitchen and a bit of a harbinger of the reds of Christmas ahead. 

In spite of a few deer nibbles, the Oak Leaf hydrangea is stunning in its red coat,

and tiny crabapples are hanging on for dear life in Kezzie’s tree, which is surrounded by fencing, lest a randy buck tries to spar with it again this year. They remind me of the cranberries that will soon be chopped for our festive cranberry relish.

Now, about that turkey . . .

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