Always the prep cook, never the chef…

November 2006

My family is going to Boca Raton for Thanksgiving this year.  So it’s time to pack my bikini and my chef’s knife.  

I’m no fan of Florida—it’s flat, it’s boring, it’s never as warm as they promise except when it’s too hot, it makes my hair frizz.  It’s not my favorite destination at any time. And for Thanksgiving?  It seems just wrong to go someplace warm and humid to celebrate a holiday that shrieks New England autumn.  We’re supposed to be playing in piles of rustling fallen leaves, not raking up palm fronds from the latest hurricane. 

But Florida, here I come.  Because I’m a classic middle child—in other words, I adapted long ago to being bullied by my bossy older sister.  And not just her—everyone in my family is overflowing with natural leadership talent.  There is a continual, though subtle, power struggle among my siblings over who gets to host the next gathering.  A contest I have yet to win.  Ever. 

I am resigned that my role is to show up wherever everyone else has agreed to go that year.  Once they remember to tell me where that is.  And then spend hours in the kitchen following orders.  When it comes to Thanksgiving, I’m always the prep cook, never the chef. 

It’s not that I fantasize about being the hostess in the frilly apron, presiding over the turkey carving.  And it’s not that I want to control the menu—after all, this is a meal in which the goal is for everything to taste exactly the same as it always has. A meal where every guest and in-law is sure to be quietly disappointed, since it won’t taste exactly like what their mom always made.  A meal where people can come to blows over the issue of whether or not there should be MELTED MARSHMALLOWS for heaven’s sake on top of the mashed sweet potatoes!  I’m not so foolish as to want to play in that quicksand.  

No, what burns me is that I don’t end up with the leftovers. 

Thanksgiving dinner is fine, but it’s what happens afterwards that I love best—digging stray bits of stuffing out of the carcass, “evening out” the edge of the pumpkin pie by taking a thin little slice, and then perhaps another, making hot turkey sandwiches drowning in thick gravy, sneaking a bit of pecan pie, too, just to be fair, then following it all up with cranberry sauce, because who says leftovers have to be eaten in order…

So I’m Florida-bound.  But this year I’m taking an empty suitcase and a lot of Tupperware. With luck, I’ll be able to sneak everything out while they’re lounging by the pool.  Who says you can’t eat well on airplanes anymore? 

We middle children are the peacekeepers.  So don’t think I’m going to give you a recipe for stuffing.  That’s a minefield!  Corn bread, rye bread, Pepperidge Farm mix, oysters, chestnuts, mushrooms, inside or outside the bird—wars have been fought over less substantial issues.  I’m going with cranberry sauce.  It still has its issues—whole berry or jellied, shaped like the can or jumbled in a bowl—but on the whole, it’s less fraught with emotional baggage.  It’s an area where change is possible.  I know, because I grew up on the canned kind, sliced in neat little rounds.  And when it disappeared from the menu a couple decades ago, no one complained.  Well OK, I did.  But then I changed my mind. If you haven’t tried making your own, you’ll be amazed at how simple and delicious it can be, and what a pallet for creativity in an otherwise rote menu.  I’ve offered some variations on the basic theme to get you started. Homemade Gingery Whole Berry Cranberry Sauce 14-oz bag of fresh cranberries¾ cup sugar½ cup water grated zest of an orange, or a lemon, or a lime, or any combination thereofjuice of whatever citrus you use4 cloves (if you like the taste of cloves, otherwise, omit)2” piece of ginger, peeled* and sliced about 1/8” thick.  If you can get to a good Asian market, finely chopped young ginger is even better.  Do not substitute powdered gingerIf you are a ginger-lover like me, for more flavor, add some grated fresh ginger too Put the berries in a pan, sprinkle the sugar over, add the water and stir to dissolve the sugar.  Add the ginger slices or chopped ginger, the citrus zest, and cloves.  Cook on medium heat, stirring occasionally, until the berries start to pop.  Taste, and add some of the citrus juice if it needs more pizzazz.  Cook a minute or so longer, depending on how you like it.   I like to leave about a quarter of the berries unpopped, for texture.  The mixture should be a bit juicy.  It will gel as it cools. If you are intent on imitating the canned kind (you’re kidding, right?) you can strain the mixture at this point, then let it cool in whatever shape container you like, including a tin can.  Otherwise, fish out the big pieces of ginger and the cloves (children are not fond of spicy surprises), pour into a bowl and cool.   Notes: *to peel ginger, use the edge of a teaspoon to scrape away the skin**for zesting and grating, if you don’t have a microplane, go buy one.  Trust me, this is one gadget you really need in your drawer.  You’ll be zesting everything in sight.