Thanksgiving

Candied Sweet Potatoes
Caramel Pecan Sweet Potatoes
Evelyn Hall’s Yams and Dried Apples
Golden and Sweet Potato Gratin
Ridiculously Bad For You Caramel Yams
Smoked Chile Scalloped Sweet Potatoes
Sweet Potato Fries with Basil Salt
Sweet Potatoes that are a Little Southern
Sweet Potato Streusel
Sweet Potatoes with Sautéed Shallots and Mushrooms
Sweet Potato Gratin with Apples, Rosemary, Sage and Gruyere
Thanksgiving Rice on the Wild Side

Honeyed Sweet Potato Muffins
Sweet Potato Biscuits
Sweet Potato Bread with Pecans

Sweet Potato Pie

Blue Ribbon Streusel Topped Apple Pie
Classic Apple Pie with Maple Whipped Cream
My Mother's Apple Custard Pie
Pomegranate Apple Pie

Dark Chocolate and Walnut Torte
Maple Syrup Pie
Maple-Apple Tartlets

Ann Landers' Pecan Pie
Deep-Dish Pecan Pie
Mother's Chocolate Pecan Pie
Pecan-fig Pie with Brandied Whipped Cream

The World's Best Pumpkin Pie
Pumpkin Chiffon Pie
A New England Pumpkin Pie
Calley's Sweet Potato Pie

What exactly is the root of all this antipathy toward Brussels sprouts? Is it the color? Sometimes it's not easy being green. Or yellowish-green.

Is it the smell? You know what I'm talking about. Boil Brussels sprouts on your stove top for 10 minutes and the neighbors will begin to wonder which farm animal you recently adopted.

Is it your mother's fault? If she served mushy, water-logged, brown Brussels sprouts when you were a kid, it's not your fault that you hate them.

Let me attempt to ingratiate Brussels sprouts with you, especially since many of you will likely be cooking and/or eating them next week on Thanksgiving.

Though Brussels sprouts have been around since ancient times, they are named after the city of Brussels in Belgium, where they have been cultivated (and appreciated) since Medieval times. Brussels sprouts are members of the brassica family, so they're related to broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, and kolrabi, none of which are going to win any popularity contests. That's why Brussels sprouts taste like cabbage and are sometimes referred to as "mini cabbages."

A couple of years ago I raised a pair of heirloom turkey chicks – a Bourbon Red and a Spanish Black. The Spanish Black Tom was roasted, the Red still struts and preens in my chicken yard. I’ve taken to calling him MOLE.

Along the way we gave shelter to a Narragansett turkey hen from Ilse and Meeno’s Sky Farm. (The hen, hatching from an egg that was shipped overnight from Amherst, MA, and slipped under a brooding Silkie.) The hen began laying eggs last year – none fertile.

This year in March, old Mole garbled and squawked all night long, and come summer, there were fertile turkey eggs in our coop. (I know this as I cracked open an egg with a partly formed chick inside-ugh.) Aside from laying eggs, the turkey hen had no mothering instincts. She was not interested in nesting.