Thanksgiving

It's not about over-abundance, although it sort of is. I'm not the kind of person who loads their plate up full to the brim -- in fact, I don't even like it when my food groups touch, although that's part of it, too, I guess, the fact that you can have multiple plates, like as many as you want.

Like an egg plate (any omelet you want, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage) and a fish plate (high-end fish, like Nova Scotia salmon and seared albacore and shrimp) and a fruit plate and a turkey plate (if you actually wanted roast turkey and all the trimmings for breakfast) and a konchee plate, whatever that custardy konchee stuff is (and I'm not even sure I'm spelling it right) and a sushi plate, made fresh there right at the bar, and I don't even want to discuss the dessert plate although I have to mention the candy apple.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. (Although come Christmastime, you know I'll be making the very same declaration, ditto Easter). This year we are having about 22 people for lunch. In LA, people say "What are you doing for the holidays" and I say sunnily "Oh, I'm having 22 people for lunch." They look at me in horror and ask why I'd be doing such a thing or tell me to make it a pot luck. Truth be told (and I am dear reader, a great advocate of truth as you know) I look forward to these great family feasts. I love sticking post-its all over my food magazines, and pulling down dusty cookbooks from the top shelf, and rifling through old recipes, and sitting in bed at night with the Maharishi swapping ideas for stuffing. The most brilliant thing is that my husband, the Maharishi, my very own James Beard (no pun intended) is a fantastic cook and a most excellent collaborator and so these things tend to go pretty smoothly. As long as we don't drink too many glasses of pre-lunch champagne, that is.

If nearly twenty-two years of marriage has given us anything it is the intricate dance of the kitchen. We could be blindfolded and still we'd know where the other was and what they were doing. Words are just superfluous and not because we'll be invariably listening to the NPR Julia Child & Jaques Pepin Turducken story or a lovely festive niblet from David Sedaris (yes, he has become a holiday favorite) but because things no longer need to be spoken. It is the kitchen dance of lerv.

I’m not real keen on pumpkin pie, but I love pecans…and butter…and brown sugar…with just a little pumpkin in the mix. That’s what these tiny tarts are made of. One-Bite Pumpkin-Pecan Pies remind me of pecan tassies, those rich little treats that often show up on holiday cookie trays. A little pumpkin and spice added to the mix adds delicious depth of flavor, so when you pop the first tiny pie into your mouth you get a delightful surprise. Especially if you were expecting pecans only.

The recipe I used comes from the book, “Our Favorite Recipes,” compiled by the Claremont Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals Serving Sullivan County (whoa, that’s a much bigger mouthful than a One-Bite Pie!). It comes from Claremont, New Hampshire.

I made just a couple of changes to the recipe, using organic unsweetened coconut milk beverage instead of milk and also added some Bacardi Gold rum. Mmmm, good flavor. The filling is baked in little cream cheese pastry crusts.

From the International Herald Tribune

Suppose I told you that with your turkey, your stuffing, your cranberry sauce, and all the delicious side dishes that will grace your holiday table, one wine and one wine only would match up. Unless you pick that one wine you face the specter of horrible embarrassment. Sound ridiculous? Well, of course it is. Yet more people than I care to think about feel exactly this way when selecting Thanksgiving wines.

Choosing the wine for any occasion is well known as an exercise in agony. Thanksgiving, for some reason, fills people with an extra dimension of dread. Perhaps it's the idea of performing for one's loving family, always so ready to heap scorn for your benefit. Or maybe there's secret pleasure in being squashed in the paralyzing spotlight, dancing, as Tom Lehrer once put it, to "The Masochism Tango."

If the prospect of shame and disgrace is a welcome part of your holiday ritual, by all means enjoy the feeling. But I would be remiss not to point out that it's all so unnecessary! Picking a wine should never be an occasion for self-flagellation, and at Thanksgiving least of all. The meal itself is typically a riot of contrasts - the savory stuffing, the sweetness of yams, the blank slate of the turkey - and wide open to individual eccentricities like marshmallows, almond slivers and the like. The wine selection task couldn't be simpler: versatility and plenitude.

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