Thanksgiving may be my favorite holiday. Families gather. And as they surround the dining table they celebrate and give thanks for all blessings, including the bountiful meal before them.
When my mom was living, she prepared most of the Thanksgiving meal herself. Trying to please everyone, she’d make baseball-sized dumplings and sauerkraut for my German dad, lump-free mashed potatoes for the grandchildren, sweet potatoes with a crunchy topping of melted marshmallows for her daughter-in-law, stuffing for her son-in-law, and lentils for herself and me. My brother wasn’t hard to please. I think he ate everything. And, of course, there was always a huge turkey. I am not kidding when I say there was hardly room on the table for our dinner plates.
Not to be forgotten was the wild rice. In Minnesota, where wild rice is plentiful, most cooks have favorite ways to prepare this “gourmet grain.” It seems my mom could never come up with a recipe that lived up to her expectations. Too dry, too mushy, not enough flavor, too much sage or thyme…just never quite right. Her wild rice challenges may have been due to the fact she had been transplanted in Minnesota from Indiana, where she had never even heard of this aquatic grass seed, the only grain native to the North American continent.
Fall always symbolizes new beginnings; fresh school supplies, cozy scarves, and the celebration of the Jewish New Year.
My favorite part about Thanksgiving is always the desserts. Pumpkin pie and pecan pie are my favorites, but squash pie is my personal specialty. But all the Thanksgiving pies are very much American specialties. You can't really find pie as popular anywhere else in the world. The first Americans, the pilgrims, who celebrated the holiday did not automatically think to make pies out of the land's native squashes and pumpkins. They were more apt to eat meat pies for a main dish and custards for dessert as was the tradition in Europe, but because of scarcity, they had to use the plentiful crops for something. Some bright individual combined pumpkins, pie, and custard and came up with the basics for the recipes we follow today. I sincerely thank that individual.
When I think of Halloween, I think hot dogs. People tend to find this
association odd, some are even angered by it, but to me it feels
perfectly natural. When I was younger, my mother used to grill hot
dogs in our driveway for the trick or treaters and dole out beer in red
plastic cups to the adults, providing a bit of a respite for parents
whose kids were running around the neighborhood injected with copious
amounts of sugar.
A couple days before Christmas, my sister and I were having our annual bitch-in about all the kitchen time we were putting in that week, when Lindsay mentioned she was making a Clementine Cake. I assumed this was something akin to a