Bake and Shake

"Time for the Annual Thanksgiving Cavity Search!"

I don't know when, or why, Thanksgiving overtook Christmas for my family, but it may have been the year we stuffed the turkey with tiny chocolate Santas, lit firecrackers and oranges and encouraged the youth to go for it. "Plunge a hand in there. Up to the elbow, or you're not really trying. Everybody needs to stop crying, right now."

Or it may be that Thanksgiving is all the fun, all the ruckus, all the excitement and all of the food of Christmas, with no material expectations or obligations. And my family can be together, all of us, with no complicated "Well, IT IS CHRISTMAS" rules to uphold. And now there is a baby to fight over, the first of a new generation, with another set of extended relatives that haven't been pirated by our family who would like to see her, so while we won the baby last year, I think we're officially disqualified from entering this year. You just eat and laugh and make fun of one another and no one has to do anything but that.

I have been planning, prepping and cooking my family's Thanksgiving dinner, with help, for almost seven years now. That is a long time, looking back on it, and I am about to sound world weary, a mother of five who at thirty-seven is about to pass down some tips. No. I am twenty-six, and since my paternal Grandma's (the Matriarch of Holiday Cooking) declining health and eventual death coincided with my growing, obsessive interest in cooking, I was nineteen and dumb and wrestled my way into the hot seat.

The year was 1848. I watched every cooking special, read every holiday issue of Martha Stewart, Gourmet, Bon Appetit, Food and Wine, Fine Cooking, Cooks Illustrated and on and on over the years, until there was nothing left but to dig in. And I did. Complicated, ridiculous menus, appetizers so rich and heavy that after just hearing about them, because I talked about those menus a lot, no one had room to eat. I was going to cook, they were going to eat, and I was going to make every single item I wanted to. Regardless of whether or not people would eat it. Shut up about the yams. No one eats the yams. BUT WE ARE HAVING YAMS. THEY WILL GO. IN YOUR MOUTH.

THE GODDAMN YAMS.

I can't talk about those years, the showdowns the day before in the grocery store between my mom and I, my Midwestern mom who was hosting and financing the event and would like to know what is wrong with a boneless turkey breast and one box of Stovetop Stuffing to feed 19 people, while I, age 20, was wondering why I could not find vacuum-sealed chestnuts in a suburban grocery store. Right now I'm giving thanks that I never attempted to brine a turkey. There's something chilling about that image, a short young woman holding raw poultry in her hands at twilight, swearing and kicking it across the lawn, filling a leaky cooler with herb-scented saline solution and praying nobody dies the next day. Or maybe, because we're practical, praying that not everyone dies.

But I calmed down, grew up, and now I am beyond where I ever thought I'd be when it comes to Holiday Meals. This year I look forward to a lot of things, the top item being Day-After turkey sandwiches on good bread with Kewpie mayonnaise and pickles. I have a list of things I'd like to make, my kitchen partner-in-crime has her list, lists vetted by various family members who fill me in on their ever-changing likes, dislikes, allowances and so on. I like to keep these lists, look back over the years at what I'd planned and what made it to the table, what was cooked and what was actually eaten. What we ate for what seemed like a year, and what we all mourned when looking over the leftovers.

Oh, Thanksgiving is a lovely day. So this year, I hope you fall to your knees and no matter your denomination or views on the matter, bow down to the naked bird and hug your loved ones close, eat and don't let everybody else take all the good stuff home. I'm not done talking about the day, but I wanted to make sure I wished you a happy one right off the bat.

Next up: What I plan to shove in the faces of my loved ones this year.

Does anyone know a non-bulk source for brown kraft takeout boxes

I am planning for the Holiday Meals, yes, already, expect to hear more about it soon, but I was curious if anyone has a source where you can buy these, open source, with no case minimum, etc.

I would try to buy some off of a restaurant, but I need just enough to make that silly, but not enough to warrant the arrival of a case.

E-Zter: Def Jam's hottest new recording act

If you are looking for a last-minute dish (or three, or twelve) to prepare for tomorrow's holiday, may I suggest the following?

   

Or maybe these?

Or POW, GRANDMA, these!

Good times, gang, Good Times.

Lust and Musk: Valentines Gift Guide #1

With my Holiday gift-guides, all Etsy-based, I focused on a lot of different things, for a lot of different people. Valentine's Day deserves a little low-key love, a little undercover appreciation. I don't call it out from across the street. I just suck my breath in real fast when it passes by. So here is what to buy for your lady, and soon we'll have what to buy for your dude. And yourself, as always, because hello. The revolution is here. Self Love for all. eBay joins the party this time, and I am happy to have it. I hope, if you're buying for a lady love, this gives you inspiration and if you are that lady love, I hope you print this entry out and tape it to your lover's sweet face as they sleep, and breathe their last breaths, tainted by the fumes of printer ink and as you watch them struggle, wake up and tear the sheet of paper off their face, just whisper "I was tired of the dancing stuffed animals" and turn the light off again.

1. Martin Boyd Ramekins
I am forever searching for these on eBay, only to find that I've been outbid. With the retro Sherbert (or Sherbet, if you're going to be like that) contrasting interiors and exteriors, smooth finish and witty little handle, they just make me feel like making everything I've ever wanted to eat, in them. Like creme brulee. Or meatloaf. Dry cat food, with soy milk.

Where to find: Check eBay for sets or individual pieces.

2. La la Laurie Flower and Butterfly corsage
This charms me. It just charms me. You could buy it and tie it to a package, as suggested in the listing, or you could just pin it near the nape of her neck. No other girl will have one, it will last much longer than store-bought tulips and it will become a story. Everything is better when it has a story. Maybe you can make sure this story involves a showdown outside of a Check Cashing place, and pocket knives.

Where to find: Etsy

3. sX-70 Polaroid Land Camera
I will tell you a secret right now, and that is that most of the girls I know, and the girl that I am, really, if we're going to be legit here, have the idea that somehow they'll get through life with a small stash of beautifully lit, perfectly styled and completely candid, "I had no idea you were photographing me" photos -- photos of them. Most of mine were taken when I was ten and younger. But I think, and this is only if you are in a not-creepy relationship and you're not already doing this and your last name isn't Dahmer, that a great Valentine's gift would be a beautiful, candid Polaroid of her sleeping, just before you wake her up and listen to the shouts and swearing that would greet such a decadent, classic and ridiculous gift. Make sure to include a few packs of s600 film and look up the easy and painless alteration instructions online -- Sx70 film was discontinued a few years back.

Where to find: eBay (and for examples of what it can do, check out Fieryeyed Photography)

4. A 'Corny' card
Because it's true. And you do. Maybe you could write "ALSO, BECAUSE YOU TASTE LIKE BUTTER" inside. Or "I HAVE TO SKEWER YOUR SIDES IN ORDER TO KEEP YOU UNDER CONTROL". Or "I WON'T BREAK UP WITH YOU EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE ALWAYS IN MY TEETH". All caps, like that, too. Screaming is romantic.

Where to find: Etsy

"The Haaah-tub" or Creme Brulee

"I got to second base with dessert, bro."

I've always had an issue with various lists of "Sexy Food". Oysters and caviar on ice, champagne, whipped cream and strawberries, creme brulee. Spiced lamb shanks.

For one, they're not, to me. There have been too many pre-highschool dance party memories where parents serve strawberries and whipped cream, too many bottles of warm Andre at parties, too many Hotel banquet desserts featuring creme brulee and too many hot tubs, with Jimmy Fallon, Rachel Dratch and Will Ferrell to truly find carnal pleasure in any of those foods.

Now, with the rise of sensory food writing, so many foods beyond the contents of Elizabeth Taylor's Mini-Fridge are 'sexy' or sensual. I get it, I understand it, I've had meals and eaten things that I've quietly thought "Nice" about, but I don't think I could handle comparing something I've just digested to sex in lengthy terms. "This mollusk reminds me of the time your Uncle and I had a rendezvous down at the docks, among shellfish and kelp. I still have scars on my back from the barnacles. How's college going?"

Because food and sex are both primal, both a little taboo when talked about too much in front of people you don't know well, we all have our own private rituals associated with both, I understand the natural link. But it still makes me a little wary, a little uncomfortable when people go too 'big' with their descriptions. However.

I made creme brulee last night, for no real reason other than I wanted to know what it would taste like if fresh nutmeg showed up in the custard. Drunk and shameful, wearing someone else's pants. And this afternoon, when I broiled the sugar and photographed it, I saw what the producers of eighties sitcoms saw. When I tasted it, I understood. You crack it, and then you kind of slide in and it's gorgeous, just all slippery cream, dark from the nutmeg, with a faint tobacco smoke in the background from the caramelized sugar. It tastes like 'On Call' by Kings of Leon sounds.

To me, anyway. It may taste like 'Strokin' by Clarence Carter to you.

Vanilla Bean and Nutmeg Creme Brulee
Adapted from Nielsen Massey

1 1/2 cups Heavy Whipping Cream
1/2 cup milk
4 egg yolks
1/4 + 1 Tablespoon granulated sugar
1 vanilla bean, split and scraped
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

Demera, turbinado or granulated white sugar

Put a kettle on to boil, and line the bottom of a round, 9-inch cake pan or 8x8 square pan (depending on how many vessels you'll be using -- I used four custard cups, and it worked out perfectly. Adjust up or down depending on the size of your custard cups or ramekins) with a kitchen towel. Place the dishes you've decided on on top of the towel, and set aside.

Preheat your oven to 300 degrees F. In a small bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and vanilla extract until pale yellow and liquid. In a medium saucepan, heat the cream, milk, sugar, vanilla bean pod and scraped seeds together for around 5 minutes, until heated through, steamy and sugar has dissolved. Add the nutmeg, and remove from heat.

Pour a 1/4 cup of the cream mixture into the eggs, whisking well to 'temper' the yolks and bring them up to a similar temperature. Once warmed, pour the egg yolks into the cream mixture and whisk well. Strain into a pitcher or Pyrex measuring cup (at least a 2-cup measure), and pour into ramekins, dividing equally. Place ramekins/pan on oven rack, and then carefully fill, around the edges, with hot water from the kettle until it reaches the halfway point.

Bake for 20-30 minutes, or until custards are set but jiggle nicely when shaken gently. Remove, cool until tepid and then cover tightly with plastic wrap and transfer to the fridge. Chill for at least eight hours, or overnight, and when ready to serve sprinkle with an even layer of your desired sugar -- demera, brown or granulated white and either broil for 2-3 minutes (watching closely) or caramelize with a torch until golden brown and crackly. Remove, and serve immediately* with fresh fruit, whipped cream, Vaseline.

*If your broiler takes a particularly long time to caramelize the tops, like mine did, shove the pots back in the fridge (once cool enough to handle) and let them firm back up. The sugar topping shouldn't suffer too much.)

Like getting underwear for Christmas - You need it. But you don't want it.

As I try to buy more time, for no particular reason, I realized that it is the season for baked goods to be made and foisted on others. If you've been waiting to try recipes, from this site or any other, here's my list of Chunk Town's finest. Party up. Sit down. Full recipes and photos at each link.

Salt Lick Bars (Millionaire's Shortbread) -- I plan on making these myself, but topping them with grey and pink salt. You're welcome.
Chocolate Striped Oatmeal, Almond and Toffee Cookies -- Everyone loves a confection as large as an infant's face.
Savory Black Pepper, Parmesan and Herb Shortbread -- Savory! Savory.
Super Sugar Cookies -- The original crinkly classic, they taste like butter and the hair of angels.
Spice Cookies with Orange-Nutmeg Glaze -- Eat these in the library with your lover, or silverfish.
Chocolate Chunk Cookies -- Make these with peppermint bark, or red and green M&M's, or your dog's toenails.
Blonde Leading the Blonde Bars -- I think Christmas is all about follicle stereotypes.

Happy Marthasgiving

Thanksgiving was explosive this year. I took no pictures, which means I can't show you the pie crust that won the contest I was holding in my mind. Check it: Martha Stewart's Pate Brisee recipe and a food processor produce the best crust I've ever had or made. Use actual ice water, and less of it than you think you need.

The turkey was delicious, again based in Martha's doctrine. I've never brined, just a big 24 pound Butterball thawed and coddled onto the rack of the thirty-dollar Martha Stewart roasting pan, delivered the day before Thanksgiving. Pour a bottle of decent white wine into a saucepan, add two sticks of butter and a large sprig of rosemary. Drench a folded square of cheesecloth in it, flop that on the seasoned (cracked black pepper, kosher salt) turkey and shove it in the oven for an hour at 375. Open, baste generously with the wine/butter mixture, turn the oven down to 325 and repeat the basting every forty-five minutes or so, until you run out of liquid. Then remove the cheesecloth (this should be around hour three and a half, if you're roasting a similar size bird -- reduce time accordingly), discard, and melt another stick of butter in the pot. Use a pastry brush to slather the pale, homely breast with it and continue doing that every forty-five minutes until burnished brown, and the turkey is 160 to 170. Tent with tinfoil and let the carryover take it to 180. You're golden, and so is the bird.

The whole operation is that much easier if you have a comrade, someone who fortifies everyone with her pear and black pepper bread that morning and gave birth to a baby a few months back, so you've got this little giggly, brown-eyed imp of a chublet being passed around while you throw down in the kitchen. I wandered off from the kitchen to get my fill of the baby smell, the soft cheeks and downy hair, the little fingers that burrowed into your mouth, eyeballs and nostrils then yanked like she was drowning. Dinner was ready by five, and we ate until the moaning began, then burrowed into the desserts. There are no desserts left, and we had four kinds.

Yesterday I was watching TV and then I passed out and woke up 2 hours later, disoriented and rosy cheeked. I don't like napping, and I never have -- they are not restful for me. I wake up sleepier than I was in the first place, with a smashed face and features, hair that angers people. I guess I needed the nap, though, and would have happily continued to let my body rot wrapped in my down comforter. But I got up, and did a little shopping with my sisters and mom, drank an eggnog latte that I did not care about and bought a bottle of my favorite vanilla extract.

So that was Thanksgiving. I hope yours was lovely, the loveliest ever. I've been so busy that I haven't cooked, and to just spend the whole day anchored in front of the stove, chopping herbs and browning sage sausage, it was comforting and a little disorienting, like I had Amnesia, like I was the heroine of an ABC Romantic Situation Comedy, all "How do I know how to use the grating blade for the food processor?".

Now I need to go eat some cold stuffing and risk intestinal parasites.

Late to the party

(1. A Devon Industry creation 2. A fantastic counterpart, a print by yumi yumi)

I am not an early adopter. There have been many situations in my life where I've found something only to have it fold, die, quit or lose steam right as I'm getting into it. Etsy, thankfully, does not seem to be headed in that direction.

I've begun my holiday shopping. Partially because I can't contain myself, and then a practical reason -- once November hits, I begin to hemorrhage money, frantically losing track of the various lists I start, listing everyone's gifts (purchased or not) and I find myself throwing down green for things that I'M PRETTY SURE THEY'LL LIKE based on the wafts of panic that exudes from my pores. "I just wet my pants in Urban Outfitters. Let's pray he doesn't want to return this hoodie."

On many sites I read, pleas have been made to shop handmade, shop local, shop where you know your money will be going to fund the person behind your gift, helping to ease the pressure that seems to cave in any small niches or pockets of time they've carved out to create. You're paying for so much more than the product itself, you're paying for a way of life that seems to grow fainter each year. I guess the worms have eaten my brain, because this year I get it.

I ordered the small pink owl, above, as one of the gifts planned for the only baby I have ever loved that wasn't from the same uterus as I was, and I plan to order the print and a pair of small fabric slippers to complete the trifecta of gifts she will not notice for a good ten years. Next year, receipts and a plastic Frosty spoon.

Not only was the owl cuter and less money than many of the stuffed goods I'd been eying off and online, in little boutiques and stores, the shipping was fast, the craftsmanship outstanding the packaging ridiculous -- a lavender sachet. Two colors of tissue. Several business cards and a handwritten note. Thanks, Devon Industry. I don't think Grandmas show that much love. I know the big-business folks I ordered two pairs of shoes from didn't, because I received a poorly taped, giant box with the shoes thudding around inside, encased in a plastic bag with the receipt and a letter informing me that only half of my order was there, the other half was not "in stock" and they'd charge me later -- only they'd already charged me, for both pairs. Nice. NICE. You with your giant stores and customer service centers. I hope that next time you pad the box with dirty laundry and lawn clippings, maybe some animal limbs.

The difference was glaring. The decision was made. Etsy gets all of my money this year, with the exception of books, certain clothing items and toiletries.

There are drawbacks though -- for instance, I have no idea how to find anything on Etsy. I know there are color charts and things like that, and I rely on many of the handpicked items that grace the homepage/interviews with shop owners. But otherwise, I'm lost. I type in a phrase and there's 398 pages to sift through. Some of these items may or may not have anything to do with what I've typed in. So I'm begging, a little, for any guidance you have -- your favorite shops, YOUR shops, items you like, love and live with, advice on how to navigate this great resource, anything. Anything that a very smart, savvy ten year old girl would like (or dudes, just general dudes, of all ages), huge bonus points. Thank you.

And I hope, that if for some reason your mom drops you off twenty minutes after mine does, that this edges you a little closer towards Etsy. Otherwise we'll lock you in the closet with it and count to 7 seven times, and when you come out someone will have spilled root beer on your coat. GET WITH IT.

"You are shaming the family!"

(All papers from MrFrench.com)

As you may have noticed from my recent, fall-themed banner in August, I have Premature Seasonal Excitement Disorder.

I have nothing to say for myself, besides that I believe in well-dressed presents. Right now I'm thinking about how to dress up the above combinations. How to decide who gets the lime, who gets the blue and brown. I think that with the aqua/line/orange grouping, I'm going to use tinsel instead of ribbon. On the blue/brown/red, I'm going to use braids of my own hair.

Creative, classy, organic. That's just how I roll.

Chumptown, or "Precious Confections" (US Title)

"Precious. Just precious. Take her picture with your camera phone, honey."

I am a short individual, by birth and having nothing to do with family traits as everyone around me is a giant, and having navigated 24 years a few inches under five feet even (I know) I have had so many assumptions made about my height and assumed affinity for equally short (but certainly not dainty) things.

"You must love hamsters."

"You probably identify with street urchins, a lot. Except you don't have rickets."

"I bet you have dance-offs with Toddlers."

"You are as tall as R2D2, but you have the voice of Hans Solo."

The only one ever proven right was my dream to steal ornamental Christmas light-up figurines, the snowmen and santas, from front yards during the holidays so I could have my kind near me at all times, so I could feel less alone. Just like the NBA, it never happened.

Motherfuckers.

But I do like other short things, and the above is one of them. A bit ago, Deb over at SmittenKitchen posted her version of lilliputian icebox cakes. I tried them, and they were wonderful just as is.

But how can you really shame and yet enhance a small thing? Put something pink on top of her head.

Try it with an old person who has lost three or four inches of height due to not listening to Sally Field on that commercial about the monthly pill. You'll see the fire return, as the cane meets your face.

Icebox Cakes
As seen on SmittenKitchen

One box Nabisco chocolate wafers
1 1/2 cups cold, heavy (or double) whipping cream
2-3 tablespoons vanilla sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 bar semi-sweet chocolate
Cadbury Mini Eggs (optional)

Freeze a very clean, dry glass or metal bowl of a suitable size and the beater(s) or whisk you plan to use, for at least fifteen minutes.

Once chilled and frosted to the touch, pour cold whipping cream, sugar and vanilla extract into the bowl. Whip until almost-stiff peaks form, but cream should still be silky and spreadable. Like Simon Cowell's faint praise.

Arrange four (you'll most likely be able to make more, but this is a good number to start with) chocolate wafers on a serving plate or platter, or inside slightly flattened decorative paper liners/cups. Dollop whipped cream (the equiv. of 2-3 tablespoons, as Deb said you'll want to use more than you think you need because it will soak in to the wafers) on top of each wafer, top with another and continue until you've built up 4 or 5 layers. You should end with whipped cream -- I had four wafer layers in each of my cakes.

Repeat until all wafers are used up -- you can make cakes of varying sizes, that might be really cute. I thought about reducing the height of mine after eating it, I think three wafers is the perfect amount.

Warm the short edge of your chocolate bar with the palm of your hand, gripping fingers around the edge for a few seconds, then run a vegetable (I use a Y-shaped one) peeler or knife down the side, creating curls. Scatter over (or just hold the chocolate over the cakes as you shave) the top of each cake, and if desired, if you're into that sort of thing, place three Cadbury Mini Eggs gently on top, as though a bird flew through your window and let each one drop out of her chute, on top of your dessert tray. Making Grandma faint.

While these are delicious as is, leave them in the fridge for at least three hours for the magic to really take place. Right next to the baby.