Bake and Shake

Cranberries and 14th place: I finally get on board the Holiday Recipe Express

Here's the first of two Thanksgiving recipes. I figure that I'll post the rest the day after, when the sight of a turkey or pie makes you want to hit poultry. Or on Valentines Day.

One of the saddest things about Thanksgiving is the wealth of cranberry sauce, preserves, conserve or relish that you're left with. No matter how little you make, just enough to satisfy the traditionalists, it seems to expand and bloom and you've got twice as much at the end of the meal, compared to what you began with.

I love Cranberries. I think they provide a wealth of color, a shot of acid into a meal that is usually as brown and sodden as the leaves outside. And Cranberry Conserve is so simple to make, so simple that I have to talk myself down from doubling the recipe just because. My usual recipe is here, but this year I wanted to branch out a little. Add the gizzards from the turkey. For a brighter, fresher flavor.

Really, all I did was omit the cinnamon, apple and use a little less citrus, a little more sugar. And then a vanilla bean shows up, invites herself inside and plunks down in the hot tub. Hey guys. I don't believe in swimsuits.

If you haven't committed yourself to a specific recipe, give this one a try. The vanilla is beautiful, and the Satsuma rind and juice is sweet and tart and just different enough from regular navel oranges to perfume the sauce in a whole new way.

Cranberry Conserve with Vanilla, Lemon and Satsuma
1 bag (12 ounces) cranberries, washed and picked over
1 cup vanilla sugar
1 Satsuma or small tangerine
1 small lemon
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup water
1/2 large vanilla bean, split

In a medium saucepan, dump the cranberries, sugar and water. Peel a large swath of rind from both the Satsuma and lemon, and add those, with the vanilla bean. Dash in the salt, and then juice both the lemon and Satsuma. Add the juices to the pot, and bring to a ploppy, slow boil over medium-high heat, cooking just until liquid thickens, turns bright red and a few berries begin to split and pop. Remove from heat and pour into your chosen serving dish, then press a piece of plastic wrap on top. Cool to room temp, then chill/store in the fridge until ready to serve, at least four hours.

So, some things.

What are you making, or not making, for Thanksgiving?

I thought I was pretty set, but now Deb's taunting me with walnut tartlets. The obvious answer is, no turkey, just desserts.

There is always a point where I feel like we don't have enough of something - sides, appetizers, desserts. That last one is what is keeping me up right now. We are feeding over twenty people on Thursday. Our robot brethren. There is a 24 pound turkey thawing in the fridge. We bought five dozen eggs today. And there is a smaller, 13 pound turkey in a cooler on the back porch - to be brined and smoked. Seven pounds of butter await, along with four bricks of cream cheese. And a Jarvik Artificial Heart.

So, what are you making, for the day itself and the days before and after - last year we made Chili and cornbread for Thanksgiving Eve, but this year I think, and I pray, that we have Chinese. Or garbage. "Your stomach composts!"

Also, this is something I've been sitting on for a bit, but would you be interested in a drawing/giveaway for a 100% Cashmere long-sleeved "T-shirt" sweater and/or suitcase from a pretty decent retailer? I've never done one on my site, and I don't even know if you'd be interested in that sort of thing. You know? So let me know, in the comments, please, and we'll work this out. Free stuff this year is even better than free stuff last year, I think.

"He wants to eat you like a Cuban Sandwich, Girl."

So last night I found myself with a can of Miller Genuine Draft on my right, a scarf wound around my face, a bottle of Diet Coke on my left, and a box of peanut butter Whoppers and a crumpled bag of SmartPop! at my feet. Emmet Cullen in a velour jumpsuit, straddling the back of a Jeep, towered in front of me. It was just after midnight.

Yeah. We had to wait in a line, and we talked in hushed tones about why exactly we were doing this - I had read the books, sick with the flu and bored earlier this year but had made no plans to see the movie. It was a secret shame. My friends, who normally propose midnight showings to Pineapple Express and The Dark Knight rolled out the option for seeing this - "We're bringing alcohol, let's go see that Vampire movie." they said, completely oblivious to what they were about to deal with. We were the only ones not trilling and screaming. My friends were the only men in attendance. The screaming did not stop for the first hour of the movie. I left once to take a piss, and the girls behind us were still screaming when I came back. Someone was wearing a Santa hat. The masses literally could not handle themselves.

I felt a little warm, watching that, the unabashed "I love this so much that I'm going to freak out in public, squeal, recite lines, wear t-shirts, call out declarations of love and not know what to do with myself" attitude of the majority of young women in the theater. It was a safe space for them - to get excited over a boy kissing someone's throat, even if they wouldn't know what to do if the same pair of lips pressed against theirs. Being older, and a little intoxicated, I laughed hysterically at certain points but tried to maintain the same reverence, even though my friends and I couldn't stop keeling forward to exchange aghast looks with each other. It was funny for so many reasons, but most of all it was safe. It was dangerous and arousing and exciting and uniting for them - it was good, for those girls, who not to get all sociological and Women and Gender Studies on you, but don't have many public outlets for those feelings. Trilling and vibrating with screams whenever closeups of Edward's eyes were shown was the equivalent of a sixteen year old boy shouting "NICE TITS!" at the cheerleaders.

At one point we shouldn't have been there. We should have snuck out and into something else, 'Rachel Getting Married' which I really want to see. For the five of us, three guys and two girls it was hilarious, and then everybody was bored. By halftime, our fellow patrons had settled and we had not, getting up to pee, shifting around and sharing snacks, and every involuntary laugh or snort made me feel like a horrible person for disrupting what this movie was for those girls, in the t-shirts, who had played hand-clap games in the lobby, squealing and flipping through their books so they could recite favorite passages. When Edward 'caught' the apple, they tittered. When he angrily tore his shirt open to reveal a plank of glittering vampire sirloin, they breathed in deep and let out little whimpers, tiny wails of "Omiiiiiiiiiggooooooooooood".

And we slurped lukewarm beer, ate junk and tried hard to keep from getting into it. For a lot of reasons we succeeded, and I would like to thank Jacob's very white teeth, Victoria's alpaca shrug at both prom and the killing field, Eric's tie at all times, and "Baby, LaPush. LaPush, baby. Baby LaPush! LAPUSHBABY!" for that.

But.

Robert Pattinson is very attractive when he wears sunglasses.

And this makes me want to weep.

Not cool. NOT COOL. And introducing my baby, Jestiny.

Goddamn, I love GOOP.

Everyone has the right to Photoshop collages of their favorite outfits, accessories, take Depth of Field-heavy photographs of their recipes, write earnestly about their current whims and passions, and I love that someone with best friends named Madonna and Stella McCartney, a husband who tours the globe and children named after Biblical figures and tree fruits is doing it too. It is a great equalizer, because it is kind of lame, kind of obsessive, and strange - "I'm just typing this out! I think people want to know how I recreated a McIsley from Pine State Biscuits!" and I think that she is genuinely excited about what she is sharing with us, and that is great. Let lameness cloak itself over all, paying no attention to economic standing.

Also, her recipe for turkey is based off the same one I use for my own. It is really good, and keeps things really, really moist. If you won't do it because she is a proponent, do it because you like good turkey.

Paltrow's Turkey: Basted with the plasma of corn-fed, free-range unicorns

Last night my oldest friends and I had dinner together, and the friend I carpooled with and I made ourselves sick by coming up with names for the Duggars. They've graced each one of their 17 children with a name that begins with the letter 'J'. If you think that has limited them, think again. 

I think it would be great if they went against the grain for the newest child her uterus is coddling, like "Jinger! Jedidiah! James! Joyanna! Carl."

But then we started altering every name we could think of. My favorites were Jiffany. Jachel. Jella. Jallulah. Jhoebe. Jeven. Jrandon. And Jyle. Jucas! Jarly. Jeter! Jamanda. And Jencer.

10 thoughts about this video I found on Linsey's site

1. I thought this was a Funny or Die video at first.
2. I thought Frances McDormand was starring in this Funny or Die video, and I loved her even more.
3. I didn't realize it wasn't a Funny or Die video until she got up and announced that she was going to repeat the moves.
4. I love that she left the mic on, so you hear these little muffled grunts and the friction of hand on sensual spandex capri. Visceral.
5. I wonder if that is her house.
6. I wonder if those sparse, minimal, artfully placed excercise equipment instillations are up year-round, and if she hits the grandchild who wants to play with the ball.
7. I wonder if she lets her grandkids call her grandma. "Call me Pam!"
8. I still think this might be a Funny or Die video.
9. She doesn't let you down in the eye contact department.
10. I don't like those shoes.

ETSY Gift Guide '08: House, Home, Crawlspace - What to buy for dwellings

There are people among us who want you to buy something for a room in their life. A specific room - "I don't really want anything, but you could get something for the kitchen." The kitchen, which has not done a thing for you in your lifetime. Is now on your list. But instead of thinking too hard about it, and succumbing to the clearance sections at Anthro or Restoration Hardware, pick out a few of these beauties - they range in price from ridiculously cheap, to "I love your kitchen a lot. I hope your kitchen is down with hooking me up with its pancreas, when the time comes. I will be making that call. In the dead of night."

Your best friend's Kitchen


I would like to give one of those ceramic glove molds to Paula Deen, to hold her rings while she fondles ground meat. "Y'all, raw pork is as sensual as a lover." The orange tree? Right, exactly - buy it now, or a month ago, and get it all potted up before it is time to unwrap. The scale is cuter than anything in Anthropologie, the ceramic house numbers could be used in or out, and the stout little jugs just make me happy.
  
Your sister's Boudoir


Don't lie. You might try one of those little vintage soaps. The one you don't think is as pretty as the others. Whatever. I guess I'm just the gross one then. But besides those, which you would only use as decoration, there are so many other things worth buying for the bathroom, bedroom, dressing room and beyond. I like those little terrariums, and the bathing beauties print. And some soap you can actually use on your body, right now, or save it for forty years. Let it mellow.

Your ridiculous entrepreneur of a cousin's Office


She can spin money from straw, and she's set up shop - so give her some guff, and some lovely things - the 'Live what you love' print is so nice, and affordable, order one for yourself. The Orla-ish pillow will work for the late-night catnaps, glue that will smell delicious when she turns to huffing office supplies to get through it all, and a little business card holder, for the cards that hold her business. In return, ask for nothing, except a blood oath assuring you that you will be called upon to be the Gayle to her Oprah when she usurps Winfrey in 2015. 

Your brother's Dorm, "The Dream Factory"


The Hygiene cards aren't meant to be sent as a single pack, but space them out over the next five months - Like a meat of the month club. A raccoon in Business dress might just be the reminder that he needs to step off the side business and concentrate on studies, because someone in a tie is always watching. And the inventory tags? Completely practical. The plate is a joke, Mom. The plate is a JOKE.

For all of us

The best pie crust recipe. I always doubt which one to use (Martha used to have a few versions listed in her recipe index), but here is the one that has always worked for me.

Once I was baking with a friend over, we got distracted by our conversation and I forgot to prick the crusts I was blind-baking for a quiche, and didn't do another chill after pressing them into the pans. They weren't useable for that purpose, but they were edible, and we split one down the middle. I don't suggest you do that, but they're beyond good.

1:03, my favorite part

GAP commercials always make me happy.

We don't have to take our hair off, to have a good time.

When I try, I can keep my computer pretty organized. Documents, music and pictures take up the bulk of my drive, and while I have no explaining to do on behalf of the first two, the third often gets a lot of inquiries.

"What is this folder, on your desktop? Why is it called...Wow."

"I LIKE THEIR HAIR."

The amount of photographs I have, and have saved over the years, simply because I like the hairstyles depicted in them (the perfect coiffed updo, the perfect haphazard topknot, loose waves, tight curls, adornments and headbands, great highlights or color jobs) is ridiculous. So I finally, in the name of doing something almost productive, decided to put together a chart of my favorites. I usually wear my hair natural, so tight ringlets on good days, softer, looser waves on days with a little more moisture in the air. But a few times a week, I hybrid it up, using a 1 1/2 inch barrel curling iron to do a mild version of "Danity Kane hair/Kimora Lee Simmons" Hair, my personal happy medium between natural and busting out the straightening iron - and this can last a long time, a few days if you do it the day of a fresh washing, a few days after that if you truly don't give a damn. A long time. I'm not going to tell you how long, just that once I did it and it just kept looking better and better and then I realized people were living in it. Small, tiny scalp people, who breathed in hairspray like it was oxygen and planted trees along my forehead.

But the day after the initial Aundrea-ing, what to do? Nighttime, and I firmly believe this is why Aubrey was let go if we're going to get serious about this, and I will always get serious about DKane, because she didn't follow this rule, but night is the only time for DK hair. It slaps people across the face and then set your car on fire. It really does. And so, after that, I'm left with hair that is almost straight, and that means I can do some fun stuff with it.

So here's my chart, I don't even pretend to think you're interested in it, but it keeps it right at hand for when I need to remember what to do with all this mess. I blacked out the eyes, just in case you're offended by any of the people pictured. You know. A lot of people have strong feelings about Baby V.

"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.