In the rush to write all about how I haven’t been cooking, I forgot one very important meal: Breakfast.
It’s not unheard of that the kids, these days, will serve themselves breakfast alone. They do a good job of selecting cereal, bagels, milk, juice, fruit–whatever they can find that strikes their fancy. Sometimes, they actually get fancy and set the breakfast trays up in the living room and have a TV picnic breakfast while we sleep in. There’s generally not too much mess.
But there are times, too, when I’ve set out a special breakfast, and on Thanksgiving, I decided to combine the two (special breakfast + breakfast alone) and pronounce it a new tradition.
I made a fresh batch of apple cider from granny smith apples in our extremely efficient juicer (which I won in a giveway on Foodbuzz. See the sidebar on our blog). It was bright green and crisply tart and delicious at first, when it was freshly squeezed/pressed/frothed, but then it mellowed to that familiar amber color and was still delicious.
I made cornbread (from a really good box mix at Trader Joes, and lest you protest, remember this was the weekend of not cooking), boiled eggs (which both children would both live on if they could) and set out a bowl of pineapple guavas, a small cup of strawberries, and a plate of fuyu persimmons. I set the table, and in the morning, they ate like little hungry pilgrims, and we slept in.
It’s easy enough to do something like this every once in a while. It gives the kids a feeling of autonomy, of being treated specially, of choice. We don’t have to talk about what it gives the grown-ups.
I am always ready to start the Christmas baking too early to actually start the Christmas baking. Last year (at exactly this time, I see), I was stirring up a batch of Wonderballs, no-bake peanut butter-oatmeal concoctions that we keep in the fridge. They are an excellent transitional snack, whether the gap you’re trying to bridge is from lunchtime to dinner, or from Thanksgiving to Christmas!
This year, I figured it wasn’t too early to start in on some of the Christmas gift candy-making. Every year seems to add a few more people to the list of folks who have helped us through the months, from the boys’ many teachers to the guy who delivers the Sunday New York Times, and while I make batches and batches of cookies during the holidays to share with folks who come over, I make candy to give away. It keeps better than cookies, it’s less fragile, and I can produce it quickly in great volume.
Now candied orange peel might not be at the top of everyone’s favorite candy list, and I think that’s probably because too many people have been subjected to too much bad fruitcake studded with plasticky candied citrus. Fresh candied orange peel is a revelation: it’s delicious, with all the citrus flavor concentrated in a couple tender bites; it’s sparkly and beautiful; it’s also (except for one tedious step) easy, quick, and cheap. What’s not to like? I’ve been making it for years, and now it’s one of the first things Ben asks for when we start to talk about Christmas cooking, so I can’t resist making it for him.
Place in a saucepan:
Peel of 3 oranges, 2 grapefruits, or 6 lemons, removed in wide strips
Add water to cover and simmer for 30 minutes. Drain, cover with fresh cold water, and simmer until tender. Drain, refresh under cold water, and then remove the remaining pulp or pith by scraping it away with a spoon or paring knife. This is the tedious part of the process and it’s a little too delicate to delegate to the kids yet, but I hope to next year.
Cut the peel into 1/4″ wide strips.
Combine in a large, heavy saucepan:
1 c sugar
3 T light corn syrup
3/4 c water
Stir over low heat until the sugar is dissolved. Add the fruit peel and cook very gently over low heat until most of the syrup is absorbed. Cover and let stand overnight.
Bring to a simmer again, then use a slotted spoon to transfer the peel to a baking pan lined with parchment and sprinkled generously with granulated sugar.
Use tongs to toss the citrus peel in the sugar until well coated. Let dry for at least an hour.
You can stop there, or you can go one more step and dip the candied peel into chocolate. This is something the kids could do, if you trust them not to eat every other piece.
Melt or temper half a pound of bittersweet chocolate (since I store these in the fridge, I don’t go to the trouble of tempering, but go ahead if you’re feeling fancy). Dip the end of each piece of peel in the chocolate and let dry on sheets of waxed paper. Store the finished candy between layers of wax or parchment paper in an airtight container in the fridge for up to 4 months.
Finally, don’t toss the sugar you used to coat the candied peel; it offers a nice orange-y tang to any baked goods or even your next cup of tea.
Winter fruit in California is maybe not quite so varied as summer fruit, but with satsumas, pomegranates, and pears, I’m not complaining. This winter, I’m also optimistically awaiting a new addition to our winter fruit menu: the quince! After years of beautiful flowers from the raggedy little tree in the far corner of our narrow city backyard, this year, our little quince tree has set fruit, and a couple have even survived the squirrels and other urban predators to make it close to harvestable size.
But before our quinces were ready, my dad’s Connecticut quinces ripened. I associate quinces with Connecticut, and with my grandmother, who made sheets of sticky-sweet quince leather from the fruit of my grandparents’ small, sturdy tree every year. When I mentioned my tree’s produce to my parents, they said they had more quinces than they knew what to do with this year, and before long a package arrived on our doorstep:
So I got to work, researching the quince. The LA Times ran a feature story on quinces and another article reminded me of their place in poetry; my mom sent some recipes, and I also read happily about fried quince pies and my friend’s baked quinces. In the end, though, I used a cookbook straight from my bookshelf, Deborah Madison’s wonderful Local Flavors and found a recipe for poached quinces, so that I could cook with some now, and save some for later.
Spiced Quinces in Syrup
2 1/2 pounds ripe, yellow-gold quinces
3/4 c sugar
1 cinnamon stick
5 cloves
2 wide strips of orange zest
Rub the fuzz, if any, off the quinces. Using a good sharp knife, cut away the skin in long strokes, like you would an orange peel, saving the skins. Remove the center with an apple corer, if you have one, or simply cut the fruit off the core in big chunks, and then slice into wedges about 1/2 inch thick.
Put the skins and cores into a saucepan with two quarts of water, bring it to a boil, then simmer, covered, for 30 minutes. Strain. Return the liquid to the pot and add the sugar, spices, and orange zest. Stir to dissolve the sugar, then add the fruit. Place parchment paper of a heavy plate directly over the fruit to keep it submerged. Lower the heat, cover the pan, and simmer until the quinces have turned pink and are slightly translucent, 2 to 2 1/2 hours. If the syrup becomes too thick, add more water as needed. When done, store the fruit in its syrup in the refrigerator; the quinces should keep for two months.
Then, of course, I baked a tart:
Apple and Spiced Quince Tart
1 sheet of puff pastry
2 apples, such as Gravenstein, Golden Delicious or McIntosh
2 ripe but firm Bartlett pears
1/2 t ground cinnamon
2 t sugar
2 quinces (about 16 slices) poached in syrup
2 T butter, melted
Roll the chilled pastry into a square 1/8 inch thick. Place it on a sheet and refrigerate until ready to bake.
Preheat oven to 400.
Peel, core, and slice the apples into 1/4 inch wedges. Peel, core, and slice the pears into slightly thicker wedges. Toss all the fruits with the cinnamon and sugar.
Remove pastry from the fridge and loosely arrange the fruit in the middle, drizzle the butter over it, then pull the opposite corners toward each other; they won’t meet.
Bake for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to 375 and continue baking until the pastry is puffed and golden and the fruit is tender, about 35-40 minutes.
quince galette with puff pastry
I still have more poached quinces to bake into tarts and crisps, sweets that will tide us over while we await our own quinces. We are being very patient, and look forward to the day, some time in the next couple weeks, when the kids and I will pick our own small quinces, our first backyard fruit harvest.
Like Lisa, I had a Thanksgiving without cooking, but my younger son and I were both too sick for me to be thankful for it. Instead, I was thankful for my sister’s oven repairman, and her own ability to produce several dozen of my mom’s wheat germ rolls, two pies, a pumpkin-ginger cheesecake, roasted vegetables, sweet potato casserole, sweet potatoes Anna, apple-chestnut stuffing, two kinds of cranberry sauce (including one with grapes, almonds and whipped cream that is surprisingly delicious), brussels sprouts with maple-glazed hickory nuts (nuts gathered and shelled by my dad) and, of course, a turkey. My husband made his family’s stuffing (recipe below) and all I did was ask for a couple bunches of fresh kale, which my husband chopped for me to turn into kale salad. It turned out to be a nice foil for the rich sweetness of the rest of the delicious meal, and I think it’ll become a regular part of the ever-expanding Thanksgiving menu.
The stuffing, a recipe from Tony’s grandmother, couldn’t be simpler, so I offer it as Tony dictated it to me:
Of course, it is an entirely eyeballed “recipe” …
several cups breadcrumbs
2-3 bunches, Italian Parsley, washed and chopped coarsely
zest of 2-3 lemons
Mix thoroughly while dry.
Add boiling hot vegetable stock to moisten thoroughly. Cover or serve immediately.
The kale salad is based on this recipe, but I tinker with it (reducing the number of ingredients and the steps involved), so here’s my version:
Combine in a large salad bowl:
2 bunches Tuscan kale (about a pound), center ribs and stems removed, leaves sliced thinly crosswise
2 handfuls dried cranberries
2 handfuls toasted sliced almonds
Mix together dressing ingredients:
2 T balsamic, red wine, or raspberry vinegar
1 T unseasoned rice vinegar
1 T honey
1 T olive oil
salt to taste
Toss the salad with the dressing, and let marinate for 20 minutes or so before serving.
Making turkey soup in the days after Thanksgiving is one of the very few generations-long family traditions we have in my family. Certain aspects of our seasonal and holiday meals have evolved and morphed over the years, but this soup is not one of them. It derives from my father’s side of the family, from my beloved Pop-Pop and his wife, Lucy, who died before I was born but whom I’m led to understand was a terrific cook. As long as I can remember, my family made turkey soup, and it seemed to be my dad’s thing, though I’m sure my mom helped to finish it. There is no recipe, just a series of ad hoc steps that make it easy and adaptable. And although it takes time to make the broth, the actual active time is maybe 20-30 minutes, spread out over a few days.
So here, offered to you, is our very humble family recipe for
Harper Turkey Soup
After the turkey is carved, take all of the fat, skin, and most of the meat off the carcass, but make sure to leave some meat on the carcass. Leaving meat on the bone is essential to flavor. Put the carcass cage into your largest stock pot. If you have carved the legs and thighs, throw those bones in as well.
Cover the bones and carcass with cold water.
Leave the pot to sit overnight in a cold place. (My father would always leave the pot in front of our side door, which was a frigid alcove. He said this was to foil any robbers who happened to break in the evening after Thanksgiving. Of course, I always wondered what made that night more vulnerable in our house than any other, especially since we never had any robbery of any sort… Finally I figured out it was simply because there was no room in our refrigerator. I’m sure you can find your own cold-ish place where you can regale your small children with stories about the virtue of culinary procedures to law enforcement.)
The next day, if any fat has formed on the top, skim it off and discard.
At this point, if you like, you may add your aromatics: a quartered onion, 1-2 large carrots, 1-2 bay leaves, 8 peppercorns, a spalsh of white wine, a tablespoon of salt. Or you may simply leave the carcass as is and boil it naked, as it were.
Bring the water to a gentle boil, then lower the heat and let it simmer, simmer, simmer for a few hours. If you only have 2 hours, you may turn off the stove and let the carcass steep in the hot water for another hour. Or more. Like I said, this is an art, not a science. As the broth simmers, if you see foam on the surface, skim it off. Skim, and skim, and skim. This will help clarify your broth.
Once the broth is done, let it cool.
Strain out any bones and aromatics.
Pick the meat off the carcass and return it to the broth.
At this point, you may add whatever vegetables you like: leafy greans, spinach, broccoli, green beans, carrots, frozen peas…anything you have or want to use and like is fair game. Fresh or frozen. One necessity: We always add a drained can of whole tomatoes right at the beginning of this last stage, which we chop before adding. Add the longer-cooking vegetables first (carrots, chard stems celery, kale, etc, them add the tender greens, beans, peas, etc.) Simmer until the vegetables are cooked–we like them tender crisp for the first batch. They soften up over the days, so don’t overcook.)
In a separate small pot, cook your noodles until they are almost done. Egg noodles are by the far the best, and traditional, but if I’ve forgotten to buy them and don’t want to make them, any wide noodle will do, as will letter pasta or penne…use what your family likes.
Add the cooked pasta to the soup and continue simmering a few minutes longer.
Of course you can eat this right away, but it gets better and better every day after that, which is good, because one turkey will make a lot of soup. Enough for a week of leftovers.
A few notes: This year, I had a heritage turkey, with little fat. This produced a great, clear broth, with very little fat and no need to skim. My mother never added salt, but I’ve found that adding a tablespoon to the initial cooking helps with the final flavor of the soup. You can add extra meat at the end if you like, but I always leave enough on the carcass to fill out the whole recipe.
I’m sure many of you have your own versions, & I’m sure we’d all love to hear what they are.
