Of Fall Weekends and Thanksgiving Stuffing

Oh, people, I don’t know about you but right now I’m feeling like weekend might just be the best word in the English language. Especially fall weekend, and in particular, fall weekend before a major holiday.

That’s why the market was bustling with people, buzzing with energy. There were piles of potatoes and mountains of squash, and carrots that are going to end up glazed and on somebody’s holiday table.

Holidays, yes, holidays. Right around the corner.

(Well, at least here in the U.S.; my Canadian cousins got to it first.)

Right about now I’m feeling rather pleased with myself that I took pictures of the Thanksgiving stuffing last year, so I could tell you about it before the day rather than after. Because, let me tell you, it’s good stuffing.

I should probably tell you that the reason I love this stuffing is that I invented it one year—the year I decided to put all the things I like into a stuffing and leave everything else out. You get to do this when you grow up in a family without many traditions. We don’t have an annual family stuffing that gets made year after year. I was always sad about this growing up, I wanted family traditions that reappeared each year on the dining table.

The good thing about not having traditions, however, is that you get to make them up for yourself—and you get to pick ones that suit. This means that my stuffing has no sausage, no apple, and definitely no raisins.

I generally take a dim view on dried fruit in stuffings.

What I do like is cornbread, and sourdough bread. And loads of sautéed mushrooms and onions and celery and toasted pecans. And I like the surprise of chopped water chestnuts that add a crunch to the stuffing, a fresh and light touch that you wouldn’t expect.

And sometimes I even like dried cranberries, a little (though see above regarding general no fruit policy). I do one pan with cranberries, one without, and a smaller dish with no mushrooms for my sister-in-law who doesn't like them (and I always feel sorry for her as I do).

The first time I made this stuffing was about eight years ago. At the end of the meal, as we were cleaning up, my mother looked at me and said, “That stuffing was so good, can you make it again next year?”

So now we have a family stuffing recipe.



What about you? What kind of stuffing do you like?

And why do some people call it stuffing and other people call it dressing? Are these generational terms? Regional slang? Please discuss.

Because right now all I can think about is stuffing.

This weekend I spent a good long time raking leaves—a perfect thing to do on a fall weekend before a major holiday for which family will be arriving soon. I think of it as the best way to start working up an appetite for stuffing.



THANKSGIVING STUFFING

2 cups pecans, toasted and coarsely chopped
3 medium onions, chopped (6 cups)
2 tbs olive oil
5 stalks celery, chopped (2 cups)
2 1/2 lbs mushrooms—button or crimini—chopped
6 cups sourdough bread, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1 loaf cornbread (see recipe below), cubed and crumbled a bit
2 5-oz cans water chestnuts, coarsely chopped
2 tsp salt
pepper to taste
2 eggs, beaten
optional: dried cranberries, chestnuts

Toast the pecans in a dry pan on medium high temperature until warm and toasty, but make sure not to burn (about 10 minutes). Set aside.

In a large pan or Dutch oven, sauté the onions in olive oil over medium high heat. When soft but not brown, add the celery and the mushrooms. Cook until the mushrooms have softened, stirring to make sure the mixture cooks evenly.

In a large bowl (really large bowl), mix the sourdough bread and the cornbread. Add the nuts, and the onion/celery/mushroom mixture. Add the chopped water chestnuts, salt, and pepper.

Mix stuffing throughly, then add egg (and cranberries, if using). Bake in a greased baking dish at 350° for 30 minutes or until the edges have begun to brown just the slightest bit.



While it is possible to use a different cornbread recipe—or even store-bought cornbread, as I did one year—this is the best recipe to use. The store-bought version I used once was far too sweet and had pieces of real corn, which was all wrong for this recipe. I usually make the cornbread the day before.

CORNBREAD
(from Moosewood Cookbook, by Mollie Katzen)
1/4 honey
1 cup buttermilk
1 egg
1 cup yellow cornmeal
1 cup unbleached white flour
2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
3 tbs melted butter

Preheat the oven to 425°

Mix the dry ingredients in a bowl. Whisk together the egg, add the buttermilk and honey. Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and add melted butter. Mix well. Bake in an 8-inch buttered dish until the edges begin to brown and a knife or toothpick inserted in the middle comes clean (about 20 minutes).

This makes a goodly amount of stuffing—at least enough for six people, probably with leftovers. I love to make it in my mother's old bread baking bowl, often the only time each year that it gets used. It's a huge bowl, a lot of stuffing, but it's all of our favorite dish at Thanksgiving.

Here's to Fun

When you spend a couple of months hunched over a computer, the world kind of gets away from you—email, news, household chores. When I woke up yesterday, it felt giddy to not have to sit down at the computer and pull up the same old document that I have been slaving over for ages. In fact, I didn't even have to sit down at the computer at all. Not if I didn't want to.

The whole world opens up again.

The list of life postponed is so very long—friends, family, cooking even. I’ve spent such little time in the kitchen lately, it makes me sad. I managed to squeeze in that quince over the weekend, between bouts of editing and tweaking the manuscript (more on that soon). It was more cooking than I’ve managed since, oh, June.

And here we are, at the cosy time of the year. This is when the light fades but candles and fireplaces are lit and we come together with friends and family to keep each other warm and comforted through the winter.



I have to admit, I do love this time of year. For me it feels like a time to draw the corners together, to take stock, to plan. It’s the planning that I love the most. The ideas that take root in the quiet dark of winter often bloom beautifully come spring and summer.

We also just need some fun to get us through the cold months.

My friend Jen Maiser was recently inspired by Sasha Cagen to make a list of fun things to do, and to complete them in the month that led up to her birthday. Sam got into the action as well, making her own list. I’ve always been a list maker, but so many of mine have to do with responsibilities and chores. I love the idea of a list of fun.

So that is what I’ve been doing the past few months. Whenever something fun comes to mind—or something fun but challenging—I put it on my list. I’ve not had much time for fun with all the work lately, so this list became a promise to myself, a talisman to get me through to the end where I knew there would be pleasurable and joyful things waiting for me.



It is true that my birthday is in about a month (on December 17th, cake for everyone!), but as my list has grown it’s become clear that I won’t accomplish it all by that time. I began to think of it as an “end of the year” list, but it’s probably too long for that as well. Now it’s become the list of fun things that might just get me through the wet Seattle winter. If any of you remember how glum things got around here last February, you know that I’ll be needing something like that.

But really, shouldn’t we all have a ready supply of fun stuff close at hand?

Here’s my list—and ever growing. Feel free to chime in with your own ideas, either in the comments or give a link to your own site. I’d love to see what other people think sounds fun. The Seattle winter is long and, if I make it through my own list, I might just need some inspiration from yours.

Here’s to fun!

• Spend a day wandering around downtown Seattle; squash soup at Wild Ginger √
• Have a proper tea party with my nieces √
• Spend an afternoon writing thank you notes & letters to those I love
• Waffle party with family for my birthday (gingerbread waffles & poached pears!) √
• Go to the SPCA—look at doggies
• Spend a day on an island
• Christmas crafts with the niecelets (any suggestions much appreciated!)
• Buy gardening books/start planning garden
• Spend an afternoon at the Lynnwood spa √
• Weekend in Vancouver
• Host my first tamale party
• Make & decorate Christmas cookies √
• Go cross-country skiing/snowshoeing
• Breakfast at the diner; walk on Ocean Beach √
• Spend an entire weekend with no computer, internet, email, text
• Write a big catch up email for friends I’ve fallen out of touch with
• Run five miles
• Do an art project
• Plant daffodil bulbs to surprise me next spring
• See my friend Karen from Victoria (can’t believe it’s been 11 years!) √
• Go to Boom Noodle—try the oknomiyaki; get the pickle plate again √
• Build something
• Investigate beekeeping
• Ask someone I don’t know out on a date
• Dinner at A16
• Get kitchen knives sharpened √
• Go to the Frye Art Museum
• Plan something fun for my mother’s 70th birthday (!!!) √
• Theater/opera
• Successfully make dosa (the unsuccessful kind I’ve already accomplished)
• Cure my own olives
• Eat at Range
• Have a catch up phone chat with friend Quaz, cup of tea or cocktail included
• Hike on Mt. Tam √
• Explore somewhere in Washington I’ve never been before
• Cooking day with Lian
• Dancing of some sort √
• Go barn hunting in Sonoma; dinner at Della Fattoria afterwards
• Camping
• Visit a farm √
• Weekend in Portland
• Go back to Kalaloch; check out Sol Duc hot springs
• Wake up on Jan 1, 2009 in a place that makes me truly happy



UPDATE: am feeling quite pleased that the very day I posted this list I was able to check one item off. My friend and former roommate, Amy, came to town for work and we spent happy hour at Boom Noodle. The pickle plate made me very happy indeed, and the okonomiyaki was delish. Ditto the miso-broiled rice cakes and my cucumber mint fizzy drink. Happy Hour prices also quite nice. Thanks, Amy. Hooray for fun!

The Words I Have Been Wanting to Write

I'm done! I've written a book.

It's true—246 pages, 75,564 words, and two and a half years in the making. Good grief.

All sent off to my editor just a few minutes ago.

The sad mess you see in the photo above is the heap of books and research and cups of cold tea that I've been been hanging out with lately. I wanted to clean it up for you, but I honestly haven't the energy. And someday I may look back on that clutter and laugh.

But for now I am going to bed. Believe me when I tell you I need it.

Thanks for all the support and putting up with of late—you are peaches and it is much appreciated. I'll be back with something good, just as soon as I catch up on the shut eye.

Cheers!

A Little Night Mischief

Oh, people, people—the things we get ourselves into while running on little sleep and more than a little stress. At least that’s what I am blaming it on. Yes, siree. I blame it on the deadline.

Why else would a perfectly sane and somewhat normal girl such as myself (those who know me can politely keep their laugher to themselves, thank you very much).

What was I saying? Oh yes, sane and somewhat normal—that’s me. Except last night, in the middle of the night, I found myself doing something quite odd.

I blame it on the fruit trees. Yes, the fruit trees I see in people’s yards just laden with beautiful fruit. There were the lemon trees in San Mateo—all those lovely Meyer lemons that no one was taking advantage of. Then there was the crazy prolific plum tree that looked like it was producing Easter Eggs. This fall there have been apple trees as well. What can I say, I just hate seeing fruit not being put to good use.

And right now, just three blocks away from my house, is a quince tree with plenty of fruit. Quince! Hardly anyone knows what to do with quince any more. The fruit is just falling to the ground.

At the farmers’ market the other week quince was selling for eight dollars a pound.

I promised myself that I would write a note to the owners of the lovely quince tree. Not only because I would like to make off with their unused bounty, but also because I think we should be friends. I base this idea solely on the fact that their house looks like it ought to be in Provence rather than Seattle and this makes me terribly happy. Also, they have a car that looks just like this.

Call me shallow, but I like people with unusual style.

And then there’s the quince.

In my head I had already drafted the letter—a nice offer to give their neglected fruit a good home, and to give them jars of quince jam in return. Who would say no to that? Especially as said fruit is currently rotting on their lawn.

I know this for a fact because tonight I walked past their house on the way to the bus stop and I saw it. I had almost written out my note and brought it with me to stick in their mailbox, but on rushing out of the house at the last minute I hadn’t had the time. And anyway, I still have a deadline to contend with. I can write the note over the weekend. By then I’ll actually have time to do something with the quince when they say yes.

And of course they will say yes, because they have style.

I’m sure you can appreciate my logic.

Well tonight, coming home from dinner and wearing my nifty rain hat that makes me feel like Holly Golightly, I walked down the hill and past their house again. It was dark and wet and I had to walk carefully because I was wearing a short wool skirt and knee-high boots.

We work-at-home writers—when we do actually manage to get out of the house—we like to show a little bit of flair.

Either that or all our casual clothes happen to be in the dirty laundry bin.

As I was walking past the lovely little house that ought to be in Provence, I could hear the raindrops on the leaves of the quince tree. Most of the other trees around here have lost their leaves already, but the quince is still going strong.

Then I smelled it—the scent of quince fruit in the rain. I find quince rather intoxicating at any time, but the smell of quince in the rain has a fragrance that is at once lovely and mournful, like an old woman who was once very beautiful. It is a scent of another era, gracious and elegant and yet very sad.

I needed to have those quince.

I looked up and down the street and couldn’t see anyone. I looked at the houses nearby, and didn’t notice anyone peering out at me, wondering what that very stylishly dressed girl was doing out in the rain. And even if someone did see me, would they think it strange if I just ducked down quickly and grabbed one of the quince that happened to be sitting on the sidewalk next to my boot? Maybe they’d assume I was tying a shoelace or something.

Boots don’t generally have shoelaces, but I wasn't going to let that stop me.



The problem is, once I had one quince I needed more. What can you do with just one quince?

So I grabbed another. Then another. Then I noticed that there were more quince that had rolled down to where the garbage cans were stored, behind a nifty little wooden gate (see, I told you, these folks are stylish, even their garbage area is stylish). So I ducked back in there and grabbed those as well.

Then I saw some more, up on the lawn, just under the tree itself.

This was clearly trespassing—the lawn is elevated up from the sidewalk, the bank shored up by large stones. But I needed to save those quince, needed to give them a good home.

I cannot tell you how lovely they smelled; they’d just go to waste without me.

So there I was, scaling the bank, clambering up and over large stones—all wearing a short skirt and knee-high boots, in the rain, in the middle of the night.

I blame the deadline. Or the intoxicating fragrance of quince. Or the Holly Golightly hat—she set an awful example when it came to stealing things.

I don’t think anyone saw me. I hope not. This is the sort of neighborhood where things like that just aren’t done. I’d hate to be shunned at the next annual block party.

But I was wearing a hat, so they probably couldn’t technically ID me (though with the newfangled DNA tests you never can tell). I think I’m safe. I can always say it was some crazy friend in town visiting. Some girl obsessed with quince.


{Portrait of an unexpected quince thief}

All I can tell you is that it’s a very smart thing to always carry a reusable shopping bag in your purse wherever you go. You never know when you might find yourself stealing fruit in the middle of the night.

The fact that shopping bag matches Holly Golightly hat is purely coincidental, but clearly the hat was to blame.



What am I going to do with my stolen quince? Well, there's this and this to start with. That should keep me busy for a while. In fact, I might have to go back for more...

Putting My Money Where My Mouth Is

I am slammed with work this week but wanted to share a letter I found time to write. Anyone who knows me knows that I think food is political—as well as being a lot of other wonderful things. Today, for me, it's particularly political. If you share my sentiments, feel free to copy or adapt the letter for your own use.

Roland Spongberg, CEO
WKS Restaurant Corp
2735 Carson Street, Suite 200
Lakewood, CA 90712

November 10, 2008

Dear Mr. Spongberg,

It recently came to my attention that you were a large contributor to the California ballot measure Proposition 8, which sought to amend our state constitution by eliminating equal rights for those who enter into marriage with a partner of the same sex. I believe you contributed $6,000.00.

I couldn’t care less what your personal beliefs are regarding same sex marriage, but I do know that it is wrong to discriminate against any one group of people. America was founded on the idea of equality for all; you are now spending large amounts of money trying to exclude certain people from those rights.

I can’t tell you what to do with your money, but I can decide what to do with mine.
I will never again step foot in any of your restaurants (Pollo Loco, Denny's and Corner Bakery), and I will advise those I know of your politics so that they may make an informed decision as well. Many of us do not want to support discrimination.

Disappointedly,

Tara Weaver

For the cyber-inclined, the very nice receptionist at WKS did say that email for Mr. Spongberg should be sent to jill@wkscorp.biz, subject line: For Mr. Spongberg.
(Sorry, Jill!).

The Old Potato Masher

I bought a new potato masher the other day.

I didn’t want to buy it, but last Thanksgiving I massacred a pot of potatoes—and I don’t use the word massacre lightly. They were sticky, gluey, awful.

I hadn’t made mashed potatoes in a few years. Prior to last year I’d spent three Thanksgivings not in charge of cooking (weird, eh?). One year I was in Virginia with my friend Violeta, the other two years were at my brother’s house where he took care of the mashed potatoes. But last year was at the Treehouse, as this year will be, and I was in charge of the kitchen for Thanksgiving again—except for the incredibly yummy and beautifully colored roasted root vegetables that my mother always makes.

Rather than do the potatoes as I usually do—by instinct, not following a recipe—I decided to make the Buttermilk Mashed Potatoes out of the Zuni Cookbook. Judy Rodgers says that every time they put these potatoes on the menu, whatever entrée they are served with outsells the others by three to one. That sounded like a pretty ringing endorsement to me.

But on Thanksgiving day, when I went to grab the potato masher, it wasn’t there.

This in itself is not shocking. The Treehouse kitchen hasn’t been lived in that long, and at least half of my kitchen stuff is still in California. I don’t often use a potato masher so it’s likely that it just didn’t occur to me to bring it up. I only ever mash potatoes at Thanksgiving.

So I improvised—with forks, a pastry cutter, I even pulled out the immersion blender at the end, in desperation. I ended up with a gluey mess that nobody wanted to eat. No great disaster, really, there was a huge amount of food anyway (and mashed potatoes with stuffing and yams always seems like a lot of starch to me).

But this year I’ve searched high and low for that darned potato masher and I just can’t find it. It’s not in my kitchen in California, it’s not in my mom’s kitchen either. It seems to have up and vanished.

So I bought a new one, which makes me a little sad because I liked the old potato masher. It had a wooden handle that at one point had been painted red but the paint had flaked off over the years (hmm, next to food, not all that safe now that I think about it). It was probably a match to this pastry cutter that I also adore.



I love these old kitchen tools—dinged and battered thought they may be—because they remind me of growing up. I remember playing with them in the kitchen when I was a child and we lived in the country and in the winter there was always a fire in the wood-burning stove and wood in the woodbox and even though it was dark outside and raining like the dickens, we were warm and cozy and safe.

I think I’m a little in mourning for that old potato masher. Glad I still have the pastry cutter.

In other news, I am still laboring away on the book (I know, I know, you’d think I’d be done by now). But the holidays are approaching. I can feel it in the air. Soon it will be Thanksgiving.

So here is your challenge—should you choose to accept it. What sort of holiday plans are you cooking up these days? What are you most looking forward to? (or what recipes—I’d love to hear).

If I’ve learned anything it’s that the end-stage of writing a book is a rather solitary place to be. Drop me a line, tell me a joke—or at least give me your secret for fluffy mashed potatoes. I may have a new potato masher, but after last year’s travesty I’m a little afraid to use it.

That's all I'm sayin'.