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Hello there Reader, Thanksgiving doesn't have to leave you cursing like a sailor. (Although, if you ever heard Mama Leite muttering in Portuguese while wrestling a 22-pound turkey into submission, you might think otherwise.) As someone who's hosted more holiday dinners than my youthful countenance would suggest―some of which ended with me hiding in the basement, clutching a bottle of wine, and questioning my life choices―I've learned a thing or two about keeping my sanity intact. The One will back me up on this, especially after That One Year We Shall Never Speak Of Again when I nearly burned down the house. But I digress. What I've learned is mastering Thanksgiving is all about strategy. And, unlike how I usually cook―which The One likens to a tornado in an apron―this requires that dreaded word: planning. Allow me to share with you my hard-won five-day plan that'll keep you from ending up in the fetal position behind the washing machine. (Not that I know anything about that.) My Free Foolproof Five-Day Countdown
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Hi Reader, By Monday evening, I've usually made two promises to myself: I'll eat something sensible, and I won't spend an hour making it.These promises have a rather checkered history.I'll open the refrigerator, stare at its contents like I'm waiting for divine intervention, and consider ordering takeout. Then I'll spot a piece of fish and remember that dinner doesn't have to be a three-act production starring me, six dirty pans, and a sink full of regret.Fish is one of my favorite ways to...
Hi Reader, I have a confession. Sometimes I snoop.Not through The One's phone. Not through the neighbors' windows. (Although if they're cooking something good, all bets are off.)I snoop through the traffic reports for Leite's Culinaria.And after all these years of writing, testing, photographing, and occasionally swearing at recipes, I still get a kick out of seeing which ones you visit most.Some make perfect sense. A slow-roasted pork butt with a crackling crust? Of course. Marcella Hazan's...
Hi Reader, Every November, I buy my first bag of fresh cranberries with the enthusiasm of a man who's just discovered a new food group.And every November, I pop one into my mouth.Why? Beats me. I know perfectly well what comes next. My face puckers, my eyes squint, and for a brief moment, I look like I've been handed very bad news.Raw cranberries are mean little things. Hard as marbles, tart as vinegar.But give them some sugar, a little orange zest, and the heat of an oven? Hallelujah....