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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, 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....
Hi Reader, I'll admit something. I don't think I've ever eaten a taco sitting down.Oh, I've intended to. I've set the table, put out napkins, arranged bowls of salsa and lime wedges like I'm hosting a cooking show. But then I assemble that first taco, take a bite to make sure everything tastes right, and suddenly I'm standing over the kitchen counter, juice running down my wrist, wondering where half my dinner went.Sound familiar?There's something wonderfully uncivilized about taco night. You...
Hi Reader, By the end of October, I’ve surrendered.The sweaters are out. The heat is on. There are more blankets on the bed than anyone would call reasonable. (I would.) And after weeks of admiring autumn’s changing leaves and waxing poetic about crisp air, I’m ready for the real reason I tolerate cold weather:Gravy.Give me chicken pot pie with its crust cracking beneath a spoon. Meatloaf in a bacon overcoat. Shepherd’s pie is buried under a thick drift of Cheddar potatoes. Chicken and...