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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, The first truly cold day always catches me off guard. I’ll be typing away, pretending productivity, when I realize my shoulders have crept up around my ears like I’m auditioning for “The Hunchback of Roxbury.” That’s my cue - it’s soup o’clock.The One rolls his eyes when I declare it, but he knows the ritual: stock pot, wooden spoon, something starchy, something soulful. Within minutes, the kitchen fogs up like a Portuguese sauna, and the windows sweat in solidarity.I used to think...
Hi Reader, There’s a moment every December when the kitchen quietly changes its tune. Not a full-blown Hallmark movie kind of thing. More like the sigh of cinnamon, the shushing of cold butter being grated, and the faint click of a wooden spoon finding its rhythm again. That feeling is what sparked this month’s special series: My 5 Days of Classic Christmas Cooking. The story behind it A while back, I tried to make every holiday dish I’d ever loved. The show-stoppers, the old-school...
Hi Reader, Every December, I tell myself this will be the year I glide through the season like Martha-freaking-Stewart on a sleigh. I’ll bake ahead. I’ll gift-wrap like an adult. I’ll remember where I hid the presents. And yet every December, I end up standing in front of the oven at 3 AM, flour in my hair, muttering, “I hate the holidays!” And always feeling guilty. So, so guilty. (You can read all about my pathological guilt in this essay.) Still, there’s something about the glow of that...