|
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
|
| ☞ YES, I NEED THIS! |
Why, hello! Leite's Culinaria is the James Beard Award-winning site that helps home cooks and bakers put dinner on the table and laughs in the kitchen. Hungry for more? Join more than 30,000 food lovers and subscribe.
Hi Reader, There’s something almost spiritual about dinner on a Sunday. Not in a raise-the-rafter, devil-come-out kind of way. More like a watching-butter-slump-in-the-pan-when-heated way. No rush, no craziness. When I was a kid, Sundays were all about pumping the brakes. Reading, watching a movie on TV, ambling around the backyard, and eating. Always eating. Mama Leite and VoVo Costa were high priestesses of the Church of the Low Simmer. Slowing down and being still is something I have to...
Hi Reader, If you think I was uninterested in the Super Bowl, multiply that by 10 when it comes to March Madness. For years, I honestly thought it was a term to describe the lunatic March Hare in Alice in Wonderland. Wrong!Whenever I attended a March Madness event (read: kidnapped by straight-boy college friends), I hovered dangerously close to the snack table. Give me a two-liter bottle of Diet Coke, a ridiculously large bowl of potato chips, and Lipton Onion Soup Dip, and I can grit my...
Hi Reader, Every time I cook seafood, I’m yanked straight back to the Massachusetts shoreline in the '70s—a slightly chonky, anxiety-riddled kid trying desperately to pass as someone who actually belonged among the fishermen. I had the walk down, or at least my version of it: a slow, rolling swagger I imagined said I know my way around a lobster trap. In reality, if some guy had tossed me a pissed-off two-pounder with its claws cocked and ready, I would’ve screamed like a Chihuahua puppy. And...