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.
How to Pull Off an Epic Thanksgiving Without Losing Your $h!t!
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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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Leite's Culinaria
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, When my avó Leite baked, she didn’t consult a recipe so much as a memory palace: a pinch measured by knuckle, a pour judged by the sound it made hitting the bowl. I, on the other hand, have a stand mixer that could reel in a small boat, four oven thermometers, and three scales accurate enough to dose a fruit fly (or run a bespoke drug business)—and I still managed, for years, to turn massa sovada into a sullen doorstop. Vu Leite, Vo Leite, and Papa Leite during wine making season...
Hi Reader, Brunch season always sneaks up on me the way crocuses do—suddenly, brazenly, and a little smug. The One will suggest “something casual,” which is code for three platters, two carafes, and me dashing around muttering about forks. I used to think brunch required choreography: eggs timed to the minute, bacon crisp but not combative, fruit salad that looked like it had a stylist. Then I realized the real point of brunch is permission—to linger, to gossip, to pour orange juice into...
Hi Reader, There was a time when “date night” meant a white tablecloth, a waiter who said absolutely to everything, and me pretending not to notice The One calculating the tip on his phone. Lately, though, I’ve fallen in love with Date Night: Home Edition. Same drama, fewer receipts. I light a candle, put on something that isn’t elastic-waist (progress), and reach for the only piece of kitchen equipment that truly separates a restaurant from a residence: a heavy pan that holds heat like a...