Cooking

This year, I "did" Thanksgiving. Not a big deal. There were only four of us. But, 2-4-6-8, when you're putting on a meal, I don't think if makes that much difference until you get a bit up into the double digits. Cooking is cooking.

The truth is, I never have liked cooking all that much. (Baking's a different story. Baking I enjoy. Baking 'R' Us.)

Oh, I can cook, and put a decent meal on the table. But I'm not the kind who likes to curl up with a good cook book. And I don't make anything too tricky, nothing too fancy. 

So Thanksgiving, which is all pretty straightforward, is right up my cooking alley. 

Or so you'd think.

The one unstraightforward aspect of putting the Thanksgiving Feast on the table was, surprisingly, figuring out the turkey.

Four people - one a vegetarian (and, yes, I did make a separate vegetarian dish for her) - so: a smallish turkey breast (6.5 pounds: enough for the non-vegetarians to have ample enough to take home for sandwiches). 

But how long and at what temp?

I should have just looked it up in Joy of Cooking, but I googled.

Bad move.

Thirteen minutes a pound, at 325 degrees? That sounded like a recipe for food poisoning.

Twenty minutes a pound, at 350 degrees? That was more like it.

But even following that formula, it turned out the turkey needed another 45 minutes to get itself done.

We kept checking. And checking. 

I had my meat thermometer. My sister brought her meat thermometer. And the turkey, although not a Butterball (are you out of your mind?), had one of those little pop-up, built-in thermometers. Pop goes the eyeball! Turkey done!

My menu was pretty simple: turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans almandine, rolls, and - thanks to my sister Trish - squash, cranberry sauce, and gravy (which Trish got at a local place and doctored with Gravy Master). Desserts we had galore. I made apple crisp, my niece Caroline made cookies and some boozy chocolate things, and Trish made cookies, too.

A very nice holiday meal with people I love. 

Working in the kitchen with Trish to get everything on the table (once that eyeball had popped), I couldn't help but think back to the holiday dinners that my mother and my Aunt Margaret put on for so many years, usually for somewhere around 15-20 people.

Our families spent all of our holidays together, and over the decades, Liz and Peg perfected their act. Aprons on, they worked with the precision of circus performers: peeling, mashing, shredding, carving. 

Both of them had very small kitchens. If either of them had more than 10 square feet of counterspace, I'd be surprised. There was no such thing as a microwave.  And neither one of them needed a thermometer to tell when a turkey was done. (Well, mostly that was the case.)

But somehow, they managed to juggle it all. 

Thanksgiving, in particular, was a vegetable spree. None of this two-veggie (plus tian, in my case) nonsense. Corn. Green beans. Squash. Cauliflower. Turnip. One year, my mother neglected to make creamed onions, which became apparent when my Uncle Ralph asked that someone passed him the creamed onions. From then on, creamed onions were informally referred to as Ralphs. And they were never again forgotten.

We also had two types of gravy: giblet and, for those of us more faint of heart, plain. 

Somehow, they kept it all going, pots and pans nestled against each other on the burners, keeping everything warm. Slotting the pies (apple, mince, pecan) into the over to warm once the main meal was out and on the table

Liz and Peg didn't want anyone else in the kitchen with them when they were working. Just as well, since there was no room in either kitchen for many helpers. 

Clean up, yes. We were welcomed in. Food prep and cooking: no one was wanted.

There was an occasional fiasco, beyond the creamed onion crime. 

My aunt had a turkey roaster (vintage 1940 or so), and, after nobly serving her family for decades, by the mid 1970's it was on the fritz. One holiday, the turkey was, alas, raw.

I remember my cousin Barbara's son Rich saying, "But, Grammy, this turkey is ..." And watching as his mother's hand shot out to cover his mouth before he could get the word "raw" out. We all judiciously tucked the turkey beneath a bit of squash, a half-eaten dinner roll. Nothing was said at the time, but I believe that was it for the turkey roaster.

My Thanksgiving was lovely. I have more leftovers in my fridge than I can shake a stick at. But it also made me a bit nostalgic for the days of Liz and Peg, kitchen performers par excellence, doing their holiday thing.