Written by Joy Manning

Every year, the Thanksgiving Day table is set hours ahead, bowls and platters at the ready, marked with notes so nothing is forgotten. Scraps of papers bearing lists, recipes, ingredients, timelines, flutter around the kitchen like so many fall leaves. It's the feast of the year and in most homes a dozen or more dishes are served. But in the mad dash to cook an unforgettable holiday meal, the star of the meal, the turkey, is often an afterthought. Sometimes it's even a freebie. Many grocery chains give away turkeys to customers who have accrued sufficient points by shopping there all year. One nibble of these birds make it clear why it's so easy for the stuffing, dressing, roasted vegetables, cheese plate, canapés, spinach dip, mashed potatoes, marshmallowed yams, and pumpkin pie to steal the show. These birds taste like nothing. They have had the flavor bred out of them.

But the dry-and-flavorless reputation turkey has is the least of its problems. Mass market birds are all one variety: the broad breasted white. A Frankenstein of a turkey bred over generations for grotesquely large breasts. These factory-raised specimens are not even able to breed naturally; roaming the land, pecking at bugs, and enjoying any quality of life is out of the question for them. Like all factory farmed animals, they are gorged on commodity corn so they reach slaughter weight fast. They present the familiar set of environmental health concerns of all factory farmed animals, and they taste bad to boot.

Before the broad breasted white was coaxed into existence, there were other breeds of turkey, such as the magnificent Bourbon Red, that tasted better and functioned as a natural part of the farm ecosystem. These birds, known as heritage breeds, were driven near extinction in recent years, but now food enthusiasts have renewed the demand for their robust flavors. They don't require brining or a coating of bacon to make them appetizing. Finding one takes a few minutes of research and, naturally, heritage breeds costs significantly more, but if you take the time to find and cook one this year, you'll be rewarded with a main dish that finally puts those roasted Brussels sprouts in their place. LocalHarvest.org is a good place to start looking for a heritage turkey source near you. Don't forget to make a batch of turkey stock the next day to maximize your investment; the roasted bones of a heritage turkey make for delicious soups, stews, and sauces all through the holiday season.

About Joy Manning

Joy Manning is the coauthor of Almost Meatless (10 Speed Press, 2009). She is also the restaurant critic for Philadelphia Magazine. Her work has also appeared in Food & Wine, Cooking Light, Relish, and Inked magazines. She blogs at OysterEvangelist.com.
 

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Written by Marie Simmons 

Walking through the neat rows of vegetables at La Cocina Que Canta (the culinary school at Rancho La Puerta in Tecate, Mexico, where I teach cooking classes) Salvador, the head gardener, regales me with his enthusiastic review of what's at its peak in the 7 acre organic garden adjacent to the school.

"Look at the quince," he exclaims with his unbridled enthusiasm. "Look how many are on the tree."  His hands move fast through the heavily laden branches as he fills his arms and mine with as many as we can juggle. Immediately, my mind is racing to the kitchen as I try to imagine how I can cook the quince for the mystery recipe I need to pull together for the afternoon cooking class I'm teaching in a few hours.

Although the menus for the classes are planned in advance, guest chefs at the school have an opportunity to teach an extra recipe based on what looks fabulous in the garden on any given day. I happen to love the spontaneity-and challenge-of making up a recipe at the last minute. Calling it a "mystery" is appropriate because the students don't know ahead of time, nor does the teacher, which makes it fun - and a great teaching moment.
 
After making the rounds, the quince now comfortably nestled in my bunched up apron, Salvador, leads me down the steps to his "cold cellar." It's a Norman Rockwell painting. On roughly contrasted shelves along two walls and lined up on a big wooden table in the center of the small space are even rows of winter squash: butternut, acorn and spaghetti squash organized by type. Along a third wall are perfectly stacked rows of bunched garlic. When I see the curvaceous butternut squash - a personal favorite - the mystery recipe pops into my head: I'll cube quince and butternut squash, toss them with olive oil and seasonings and roast them in the oven.

I'm excited and curious because I've never roasted quince, but my intuition tells me if the pieces are small enough and they're roasted tightly covered, they should take about the same time to cook as the squash. It turns out I'm right.

Seasoned with broken cinnamon sticks, long thin strips of orange zest and a splash of fresh orange juice that gently perfume the vegetables, the students love the dish. They unanimously agree they want the recipe for their 2009 Thanksgiving menu.

I discover when I repeat the recipe for a different class the next day, the time-consuming peeling and cutting of the squash and quince can be done ahead of time, a bonus when prepping and cooking a Thanksgiving menu.

I also confirm the fact that peeling a whole squash is tough, so I first cut it in thick slices. Gosh, it's easier this way. I also discover the brittle buff colored skin comes off in long smooth strips without cracking when I use a swivel blade vegetable peeler, especially the newer serrated blade marketed as a tomato peeler, although they work well on peaches, pears, and apples, too.

If you're tempted to make this dish for Thanksgiving dinner I suggest you get the labor intensive stuff out of the way first:  peel and cube the squash and quince, toss them-in a heavy duty self closing plastic bag-with the olive oil and all the seasonings and keep in the refrigerator until ready to roast. (The quince may darken slightly, but don't worry, it'll be fine once roasted.)

Another preparation hint is to divide the roast time into two steps: roast the first half hour (covered) with foil until the vegetables are fork tender, remove from the oven, and let stand a few hours until about 30 minutes before serving. Then pop the sheet pan, this time uncovered, back in the oven for about 30 minutes, allowing a little extra time to warm up before they continue to toast and finally get a warm toasted glow along the edges.
 
For this recipe I thank Salvador, the brilliant garden manager at La Cocina Que Canta for his constant inspiration. 

Roasted Butternut Squash and Quince with Orange and Cinnamon

Recipe exclusive from Marie Simmons 

• 2 pounds butternut squash
• 1 pound quince (about 2 small)
• 4 garlic cloves, trimmed, bruised with side of knife
• 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
• 2 strips (3 x1/2 inch) orange zest, cut into long thin slivers
• 1 (4 inch long) cinnamon stick, broken in half
• 1 teaspoon coarse salt
• ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• ¼ cup fresh orange juice
• 1 teaspoon minced fresh rosemary or thyme leaves (optional)
  

1. Preheat oven to 400°F.

2. Cut the butternut squash into large chunks. Discard seeds and pulp. Quarter the quince and remove the cores. Remove the skins on the squash and quince with a vegetable peeler. Cut into cubes somewhere between ¼ and ½ inch, not larger. There should be about 6 cups squash and 3 cups quince.)

3. On a rimmed sheet pan (approximately 15 ½ x 10 ½ x 1 inch) combine the cubed squash, quince, garlic, olive oil, orange zest, cinnamon, salt and pepper. Toss with tongs or your hands to blend. Spread in an even layer on the sheet pan and cover tightly with foil.

4. Roast 30 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven, uncover, and with a spatula turn the vegetables and stir to redistribute. Return to the oven and roast, uncovered, and roast 20 minutes or until the vegetables begin to brown slightly on the edges.

5. Vegetables can be roasted ahead and reheated in a warm oven. Sprinkle with fresh orange juice just before serving. Add a little rosemary or thyme, if desired.

About Marie Simmons

Marie Simmons, an award-winning cookbook author, recognized food writer, talented cooking teacher and a lively story teller has made a love of cooking, teaching and writing into a career rich in breadth and scope. She won a James Beard award for The Good Egg (Houghton Mifflin, 2000) and her latest book Things Cooks Love , the first cookbook from Sur La Table, was nominated for an International Association of Culinary Professionals Award.

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Written by Virginia Willis

Photo by Kathy Waites

The amusing thing about Thanksgiving is it's the one meal that's almost immovable in terms of menu. Each family member has that one dish that is their favorite, and for some it's like the entire holiday is absolutely positively ruined if the sweet potatoes are topped with something other than toasty brown marshmallows or the Squash Casserole is missing. A day which is supposed to be a joyful gathering of family and friends instead becomes a day without sunshine. This I know. The deal is, dishes can be added, but nothing can be removed from the menu. I learned this the hard way. As a chef and now in charge of most of the savory aspects of the Thanksgiving meal (Mama still does the desserts) I have tried to branch out a bit. I once put panko breadcrumbs on the squash casserole and I sincerely felt like an enemy of the state.

One dish I absolutely won't mess with is the mess of greens. I have had, without fail, some form of cooked winter greens at every Thanksgiving meal of my entire life. I dare say even longer than turkey because my grandmother, whom I called Meme, cooked them for hours until they were meltingly soft. They were indeed as appropriate as pablum for an infant. During the fall, I generally like them a bit more toothsome (see recipe below), but I know better. For Thanksgiving I cook them just like Meme did, in a salty smoky broth flavored with hog jowl (see recipe below). The fat melts and the pot likker is oily and slick, perfect for sipping later and enjoying with a wedge of cornmeal.

In late November, the fields have been kissed with a touch of frost, something that Meme said brings out the sweetness in the bitter collard, kale, or mustard greens. They are at the beginning of the peak of the season and absolutely the epitome of eating local and in season. Sweet potatoes and panko are one thing. Messing with the greens is quite another.
 
If it's not broke...

Collards with Hog Jowl

Recipe by Virginia Willis

Serves 4 to 6

Kale, collards, turnip greens, and mustard greens are dark leafy winter greens that are nutritional powerhouses and familiar friends on the Southern table. Look for brightly colored greens free of brown spots, yellowing edges, or limp leaves. Try flavorful seasonings such as smoked turkey or ham hock for the meat eaters and smoked salt or chipotle chiles for the vegetarians.
 
The best way to clean greens is to first remove the tough stalks and stems. Fill a clean sink with cold water. Place the greens in water and swish around, allowing the grit to fall to the bottom the sink. Lift greens out of the sink and transfer to a large bowl and rinse the sink. Repeat the process at least three times or more as needed until no grit remains.

• 2 pounds assorted greens, such as collard, kale, mustard, or turnip
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 2 medium Vidalia onions, chopped
• 2 cups water
• 1/2 pound hog jowl or fat back, sliced
• Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat the oil in a large pot over medium high heat. Add the onions and cook until golden brown, 3 to 5 minutes. Add the water and hog jowl and bring to a boil, gradually stir in the greens, allowing each batch to wilt before adding more; season with salt and pepper.

Reduce the heat to medium-low and cover. Cook, until greens are tender, stirring occasionally, about 60 minutes. Taste and adjust for seasoning with salt and pepper. Using a slotted spoon, transfer greens to a serving dish.

Spicy Collards with Smoked Turkey - Not Meme's greens!

Recipe by Virginia Willis

Serves 8

• 5 pounds assorted greens, such as collard, kale, mustard or turnip
• 2 medium Vidalia onions, chopped
• 1/4 cup olive oil
• 2 jalapeno peppers, seeded and minced
• 1 smoked turkey leg, about 1 1/2 pounds
• Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper

Fill a clean sink with cold water. Tear greens into large pieces and place in water to soak.  Lift greens out of the sink and transfer to a large bowl, allowing grit to fall to the bottom the sink, rinse sink. Repeat process at least three times or more as needed.

Using a large pot over high heat, combine onions, oil, jalapeno and 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, gradually stir in the greens, allowing each batch to wilt before adding more.  Add the turkey leg and cover with greens, season with salt and pepper.

Reduce the heat to medium-low and cover. Cook, until greens are tender, stirring occasionally, about 30 minutes, being careful not to over cook.  Remove the turkey leg, cool slightly and remove meat from leg. Dice meat and add to greens. Using a slotted spoon, transfer greens to a serving dish.

About Virginia Willis

Virginia Willis is a French-trained chef, television producer, food stylist, cooking teacher and food writer. Formerly Martha Stewart Living's kitchen manager. She is the author of the wildly popular, Bon Appetit Y'all, and is currently working on her second book. She makes her home in Atlanta, Georgia.

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Written by Liz Thorpe

Thanksgiving is a tricky holiday for me. Though I host every year, I lack any kind of adventurous impulse. When the food mags come out with their pornographic close-ups of homemade sausage-sage stuffing and colonial cranberry sauce I settle in for some transportive reading. But I never actually make the stuff. For me, Thanksgiving is about recreating what my mother made, as accurately as humanly possible, which means Pepperidge Farm stuffing from a bag and a liberal shake of Bell's turkey seasoning. Thanksgiving is about ease and comfort. It's the glass of Gamay that remains half-full from noon onwards, and sitting down to eat at 4PM just as the dusky clouds roll over Brooklyn. Typically, I'm sautéing onions and celery in three sticks of butter by 8AM and I don't eat anything until I fall famished on the afternoon table. I'd like to think that my guests enjoy a somewhat more civilized experience, though sweatpants often reign supreme.

Given the rhythm of the day, cheese appears, though atypically for my house, before the meal. I rarely serve cheese as an appetizer, preferring to offer a lovely little mid-course between dinner and dessert. I tend to be of the opinion that big, limp slabs of Brie only fill you up, preventing the enjoyment of a carefully constructed meal. But at Thanksgiving it's all day grazing. Turkey sandwiches are being made at 9PM to soak up half a day of drinking, so why not a cheese course when everyone arrives? I like flutes of champagne, too, with merry little pomegranate seeds settled at the glasses' cleft.

There are two ways to go. The simplest, like all straightforward things, requires a total unwillingness to compromise on spare ingredients. It's a celebration of season, and the ecstatic consumption of that rare winter treat, Vacherin Mont d'Or. Vacherin is hard to find, and shrouded in the seductive mystery of illegal raw milk. It appeared around New York City last week, and will sprout like elusive morels until mid-March when it disappears for another year. Traditionally, Vacherin is made with the higher fat and protein milk of the valley-bound cows of France's Franche-Comte region. These milkers spend their summers aloft in the Alps, fuelling enormous wheels of mountain cheese like Comté. When cold weather sweeps through, they are ferreted away to protected towns where they gorge on dried hay and their thick, luscious milk is formed into spruce-bound patties contained within wooden boxes. A proper Vacherin should have a bulging, undulating rind the perfect shade of blushing bride, with an even coat of powdery white mold. It needs a solid two to three hours to come to room temperature, when the whole box can be dumped, ceremoniously or otherwise, on the coffee table, beside a platter of freshly sliced pears (Bosc, not Bartlett) and bright, crunchy apples (Honeycrisps or Macouns, ideally). Guests can dunk fruit in cheese, rind and all, and take turns scraping woodsy bits from the powerfully aromatic spruce.

The more complicated, but perhaps more sophisticated, alternative is an all American cheese board. You'll want a range of texture and milk type (though with American cheeses sheep will be hard to find), with no more than 3-5 selections. Things I find to be really good for blustery autumn days are:

Sweet Grass Dairy Green Hill (Georgia): The rind is thin and mild, not snappy and bitter the way so many bloomies can be. There's still a high note of acidity, a tart, cultured taste to what is otherwise a mouthful of mild, buttery, richness.

River's Edge Up in Smoke (Oregon): A hand-squashed ball of goat cheese, smoked, and then wrapped in a maple leaf that looks to have been plucked from the ground. The whole package is smoked a second time and then spritzed in bourbon to tease out woody, barrel-aged nuance. It tastes like New England fall.

Dancing Cow Sarabande (Vermont): So thick and creamy it bulges at the perimeter, in constant danger of splitting its perfect, cantaloupe-colored, brine washed-rind. The core remains lactic and crumbly, the exterior is meaty and pungent.

Cabot Clothbound Cheddar (Vermont): The sweetness just hangs there, and the first bite is like baked potatoes, tight in their papery jackets, with melted lumps of butter tucked inside. There is just enough acidity, enough pluck and tang, to maintain balance, but the roundness calls to mind an elusive spoonful of perfectly, patiently browned butter, tasting of nuts though there are none to be found.

Rogue River Blue (Oregon): An intensely creamy, mellow blue that is permeated with the essence of golden autumn pears, the kind that juice down your arm when you bite into them. The salt and sweet, fruit and minerally smoke, co-exist in perfect, tenuous balance.

About Liz Thorpe

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