I Yam What I Yam

           I love food fights. Let me clarify. I don’t love it when people throw food (or fling mashed potatoes throughout the kitchen by lifting the beaters out of the bowl too soon, St. Bob), but I love what we could call a “Food Dispute.”

          I’ll back up. I had the immense blessing of reconnecting with a long lost cousin, and he brought his family for Thanksgiving. It was magical, like a Hallmark movie. People I have never met poured through the front door and every one of them was happy, smart, and hilarious. It made for lots of laughter and love as 18 of us gathered around.

          We played a game I made up, which gets you beyond small talk, to really get acquainted. First you ask everyone to share something they don’t understand. The whole world seems to get it, except you.  Then we go around and share something you know, or can do, that few others can do. (I curled my tongue in a clover leaf.) Here's someone else doing it:

          One couple began a friendly disagreement about yams vs. sweet potatoes, where they come from, and why they are called what they are called. Neither one would concede an inch. The rest of us were bursting with laughter as it escalated (and now we know what topic to bring up in the future, if things get dull).

          If you want, I can tell you how all this confusion started, but it won’t earn you any points in an argument. What we buy-- the soft-fleshed veggie labeled “Yams”-- are actually sweet potatoes. But slaves who had come from West Africa compared them to the paler-fleshed yams they had grown back home, and the name stuck.

          As for me, I am thankful for both, thankful for all the new cousins I met, and thankful for Richie and Nicole, our only two kids who could make it this year, because they hopped up without even being asked, did all the dishes, and packed up take-home trays for everyone.  I may have over-eaten, but that’s the real reason I was bursting my buttons.

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Thankful for Fairies

         

         You all know that I have a fairy garden that wraps around a tree in my back yard. BUT… did you know they celebrate Thanksgiving? 

           Oh yes. I’ve seen the table they’ve laid out for a feast! They use acorn tops for cups, and little round “plates” of wood. They even have wee chairs!  

      I can only imagine the tiny food they’ll serve this Thursday. One of them left her eyeglasses in the hobbit house doorway, so I hope she finds them.

I’m so glad they decided to move into my yard!

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Kids!

         For Thanksgiving this year St. Bob and I went to restaurant with our eldest son, Richie. This is a recipe for comedy as I was flanked by a comedian on either side.

          At least there was a ninja nearby clearing tables, so I felt somewhat safe.

          We were laughing about how many times the waiter had told us his name, and Richie said maybe he waits on a lot of old people, and has to keep reminding them.

          “I hope I never get like that,” I said.

          Richie said, “That’s the fifth time you’ve said that today.”

          And now you know what it’s like to live in Joniopolis.

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Thanksgiving Gone Haywire

          You already know our family does this holiday, shall we say, a bit differently.  Yes, we love a grand feast, and here is a photo of last year’s:

          But remember, we have a family of comedians, so they always tweak it a bit.  One treasured tradition is going around the table and saying what you’re thankful for, but when you do it alphabetically as we do, you end up with “Asiatic Flu,” “hot rods,” and “urinals,” which you can read about here. 

          This year Cassidy contributed “criminals” and “unlicensed obstetricians of illegitimate children.” When I chose Gulliver’s Travels because of its creative adventure I was nearly run out of town as a heretic and a huge argument about the merits of classic literature ensued.

          But this year, with Bob under ice packs, still healing from a knee replacement (and a broken femur which happened during the procedure), I was a tad distracted.  The turkey was done an hour and half before everything else, the cheesecake—which Nicole topped with her pomegranate-honey glaze was gorgeous:

          But was a little underdone in the center.  The smoke alarm went off three times, windows and doors were flung open, and the dog went running down the street. 

          We finally got everything on the table (except the dog), and I realized I am grateful for this crazy bunch whom I love, who pitch in to cook and clean, and even the one who forbade me from posting our group photo.  Whatever.  Gratitude abounds.

          And now that that’s over with, dive into Christmas shopping here, where there’s a book for everyone!

Leftover Turkey

          It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and folks are whipping up the leftovers from yesterday’s feast into turkey sandwiches, turkey pasta, and turkey casseroles.

          But they have forgotten about the real leftover turkeys, and they are roaming my suburb of Rocklin.  Sacramento is blessed (some would say cursed) with a growing population of wild turkeys, and I have to admit I rather love them.

          Maybe it’s the wobbly way they strut down the street, like little kids in their mom’s high heels.  And they look sort of prehistoric, with their heads down, as if they’re really just common geese who happened upon some dinosaur costumes and now they’re trying to look menacing.  They zigzag and bump into each other as if they’re honestly confused.  Or maybe they really are little dinosaurs who’ve fallen through a wormhole from the Jurassic era.

I went to visit a woman in my church who lives in an apartment complex, and found half a dozen of these goofy creatures in the parking lot.

When we lived in the Sacramento city limits, clusters of these funny birds would fly up onto a neighbor’s garden shed, and squawk and fight over about six square feet of roof space, seemingly unaware of a dozen other nearby rooftops and gazebos where there was much more roosting space.  And I have a soft spot for lovably low IQ animals.

 Gobblers and hens can weigh more than 20 pounds, and though you’re not supposed to feed them and encourage them to invade “people space,” folks can’t resist.  As a result, there have been complaints about turkeys kicking bark mulch about, destroying gardens, leaving droppings on people’s patios, and roosting on cars, where they scratch the paint.  I read a report that said these Meleagris gallopavo even gobble at people.  Not quite the same as gobbling people, that little at making all the difference.  And, you have to admit, it’s a lot less serious than what we do to them.

          And so I cheer them on, rolling down my car window and making gobbling noises that I like to think they understand.  You’ve survived another Thanksgiving, I am telling my feathered friends, and you’ve lived to strut another day.

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A Tiny Thanksgiving Idea

          I love tiny things—tiny kitten noses, tiny paw prints, tiny little compartments that hold tiny little treasures.  I think it’s my childlike (not childish, mind you) outlook.  Whatever.

          One of my most popular YouTube Mom videos is about my fairy garden, here, again loaded with miniature things a tiny fairy would love.  Maybe I read the children’s book series,The Littles, at an impressionable age.

          And so I am sharing an original idea of mine that won the Grand Prize in a huge, national cooking contest.  It’s a miniature Thanksgiving cornucopia, entirely edible, and exactly the size for one serving. Notice, in the picture, that it's on a dinner plate.

This is perfect for folks who don’t want to cook a whole turkey, but it’s also great for entertaining house guests before and after the actual holiday, when you still need a main course.        

          I came up with the concept based on another idea of mine.  For years I’ve been wrapping bread dough around a greased cone of aluminum foil, then brushing it with egg yolk, and baking it to make a wonderful, edible cornucopia centerpiece.  After it baked, I would remove the scrunched up foil that held it in the cone shape, and fill it with sugar-glazed grapes, apples, and persimmons, and it was always a fun tradition.

          Then I got the idea to make tiny, individual ones.  Only instead of using bread dough, I’d use strips of turkey meat, and then make the filling out of savory stuffing and little veggies cut to look like fruit.  Tell me this is not a knock-out idea.  Okay, do not tell me that because I won’t listen; I know it’s a knock-out idea.

          You can see, in the top photo, that I used a melon baller to make ball shapes from cooked yams and purple potatoes, and threw in some cranberries and blueberries as well.  Totally edible, totally darling.  Just cut strips of turkey breast, wrap them around a small cone of foil, hold them in place with toothpicks, and bake until golden brown.  (I first wrap the foil with parchment paper to prevent the meat from sticking to the foil.) The complete recipe is here.         

          Tiny is a wonderful thing.  Except when it comes to desserts.  Pies should be cut into quarters, cakes into thick slabs, and cookies should always come in threes.

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