Thanksgiving has come and gone, and while it is difficult to go wrong with the staples of Thanksgiving fare, I am quite certain that many of you have been subjected to all manner of abominations in the name of pointless variation. I would therefore like to take a moment to give thanks for all the appalling food I was not confronted with this year, in the vain hope that some of the villains who regularly foist these misbegotten travesties upon others will come to understand the error of their ways.
I am thankful that I was not confronted with tofurkey.
While I am willing to accept that some choose a vegetarian lifestyle and are content with it, I do not wish to have it thrust in my face in such a manner. Tofurkey, for those lucky souls among you who remain blissfully unexposed to this vile substance, is a vegetarian "turkey alternative" comprising tofu and flavorings formed into a shape intended to be reminiscent of a turkey breast. It bears less relationship to an actual turkey breast than McNuggets bear to chicken Kiev... Except that McNuggets are far closer to edible than is tofurkey.
Tofu, while an excellent ingredient in many dishes, is most emphatically not a meat substitute. Do not attempt to serve anyone a great slab of the substance and expect them to believe it is meat, or even to be remotely satisfied. If you must serve a vegetarian repast, focus instead on actual vegetables, and on dishes that are not supposed to have meat, let alone be meat.
I am thankful that the turkey was not cooked until it became a crumbling, desiccated husk.
Some years ago, I chose to cook a turkey myself. I made a beautifully spiced, slightly citrusy brine to marinate it overnight, filled it with a traditional stuffing with a hint of black truffles, and cooked it to a beautiful golden brown on the outside. It released just barely enough liquid to make a decent gravy, and the breast meat was as moist as the tears in the eyes of my guests as they bit into that delectable flesh.
Tears in the eyes of all save one of my guests, that is. One particular shriveled biddy actually had the temerity to complain that my turkey was not as moist as it would be had she prepared it. As she was the mother of a dear friend, I could not cast her out into the cold where she belonged after such a transgression, and upon reflection, I found myself intrigued as to what she could possibly mean. While I am willing to concede the theoretical possibility that one could prepare a turkey that was more moist, I found it highly unlikely.
In order to sate my curiosity, I ensured that the next year's Thanksgiving meal would be held at my friend's house, and prepared by her mother (the desiccated biddy who insulted my turkey, that is). I watched as the turkey was removed from the oven. At first glance, it looked acceptable, but already slightly shriveled. When she cut into it, however, the juice spilled out of the bird, flowing liberally from inside the the meat to spill into the pan.
I realized then that this was her idea of a moist turkey; she thought that the juice should be running out of it, rather than remaining inside it. It had never occurred to her that all the liquid she saw was moisture that would not remain in the meat to be served.
My sense of vindication was most satisfactory, but it was greatly tempered by the fact that I would now have to sit through a Thanksgiving meal featuring dry, crumbling turkey. Worse, I could not give the meal the verbal skewering it deserved for fear of alienating my friend.
Alas, the torments we must suffer for our loved ones.
I am thankful that no one elected to put walnuts, almonds, olives, prunes, pomegranates, apples, cherries, chestnuts or any other intrusive flavor or texture into my stuffing.
Stuffing should have a consistent texture (perhaps with small pieces of celery or onions for a bit of mild crunchiness), concentrating on savory flavors that will complement the turkey. Many of these other ingredients might be acceptable in a casserole, but turkey stuffing is not a casserole. Speaking of which:
I am thankful that no one attempted to serve me a tray of stuffing that was prepared as a separate dish.
"Stuffing" is meant to be "stuffed" inside of some other food; specifically turkey, in the case of Thanksgiving. That is why it is called "stuffing".
If you do not stuff it inside of something, it is little more than a pile of rehydrated bread crumbs (or rather bread crumbs infested with nuts, olives, or one of the other abominations which you doubtless added, being the sort to serve so-called stuffing which has never been stuffed in anything).
Yes, there may be some slightly elevated health risks attendant to cooking stuffing inside of poultry, but if you put hot stuffing in a bird and immediately cook the whole properly, you should be safe enough. Indeed, the risk of being injured by angry diners upset at being confronted by flat, undeveloped stuffing is far higher than the risk of food-borne illness. Or it is if I am in attendance, at any rate.
For those who are excessively paranoid about food poisoning, there is another excellent alternative, which is to split the turkey along the backbone and flatten it atop the stuffing. In order to keep the stuffing from absorbing all of the juice (not a bad thing, except that it would preclude gravy) you can place it on a rack inside your roasting pan, possibly on top of some foil which has been punctured in several places to allow liquid to pass through. Place the turkey on top of the stuffing, and you will get most of the benefits of stuffing the turkey normally, but with more even heating, and therefore less risk.
This approach also has the benefit of cooking the various parts of the bird more evenly, and it increases the amount of crispy turkey skin (as opposed to the gelatinous membrane one often finds on the bottom of a turkey roasted more conventionally). The disadvantage to this approach is that it precludes the aesthetically-pleasing presentation of a whole bird at the table, but a creative chef can easily overcome such concerns.
I am thankful that no one prepared candied yams.
I am aware that this statement may be unpopular in some quarters, and that there are many otherwise sensible people in the world who adore candied yams. For me, however, candied yams fail both as a sweet and as a savory dish. The starchiness of the yams prevents them from obtaining a dessert-like quality, while their uniform sweetness makes them unworkable when viewed as a side.
Do not mistake me; I can often enjoy a sweet sauce with my meal. The difference is that a sauce provides a controllable accent to the rest of the dish, while the undifferentiated starchy sweetness of yams pervades the entire dish, rendering it quite unpalatable.
I am thankful that no one made cranberry relish instead of cranberry sauce.
Cranberry sauce is a Classic.
Do not mess with it.
You may choose jellied or whole berry, and can adjust the amount and source of the sugar (e.g. by using orange juice), but it had better remain recognizably cranberry sauce, rather than some sort of appalling "see how creative I can be", "I must be different. DIFFERENT do you hear?" relish or paste.
If for some reason you feel compelled to make such fripperies, be certain that they are in addition to proper cranberry sauce, rather than in place of it. Nothing incites my ire more than being presented with a dish that has deprived me of something that is good in the name of giving me something that is different.
I am thankful that no one made sweet potato pie.
More than that, I am extremely grateful that no one made "sweet potato" pie with yams. Yams are not sweet potatoes. They are much more sweet, and have a much more intense (and less pleasant) flavor than sweet potatoes.
At its best, sweet potato pie is quite similar to pumpkin pie. Certainly it looks like much like pumpkin pie. The flavor is a little bit more tangy, and the color usually a bit lighter, but it is easy to mistake one for the other, and those accustomed to pumpkin pie will be misled and perhaps disappointed.
The natural question arises, why not simply make pumpkin pie? You will please more people, and avoid the trap of making something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie.
You do not want to make something that looks like pumpkin pie but does not taste like pumpkin pie. This violates my First Rule, and will earn my extreme displeasure. Or rather it would if I liked either pumpkin pie or sweet potato pie. As it stands, I would doubtless avoid it, and you would have succeeded in dodging a bullet. Or perhaps a carving knife, as I rarely bring firearms to the table.
I am thankful that I shall be cooking my own Christmas dinner.
Having escaped Thanksgiving without confronting any culinary atrocities, I would now be viewing the next oncoming holiday with great trepidation were it not for the fact that I shall be preparing that meal myself. I have not yet settled on a final menu, but rest assured that it will be simple, it will focus on the traditional flavors of the season, it will be exquisitely prepared, and it will be perfectly seasoned.
I beg you all, take my words to heart. Keep the flavors simple. Give your friends and family the solid, traditional flavors they deserve, and seek to achieve excellence through skilled preparation and subtle enhancements, rather than through radical departures. Experiment on your own time, or with friends who are willing to give you honest criticism and be prepared for the worst, if your friends are worth their table salt.)
At the holidays, even such as I will feel bound by friendship not to complain. Do not take advantage of the this time to inflict your deplorable culinary contrivances upon a captive audience of dear friends. Show them the respect they deserve, and feed them the meal they came to eat.
- Ram
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