Around the spool-legged table

Thanksgiving 2012: my best high school guy friend, Miles, daughter Kasey and her husband Andrew and the boys.

Of all the holidays, Thanksgiving is my favorite, although it often seems to come too soon. We have barely finished putting the garden to bed, and then it is time to think about turkey and pies and who will be home, for it is a time of families coming together for good or for ill, and neither easily predicted.   Some years, there have been more than a dozen people gathered around the antique dining table, with room still left to pull up another chair, lay another place setting. It is scarred and faded from generations of holiday meals and burnished with nostalgia.

The table was my Nana’s – my mother’s grandmother –who somehow managed, alone, to raise my mother and uncle, her grandchildren who were semi-orphaned by the childbirth death of their mother, during the Great Depression.  I imagine it came to her when she was a young bride establishing her household well before the beginning of the last century.  It held a place of honor in the bow-windowed dining room of her Victorian home, and for most of the year sat demurely empty.  Daily meals were served in the kitchen.  The spool-legged table was opened only for holidays. All six leaves were draped in an insulated silence cloth to protect the finish and soften the clatter of cutlery and crockery, then a carefully pressed, creamy cloth of linen that flowed nearly to the floor.   The table dressings created a shadowy cave beneath the table where a quiet and curious child could hide and listen to the adult conversations as they lingered over coffee and pie, tea and cookies.  I wondered why pretty Aunt Jackie was angry with her handsome, laughing husband, and how a beloved cousin and his family had happened to move to California, a world away from the New England I knew.  It was beneath that table that the seeds of my future as a writer, a teller of stories, a questioner of tales, took root.

When my Nana died, I was twelve.  In the course of dismantling the home she had kept in dim Victorian splendor for nearly three-quarters of a century, the table went to my grandfather.  I was heartbroken at losing both Nana and the table that held so many memories.  We had moved by then to Vermont and the table seemed forever gone from my life. 

But Thanksgiving continued, albeit without the spool-legged table and its linened cave.  My mother was a wonderful cook. She had studied a year of home economics at a state teachers’ college before abandoning that track to become a nurse, and a good one, too.  Some years, it was just the four of us – my father, my brother, my mother and me – and others it included guests. One year it was a young man who worked with my dad and was far from home for the holidays. Another it was an elderly, retired, spinster school teacher whose long-time companion had passed away just a month before at the nursing home where my mother was a charge nurse. Aunt Stella, as we came to call her, became part of the family, and a welcome one.  She encouraged my tendency to spin tales, marveled over my clumsy poetry, celebrated academic my academic achievements, and gifted me with the Christmas cactus – likely nearing a hundred years old – that is budded and preparing to bloom in a corner of my kitchen.  Hindsight leads me to believe that Aunt Stella and her companion had what was often called a Boston marriage, a gentle euphemism to explain two women living together without the support of a man. 

Boiling cranberries

Whoever the guest, the meal was the same: the glistening roast turkey, rich gravy, savory stuffing, a smorgasbord of vegetables, and desserts to tempt any guest and leave stomachs uncomfortably full.  My mother was a good cook and knew well how to keep this holiday which focused on people coming together to celebrate the blessings they had.  As I struck out on my own, I continued the traditions from the very first Thanksgiving dinner I ever cooked, in a New York City kitchen tinier than my current bathroom, and served to a cherished guest who had traveled by bus, through a blizzard, from Ohio, to the tables of recent years, crowded with family members, joined to us by blood and by choice.   My Nana’s table always lingered in my mind. 

A decade and a half after her death, my grandfather died too, and again there was the breaking up of the household.  Bruce and I were married then, and as the family possessions were passeled out, I bid aggressively for, and in the end, won the spool-legged table.  I had to surrender the ten matching chairs as an uncle wanted those for his growing household, but the table became mine. Chairs were easier to come by than the memories connected to the table.

For nearly four decades now, the table has anchored most of our Thanksgiving dinners, and the preparations replicate those of my childhood, with a little fine-tuning along the way. The preparations start early and are detailed, tailored to experience and new possibilities over the years.  There is the turkey to acquire, the side dishes to plan, cranberry sauces and relishes to make, fresh rolls to bake, and a plethora of pies.  In years past, the dining table groaned beneath the dinner spread we laid. When there were kids at home, or at least coming home from whatever near or distant place they lived, it was not unusual for me to bake six or seven pies: apple, pumpkin, squash, blueberry, mincemeat, chocolate pecan, blueberry, and strawberry rhubarb.  I would begin baking the Friday before the holiday, enlisting the help of husband and kids, tailoring the choices to who would be at the table.  Chocolate pecan for Kevin and mincemeat for Bruce.  One year, when Kasey had not yet arrived home from college in North Carolina, Becka and I made a whole evening out of decorating the pie crusts.  We cut out tiny stars for the vents on the apple pie and floated pie crust maple leaves on the pumpkin and squash.  The chocolate pecan had halves of the nuts arranged in a pinwheel in the center, and we latticed the strawberry rhubarb.  And, as that kitchen too was small, most of the pies were rolled and constructed on the spool-legged table. 

Long pie pumpkin

Each Thanksgiving was filled with the bustle of people coming and going, the table laden with food, and laughter.  In recent years, however, the number has dwindled.  The children have their own lives; the distance to travel home and the weather often keep them from coming north for the holidays.  We found ourselves this year with just three: Bruce, my mother, and I – to gather around the table, but that didn’t dampen the preparations.  The turkey is smaller and the pies limited to the traditional apple and pumpkin, but the old recipes that mark our coming together in thanks remain.  Cider-glazed sweet potatoes is one such recipe. 

I’ve been making this recipe since Kasey’s first year of college, and although I am not really sure, I think it came from my friend Paulette who always spent the holiday with us.  Where she got it, I am not sure, but it is a staple and easy to make.

Cider-glazed sweet potatoes with cranberries

Ingredients

3 ½ pounds red-skinned sweet potatoes (yams), peeled, cut into 1-inch chunks

1 ½ cups apple cider

1/3 cup (packed) golden brown sugar

5 tablespoons butter

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon ground allspice

½ cup dried cranberries

½ cup finely chopped green onions

Directions

Cook sweet potatoes in large pot of boiling salted water until halfway cooked (a knife inserted into center will encounter considerable resistance), about 5 minutes. Drain and cool. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate.)

Combine cider, sugar, butter, salt and allspice in heavy large skillet over medium-high heat. Bring to boil, stirring often. Add sweet potatoes and cook 5 minutes. Add cranberries and continue cooking until liquid is reduced to syrupy glaze and sweet potatoes are tender, about 10 minutes. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer to bowl. Sprinkle with green onions.

Of course, there are other special dishes:  The apple and onion stuffing for the turkey, maple sweetened squash, boiled onions because my mother loves them, and homemade cranberry relish and sauce.  No tinned jelly for me.  Rather, I buy the berries fresh and turn them into lovely condiments for the meal.

Cranberry Orange Relish is as simple as it gets:

Ingredients:

2 c. fresh cranberries

1 orange, quartered, ends removed

¾ to 1 cup sugar

Directions:

Wash and slice unpeeled orange into eighths and remove any seeds. Place half of the cranberries and half of the orange in food processor. Pulse until evenly chopped. Transfer to a bowl and repeat with the other half of orange and cranberries. Stir in sugar to taste and store in refrigerator or freezer.

Cranberry Sauce is just a bit harder:

Ingredients

12 ounces cranberries

1 cup white sugar

1 cup orange juice

 Directions

In a medium sized saucepan over medium heat, dissolve the sugar in the orange juice. Stir in the cranberries and cook until the cranberries start to pop (about 10 minutes). Gently boil for about ten more minutes, stirring often.  Remove from heat and place sauce in a bowl. Cranberry sauce will thicken as it cools.

The shopping is done; the squash and pumpkin baked off and in the fridge destined to become pie and a maple-sweetened side dish.  The bread is toasted for stuffing, the table linens organized, and the number of those at the table has increased.  A nontraditional student and his best friend are joining us, and so there will be five at the table, pausing for a moment on what is predicted to be a cold, snowy, northern Maine day to be grateful for the blessings we have, the friends and family, and for me, the memories embedded in the scarred surface of that old spool-legged table. 

Happy Thanksgiving to all and a special Happy Thanksgivukkah to Bobbi and Toby and their families and friends!

Thanksgiving 2012:  At the spool-legged table

Stocking up

Moonset

At 5 a.m. when the dogs woke me for their first trip out today, the moon hung behind the laced trees like a buttery coin above the western hills.  Outside, the sky was still dark, the air crisp, and the grass crunched beneath my slippers.  The temperature dropped overnight and frost glittered in the pale moonlight. We were back inside soon, the air too chilly for dawdling, and after the required treats, the pups curled up in their chairs to doze until the day begins.

The bounty of the garden has been processed: 209 packages of vegetables and fruits tucked into the upright freezer and the pantry cabinet is full of jellies, jams, pickles, and relishes.  We await the arrival of local meat and poultry, all for good eating through the long months of winter.   The wood is split and stacked, the chimney cleaned, the quilts on the beds, and all that remains to do is putting together the homemade mixes we use all winter: cocoa, pancake mix, biscuit mix, bean soup, homemade sausage, and others for our winter sustenance and Christmas gifts to friends.  In this brief lull between harvest and holidays, we take stock and brace ourselves for a month of preparation.

The mixes that we make provide many a meal and save us time and more than a few dollars when our days are busy and also delight our friends with whom we share our wealth.  Breakfast is sometimes a catch-all meal, but when the wind howls and the snow flies, we want something quick and easy but more substantial than the fruit and toast or cereal that has carried us through the summer and early fall.  Years ago I began making an almond raisin granola that was a hit with Kasey and her friends when they were in college.  The recipe is easy and adaptable.

Almond Raisin Granola

Preheat the oven to 225 degrees.

Ingredients

3 cups cooked, old-fashioned rolled oats

1 ½ cups shredded coconut

½ c. wheat germ

1 cup raw sunflower seeds

¼ cup sesame seeds

½ cup good honey

¼ canola oil

½ cup cold water

1 c. slivered, blanched almonds

¾ cups raisins

Directions

In a large bowl, combine the oats, coconut, wheat germ, sunflower and sesame seeds.   Mix together thoroughly.  Combine the honey and oil and pour it over the dry ingredients, stirring well until thoroughly mixed.  Add the cold water a little at a time until the mixture is crumbly. 

Brush a large baking pan lightly with oil, and pour the mixture into it, spreading the granola out evenly in a thin layer.  Put the pan on the middle rack of the oven and bake for 1 ½ hours, stirring often (every 15 to 20 minutes).  Stir in the almonds and bake a half hour longer or until the mixture is crispy dry and light brown. 

Turn off the oven, stir in the raisins and let the granola cool completely. I sometimes make this in the evening and let it cool overnight. Store in a tightly covered container in a cool, dark place. 

The nicest part of this recipe is that it is adaptable.  I have added in flax seeds for half of the sesame seeds. I also make a blueberry pecan version, substituting chopped pecans for the almonds and dried blueberries for the raisins, and a cranberry walnut version, substituting dried cranberries and chopped walnuts for raisins and almonds. 

This can be eaten as a quick snack with yogurt, or dry with milk as with any cereal, and on frosty mornings, I often pour boiling water over it and let it soak up before adding milk.

On weekends, pancakes are also a big favorite, and I like to make up a big batch of quick pancake mix, which saves time and makes tummies happy.

Basic Pancake Mix

Ingredients:

4 cups unbleached all-purpose flour (I like King Arthur)

½ c. malt powder

3 T. baking powder

2 tsps. baking soda

2 T. sugar

1 1-2 tsp. kosher salt

Directions:

Mix all ingredients in a big bowl with a whisk. Store in an airtight container until ready to use.

To make basic pancakes, combine a cup of mix, one large egg (well beaten), a cup of milk, and a tablespoon of canola oil. You can also add a pinch of cinnamon if you like, and it’s easy to throw a handful of fresh or thawed frozen blueberries or chocolate chips into the batter just before cooking.  Top with butter and your favorite syrup.  One cup mix makes about six medium-sized pancakes.

You might also like Cinnamon Oatmeal Pancake, a recipe a student gave me.  They are heartier and great alone or with bacon or a slice of fried ham.

Pomander ingredients

Cinnamon Oatmeal Pancake Mix
(Makes about 8 cups – 24 servings)

Ingredients:

4 cups quick cooking oats

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 cups whole wheat flour

1 cup non-fat dry milk

3 Tablespoons baking powder

2 Tablespoons cinnamon

1 and 1/4 Tablespoons salt

1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar

Combine all ingredients. Seal tightly and store in a cool, dark place.
 

To Prepare:
Combine 2 cups of the mix, 2 eggs, 1/3 cup canola oil and 1 cup water.

In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs. Beat in the vegetable oil. Next, mix in the mix alternately with the water. Scoop in heaping Tablespoon amounts per pancake onto a lightly greased skillet set at medium-high heat. Cook until the tops show broken bubbles (2 to 3 minutes). Turn and cook about 2 to 3 minutes more, until golden brown. Makes 12 5-inch pancakes.

Cocoa is always a favorite here, for breakfast or after skiing or sledding, and making homemade allows you to control the quality of the ingredients but always have this tasty treat on hand. 

Cocoa Mix

Ingredients:
2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup cocoa (Dutch-process preferred)

2 1/2 cups powdered milk
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons cornstarch
1 pinch cayenne pepper (this brings out the chocolate flavor)
Sometimes I even add in mini marshmallows

Directions:
Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix thoroughly.  Store in an airtight container.
To make cocoa, fill a mug half full with the mixture and pour in hot water or warm milk. Stir until well mixed.  

The grands and son-in-law Andrew love a warm cup of cocoa when they come in from the cold.

We eat a lot of soups and chowders during winter, and hot biscuits are almost always part of the meal.  This recipe makes a large quantity that keeps well, but must be stored in a dark, cool, dry place in a tightly sealed container.  It will last all winter.

Basic Biscuit Mix
17 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
8 tablespoon baking powder
2 tablespoon salt
4 teaspoon cream of tartar
2 teaspoon baking soda
3 cups instant non-fat dry milk powder
4 1/2 cups shortening
In a very large bowl, stir together all dry ingredients. Cut in shortening with a pastry blender until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Store in an airtight container in a cool dry place. Makes 26 cups. Mix will keep for two to three months.  To make biscuits: combine 3 cups mix and 2/3 cup milk. 

We grow a lot of beans in the garden, and though we also freeze a lot, we also save them dried for baking beans and bean soup mixes.  Bean soup is a favorite and is often on the menu during the winter.  It’s healthy and hearty and easy to make, especially if you have a mix all set for the pot. 

0 Bean Soup Mix

Seven Bean soup

The basic combination for this dish is easy, and beans are generally inexpensive.

Combine and mix thoroughly:

3 cups dried pinto beans

3 cups dried cannellini beans

2 cups dry kidney beans

2 cups dry lima beans

2 cups dry garbanzo beans

2 cups dried chick peas

2 cups dried split peas

Store in an airtight container in a cool, dark place.

To make this into soup:

1 ¾ cup dried beans

2 quarts broth (beef, chicken, or vegetable)

1/2 cup dried minced onion

1 tablespoon paprika

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon dried mustard powder

1/2 teaspoon granulated garlic

1 tablespoon dried parsley

1 14ounce can diced tomatoes

In a large bowl, soak the beans overnight or all day if for supper) covered in water.

In morning, drain the water set the beans aside.  In a soup kettle, bring the broth to a boil, then add beans, onion, paprika, salt, mustard, garlic, and parsley.

Reduce heat, and add in canned tomatoes.

Cover and simmer very low for an hour to an hour and a half.

Great with warm biscuits.

You can also add a smoked ham hock, Polish sausage, or cooked bacon if you want some meat in the dish, but it’s not necessary.

Mug mats and sachets

Finishing up the mixes guarantees that we have enough for eating through the seven months of snow and cold and some to be packaged into canning jars for Christmas gifts.  As the wind howls around the eaves, we pull the shades early shutting out the cold, and turn our attention to the holidays.  There are orange pomanders and spiced mug mats to finish, Amy’s homemade taffy to be pulled, cookie and bread recipes to be sorted, scarves to be crocheted, wreaths to be made, and quilts to be finished.  The house is redolent with the smell of baking and spices- clove and cinnamon, garlic and onions.  The fire spits and hisses on the hearth, the dogs sleep curled in their chairs, paws twitching in dreams.  The nights are still and silent, and the glimmer of the stars in the deep black sky is like a song.

 

Cookie Dreams