Last night we had Moroccan Salmon in Tomato Sauce, tonight Dad made a Chicken and Eggplant Tagine (excellent!), and tomorrow it’s some kind of Moroccan lamb stew.
We must be inoculating ourselves against the blandness of turkey and accompaniments. Every year I try harder. I put a whole head of garlic in the mashed potatoes. I rub the free-range turkey with spices after I brine it. I make cranberry chutney, not cranberry sauce. My stuffing is made with leftover homemade bread and fresh herbs, my sweet potatoes are roasted with olive oil and chile powder. We have live music, and ethnically diverse guests! (Well, okay, one of my Chinese students.) We have our pumpkin pie outside on the patio with coffee made from freshly ground beans. Still the meal remains overly rich and indigestible. It must come down to the amount of butter, what do you think? Or maybe that’s the whole point of feasting.
One aspect of Thanksgiving that I adore is that after Thursday, no more cooking is done for at least 48 hours. We get to rest from the orgy.
I exaggerate anyway. Kathy is bringing pies, Raymond is making his port wine cranberry sauce, and Grandma is in charge of the corn pudding with green chiles and the applesauce.
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