And the rest is gravy...

Along with canned roasted peppers, I don't understand why people buy canned gravy. Or those little packets of flour with salt added. Gravy! It's delicious, it's what frugal people used to make, and it's easy!

Proportions:
One part fat (drippings or butter)
Equal part flour.
Three parts liquid (stock or water or milk)

During Thanksgiving I get a fat separator and place a cup of fat siphoned from the turkey in a saucepan. I gradually sprinkle in a cup of flour, whisking. I cook this over medium heat so the flour is cooked through and doesn't have a raw taste. I add three cups of broth, either canned or from the turkey, gradually, it thins and thickens and cooks. Now, the fun part: season to your taste.

Recommended: salt, pepper, dried thyme and tarragon. Some people have poultry seasoning in their cupboards, that'll work too.

Wait! That reminds me--this recipe for a fellow blogger, mashed potatoes:

One medium peeled russet potato per person, and one for the pot. (This means no waxy new potatoes, white or red. They don't mash right.) For this recipe let's say 6 potatoes. Slice in half, and cover with water in a saucepan. Add half an onion. Bring to a boil, lower the heat, and simmer until the potatoes are tender, 20-30 minutes. Drain.

Now here's the fun bit. Drop in two tablespoons of butter (if you're into 15 year old nouvelle parisienne cuisine, add a pound of butter and puree--you're done, and so are your guests) and a liquid. What'll it be? Normal: milk. Variations include: buttermilk, sour cream or yogurt. Your dietary preferences decide. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Want a zing of garlic? Use garlic salt or a tablespoon of garlic powder. Easy.

Really, in our family, mashed potatoes are just an excuse to pour on the gravy.

This just in: besides many, many other things, I am grateful for not hosting Thanksgiving this year. Our refrigerator just passed away last night, in its sleep.

Gobble, gobble

A wickedly funny fellow blogger asks about turkeys. A simple recipe. Does she know who she's talking to? Does she realize she's talking to a compulsive cook who made a turducken for the fun of it! Simple? Where is the challenge in that? The drama the catharsis the tears? The momentary sense of accomplishment? Or-- does she know deep down that I made that elaborate recipe but once, and have a secret standby in my pocket? Hmmm. She's deep, that one.

Turkeys are problematic and I blame the media: movies, commercials, print ads. Each and every one of them has a glistening deeply browned turkey, occasionally framed by mini pumpkins or crab apples as garnish, waiting to be divvied up by the knife-wielding patriarch. Fine slivers of dry white meat are piled upon polite guests' plates. Even Shirley Corriher buys into this by basting her brined turkey with a butter/corn syrup mixture.

What about brining, someone asks? Been there. The stuffing, which in my opinion is the point of Thanksgiving, tasted like the sea.

Bleh, I say. Double bleh.

I know my weaknesses. And presentation is one of them. I don't care what the damn thing looks like, if it tastes of heaven. So I pull out my secret weapon: the Reynolds oven bag. I follow its directions, after having stuffed my bird with Mrs. Cubbison's corn bread (I follow those directions, too. And when I don't have fussy guests, I add oysters to the stuffing. WOW!).
This variation on turkey bag roasting I learned from my mother: roast it breast side down. You won't have a beautiful bird. Instead you'll have a moist and tender one. Uh, one more tip. Just be sure the damn thing's defrosted before you begin.

What? Too understated? Too simple? Too commercial? You'll have to go elsewhere, then.