And the Casserole Will Save Us...

A plate of food is a sacred object. The plate is but a vessel; the food, mere sustenance. But bring them together and a holy union ensues: life itself made digestible.

I'm reminded of the Sankara Stones, those glowing orbs needed to defeat Mola Ram, the evil voodoo sorcerer from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Separate, the stones merely look pretty (or burn the skin from your hands while clutching a rope-ladder suspended over a cliff). But bring them together, and they wield unfathomable power. So, too, does the Plate of Food bind disparate elements into one.

In the vast range of Plates available to us in any given meal, there is one that stands above the rest: The Thanksgiving Dinner. Within its oval confines, the plate holding said feast procures an alchemy of the highest order; sliced turkey, mounds of potatoes and gravied stuffing changes into something resembling divine fruits plucked from an elysian field. Simply put, they sure do taste good. Our thanks are many on this day.

This most recent outing was no exception. Let us look closely at one such example, and attempt to understand how simple foodstuffs attain the glory otherwise held for the successful rescuing of stolen journalists, or a surprisingly robust box-office draw.

Behold!

That is a serious plate of food. Notice how the only regions uncovered are the very outskirts of the plate. And between each section, barely a speck of plate below is visible. To begin to see how this plate works so well, let us break down each component.

Clockwise, starting at the top:

-Pink = Yam Apple Casserole
- Green = Sausage Stuffing
- Magenta = Dark Meat (Turkey)
- Yellow = White Meat ( " )
- Blue = Mashed Potatoes
- Red = Spaghetti Squash
- Black = Green Beans
- White = Cauliflower Casserole


The Yams
Originally a recipe from my step-dad's sister-in-law, the origins of this dish make perfect sense: This is many steps beyond your typical "yam" or "apple" dish, and to eat it makes you feel like Steven Seagal in Above the Law, schooled in martial arts and out for revenge... for all those people eating less-tasty sweet potato dishes. How dare they consume burnt marshmallows atop bright orange paste when they could be eating this? Sumptuous, sweet, and with a viscosity approaching "creaminess," the yams are a vital part of this plate. Best to be eaten first, while still hot. Also a nice addition to post-holiday turkey sandwiches in the form of a tangy condiment.

The Stuffing
See those slightly darker chunks amid all that flaky, scrumptious brown? Those, ladies and gents, are the sausage pieces. This stuffing is not stuffed inside the bird, but instead made separately. Any flavor this variant might be missing due to the lack of turkey-osmosis is overcome by the spicy warmth of the sausage. Some traditions remain -- celery still adds a crisp kick, and the stuffing should still be eaten as an ensemble, as it benefits mightily from a forkful of turkey and a dollop of mashed.

The Dark Meat
Oh, how it glistens. That shine is the beacon of taste, the glint off a moonlit pond beckoning us to disrobe, run down to the water's edge, and jump. The higher fat content of the dark meat allows for a richer, more succulent flavor, which makes most eaters' propensity for white meat all the more unsettling. Do not fear the Dark! For it will encompass you in its shadowy mass, and you will feel safe.

The White Meat
Serviceable as a carrier of protein.

The Mashed
Unfortunately, at least in the sample that I scooped, there was an absence of potato skin. Otherwise this was a fine representation of all that a good mashed can do. The mashed potato is a veritable contradiction: girthy and light, dense yet fluffy. It serves here as a palate cleanser, to be spooned between other, more powerfully flavored bites. Also, its malleability affords one to create a reservoir for gravy. Dunk your bite into this saucy well, then eat the container. Truly a rare delight.

The Spaghetti Squash
Here we come to the dark horse categories. Vegetables, like war, are often foul but necessary. The mother-chef has an answer to such untasty claims: Butter and Brown Sugar. Slice that squash in two, drop heaping piles of each additive into the cavity, and let those puppies bake for X minutes at X degrees. The product is closer to candy than either of its appellations. Also to be eaten early, so as to maintain its ideal temperature. Keep away from the gravy.

The Green Beans
As a young child, green beans filled me with a dread known only to those lost at sea on an inflatable raft losing air. I hated the soft texture, the murky color, the too-cute rhyme scheme of their name. Imagine my surprise, then, when our non-related guests (former housecleaners from Poland) brought a dish of the vile sticks and--shock of shocks--they were yum'tastic. I can't pinpoint the exact flavor that took them from abhorrent to worthy of James Beard. Perhaps their pantry of Western European spices holds a secret taste that, while barely detectable, rectifies even the worst foods into something edible. Call it Umami II.

The Cauliflower
This dish, a specialty of my Aunt J. who sadly cannot eat gluten, is the reason I still come home for Thanksgiving. (Or it would be, if I had an especially dysfunctional and unhappy family. Which I do not. But if I did, I would still come home for this dish alone.) Why? Three words: Butter, Cream, Bacon. Sure there's some cauliflower in there, but the eponymous veggie is not the highlight of this ridiculously good casserole. Here, the cauliflower acts like the tuba in a marching band. Without it, the entire group would fall apart, but nobody's watching the tuba in awe of its tuba-ness. And so the Cauliflower Casserole gets the prominent Center Position in my Thanksgiving Day Plate, allowing it to rub up against as many other dishes as possible to maximize its singular flavor, both exotic and familiar.

:::

I hope you understand better the subtle machinations inherent to a plate of food. Did I dish up a perfect plate? No I did not. Nor do I imagine I ever will. But I can keep trying, and heaping, and scooping, and hoping that this one is the one. And if not? Well, I'd love to go back for seconds, thank you.

In the Pie of the Beholder, or: Giving Thanks.

A pie is a unique thing. Some might say "important," even. It brings together disparate* elements into one cohesive form. What sets pie apart from other concepts with this many-into-one trait (cake, sangria, the U.N.) is that each element remains distinct. It reminds me of some Catholic mass prayer not-yet-uttered: "Lo, thou hath given us the crust, and we bid you great tidings; and here, thy filling remains, invigorated with the shine of our unholy decadence, for which we regret and are forgiven through the use of fresh whipped cream." And so we have the crust and the filling, or topping, or sometimes both. But where a Carrot Cake takes its spongy body and cream cheese frosting and carrot shavings and becomes one, the Pie is and always will be many.

---

At Thanksgiving this year, our table was again covered from coast to coast: large serving platter after serving platter, with a casserole dish or two in between. In fact, we didn't even use a table. Our embarrassing modern-day cornucopia was laid out on the top of my uncle's indoor Hot Tub. Though the molded plastic top was opaque, it occurs to me now how cool it would have been to have a transparent covering between the food and the blasting jets, our dark meat and cranberry relishes and chunky mashed potatoes being warmed by the primordial bubbling seen below. Or maybe all that artificial foam would have been unappetizing.

We ate well. Regardless of the fact that this particular suburb was mere miles from the bailout-free auto industry's epicenter, Detroit, and that the host worked for one of the Big Three, and that an attending cousin worked on a factory line soon-to-be shutdown, we ate well. Our turkey had been brined, soaked for 24 hours in a solution of salt, pepper, brown sugar and herbs, then rinsed and cooked. Its moistness rivaled the glass of nouveau Beaujolais I sipped between bites of tender thigh. The stuffing was flecked with hearty chunks of sausage, an ingredient sorely missing from other traditional menu items. Imagine: Sausage-smashed potatoes? Gravy au jus de saucisson? An annual highlight is the cauliflower casserole, a gluten-free miracle of science and butter that screams for national prominence and a high-profile ad campaign alongside giants of industry like Stouffers or Sara Lee. The cranberries were serviceable, if only for that added dart of bright red on a plate heaped high with brown and beige. I don't remember anybody getting seconds, but nobody needed them. We ate well.

After a cup of decaf, so hot and soothing, cutting through the post-gorge film of satiated saliva, the desserts appeared. And this is where my little holiday reminiscence takes a turn toward horror show. As often is the case, the previews were the best part. Another cousin had made and brought Rum Balls, a name deserving of puns which will go undiscussed here. But damn, they were tasty. Small spheres coated in confectioner's sugar, you could pop 'em in your mouth whole if you wanted to, but you shouldn't. Bite that itty bitty ball in half. Notice the subtle ting of sweet from the sugar coating, the chewy consistency of uncooked cookie dough, the sharp and surprising spike of rum in the back of your throat. A variation was coated in peanuts, but I preferred the sugared ones, smaller with a smoother mouthfeel. Eat enough of them, and you won't be feeling your mouth anytime soon.

Next to this platter were two dishes. The Pies. Someone asked about the whipped cream, and the host flew up and back down the stairs (we dined in the basement) with the immediacy of a Samaritan spotting a street-crossing old woman.** Their fresh-made whipped cream was legend; the cold cylinder once again held fluffy treasures, this year with a hint of cinnamon. But as topping to what? First: a sliver of Apple Pie. The crust "lid" was elegant, with a purposeful triad of swooping lines etched out of the top. Golden brown in color, a darker hue around the edges hinted at filling overflow, but no matter. The familiar insides held true to the formula: sliced Granny Smiths, sugar & cinnamon, nutmeg, dabs of butter long since soaked up. The crust foundation was sturdy, if not as flaky as a flake-hound might hope for, but I am not he. Also: My mom made it. It was delicious.

What is left? Why, the Pumpkin, of course. Thanksgiving without Pumpkin pie is like Halloween without pumpkin-carving, a Presidential election year without a few pumpkin-faced candidates (2008: M. Romney, J. Richardson, R. Paul). But something looked off. This pie was not the rich, deep-orange color I knew and dreamt of. This was a lighter orange, similar in hue to the coating of a creamsicle. And like that, it was melting. As was my heart.

"It's a Pumpkin Ice Cream Pie," my step-aunt said. She might have said it was destined to murder my first born. "'Pumpkin ice cream pie?'" I repeated, a cry into a canyon for justice, mercy, only to have the echoing answer reconfirm the existence of life's cruel absurdities: "Pumpkin ice cream pie."

Now, I love me some pumpkin-flavored products. With the coming of fall comes great seasonal treats, centered around the famous gourd. Pumpkin pancakes? Oh yeah. Pumpkin chai? Sure. Pumpkin ravioli? Why not. Grilled Pumpkin & Cheese sandwiches? No--who let you in here? Get out. Sorry about that.

But the Pumpkin Pie is a sacred and holy vessel. As a kid, I admit, I didn't love the odd consistency, the pungent odor, the lack of visible chunks. But I've grown to adore the sweet unctuous filling, the shiny appearance. Its complexity is found in how simple it is. Nothing bears even a passing resemblance to it. The Apple Pie has its siblings of Apple Crumb, Apple Brown Betty, Apple Tart. A Cherry Pie has the Cherry Cobbler. French Silk Pie, Chocolate Mousse... what's the difference? But the Pumpkin Pie is singular, mysterious in its conception. That a successful Pumpkin pie can be made with 80% of its ingredients from a can makes me think of another miraculous birth. Is it any surprise to find out that myrrh is reddish-brown in color?

But this: This is no Pumpkin pie. This is pumpkin-flavored ice cream smushed inside a graham-cracker crust (fine in its own right but an accomplice to a crime, like a valedictorian student driving the getaway car) with caramel sauce drizzled over top. As a dessert, you could do worse. If this was a third option, I would take note of the maker's chutzpah and scoop a bite or two. And it was tasty; I scraped the melted pie and graham crumbs off the plate with my spoon. But as a replacement for true, succulent, satisfying Pumpkin Pie? No. No no no. This was the inevitable stolen from time; this was the uninevitable. My pumpkin pie was taken away from me. And I'm still stinging from its absence. Guess there's only one thing to do... learn to make it.


*On Princeton's online dictionary, a curious example phrase is used to help define the word: "such disparate attractions as grand opera and game fishing." In this analogy, my guess is that the filling is Pie's opera, and the crust is its fishing, but I know crust aficionados who would disagree.

**I could do better. Alternatives are welcomed in the comments section.