I am still stuffed

We learned some important lessons this Thanksgiving.

Number one: French press coffee makers do indeed whip heavy cream into glorious submission:


Number two: Homemade appetizers still don't get eaten unless they are a) decor for bloody marys (celery, cheese, olive, sausage, surprisingly appropriate) or b) macarons (espresso and salted caramel, explosively delicious):


Number three: Turkeys cooked in a roasting rack do sometimes look like torpedos:


Number four: Eight Thanksgiving servings are always smaller than eight regular servings. We would all have to eat like this:


(and then some) to eat all of this:



(I still don't know where Ted's sausage-walnut-sage stuffing went. It was delicious, I promise).

Happy Thanksgiving!

For the first time in three years, I will not be cooking a turkey or manning a kitchen on this, the best of Thursdays. Instead, I am whipping up some winter squash soup, cranberry sauce and a pecan pie, traveling across southeast to eat with a smaller group of friends. Relaxing and somewhat strange, I'm sure that it will still be a deliciously gluttonous evening.

Whatever your plans today, travel safe, eat well, and laugh. A lot.

Comfort(able)

Late fall in Portland begs for soup. It pleads for steaming bowls, big spoons and a leisurely dinner spent slurping. It commands us to spend extra time and care in front of a hot stove, stirring, smelling, tasting until we achieve, night after night, the perfect blend of warmth and silky satisfaction.

It’s the wet and the cold and the drafty windows that do it. The chill brings bone-numbing shivers, demanding that we pull out the raincoats and the rain boots and the umbrellas (for the non-natives). It makes us run inside to bars, coffee shops, movie theaters and creative combinations of the three. It causes us to complain, but it also makes us stronger.

Lest we forget, it’s the long months of rain that bring us the red and the yellow of carrots and squash and apples demanding to be transformed into comfort. It’s the long months of rain that bring us rows upon rows of hearty winter greens, the mysterious stalks of Brussels sprouts and the fractal beauty of romanesco.

If we can brave the soaked markets and the puddle-filled parking lots, it is with pleasure that we should take a few more minutes to roast that squash, caramelize that onion and stew those greens, melding all of these wonderful autumnal flavors to create a bowl of goodness more special than even the sum of its parts.

Take first, for example, warm cabbage salad (for which I am eternally indebted to Heidi Swanson):

Bitter, raw, crunchy vegetables take a warm dip in oil, vinegar, raisins and spices to emerge just ever so wilted, ever so sweetened, ever so royal.

Or next, pile warm stewed kale on top of a thick slab of homemade toast and drench with the runny yolk of a just-cooked over easy egg (oh, Orangette, you are so very wise):

Yet my favorite this November has been the bowls upon bowls of winter squash soup. I’ve made it with whatever orb strikes my fancy–pumpkin, butternut, acorn, delicata–stewed with everything from apples to sage to shallots, sometimes with water, sometimes with chicken stock, sometimes with leftover bean cooking liquid. I’ve found that the best soups come from a roasted squash, a single fresh herb profile, a bit of apple and a splash of acidity. The flavor lingers, complex but not overwhelming, and matches perfectly with all of the above.


Roasted Winter Squash Soup
Very loosely adapted from Serious Eats
Serves about 4, depending on sides

1 medium or a couple smaller winter squashes (I like the combination of acorn and delicata), cut in half with the seeds scraped out (save to roast for a snack!)
Olive oil
½ sweet onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
about ¼ cup dry white wine
2 apples, on the tart side, cored and chopped
about a 1-inch segment of fresh ginger, smashed with the side of a kitchen knife
1 clove, stuck into the segment of ginger
about 6 cups chicken (or veggie) stock
pinch red chili flakes or cayenne pepper
juice of half a lemon
kosher salt and fresh-ground pepper

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Generously salt the halves of squash, rubbing the salt into the flesh. Place on a baking sheet, cut side up, and roast for about 20-30 minutes (depending on size), until the tines of a fork can pierce the flesh easily.

Meanwhile, heat a good glug (about 1 tablespoon) of olive oil over medium heat in a good soup pot (I use my Le Cruset). Add the onion, sprinkle with salt, and sauté until softened. Add the garlic and sauté for about 30 seconds, or until you can smell it. Add the wine and let it reduce until almost evaporated.

At this point, if the squash isn’t done, remove the pot from the heat. Once the squash is cooked, let it cool just until you can handle it without burning yourself (this has never happened to me…). Gently peel the skin away from flesh, trying not to smash up the soft squash all over the counter (again, never happened…). Cube the squash and add it to the soup pot along with the apples, ginger, clove and stock (I usually just add enough to cover all of the other ingredients. You can always add more back in at the end if the soup is too thick). Gently bring up to a simmer, cover, turn down the heat to low-ish and simmer until the apples are cooked all the way through.

Once everything is cooked to your liking, remove the pot from the heat and (carefully, in batches!) puree in a blender or food processor. (Make sure to only fill up your blender/processor about 1/3 of the way and make sure to blend slowly. You do not want a soup-covered kitchen–trust me. It helps to have another bowl or handy for your pureed soup. If you are lucky enough to have an immersion blender, use it!) After pureeing the last batch, return the soup to low heat. Add chili flakes/cayenne to taste, lemon juice and extra stock if the soup is too thick. Taste for seasoning and add salt if it needs it.

Serve with wilted salad, stewed greens or a grilled cheese sandwich.

Drink a hot toddy. Cuddle.

Last gasps of summer, first winds of fall

Today is one of those rare fall days in Portland where the sun is shining, the leaves are brown, and the nippy wind brings not rain but pleasant, subtle shivers. Wearing a jacket isn’t so bad today–it doesn’t need to be waterproof or have a hood. It’s almost real fall. But, as the weathermen keep reminding us, it will probably start raining tomorrow, so pull out your rainboots and umbrellas now.

Harrumph. I like real fall, one filled with dry piles of leaves, warm sunshine piercing through the chilly winds, and wool pea coats–a fall when you can still spend time outside without catching hypothermia or water-logging your cell phone. But there are bonuses to our never ending rain. There are coffee shops and bookstores, fireplaces and hot chocolate. Oh, and a great excuse to spend all day in the kitchen. I love all of the seriously slow food that comes with the cooler weather–rich braises, roast chickens, apple pie, and, above all, soups, soups, soups. I’ve worked up a batch of chicken stock already waiting in the freezer for the first rain-soaked day. I’ve armed my pantry with dried beans and grains, and I’ve bought boat-loads of garlic. I’m totally ready.

But first, in one last homage to the crisp salad days of summer, here is what I like to call a transition salad: Filled with the early-fall bounty of my final CSA shipment, this salad blends the best of both seasons with sweet, raw Zephyr squash and musky, rich mushrooms. I added shaved fennel for crunch and served it up with a local aged gouda, crusty bread, and thin slices of a yellow Bartlett pear. It may match the yellow leaves outside, but each crisp bite was almost enough to trick me into believing it was still September.


Transition Salad
Serves one

5-10 Cremini mushrooms, sliced thinly
1 small zephyr squash (or any other fresh summery squash), sliced thinly, on a bias
½ bulb fennel, shaved thinly
1 scallion, white and light green part only, sliced thinly
olive oil
sesame oil
about ½ lemon
kosher salt and fresh ground pepper to taste

Combine the veggies in a serving bowl. Drizzle a small amount of both oils (you just want enough to thinly coat each component). Toss. Squeeze as much lemon juice as you need to brighten the flavor (the only way to know for sure is to taste). I used the juice of half of a not-very-juicy lemon. Toss and season with salt and pepper. Serve with your favorite cheese, bread, and a thinly sliced pear (or apple). I recommend building a bite with all of the components together.