Where is the thickest part of a turkey thigh, anyway? Read about David’s past goofs with Thanksgivings of yore and we’ll explain exactly how to make certain your Thanksgiving turkey is roasted to perfect doneness.
For a long time, every year when it came to the interminable turkey-eating season—November to New Year’s Day—I stood there holding a meat thermometer, hands trembling, face twitching, wondering if this bird would be the one I actually cooked correctly. You see, it seemed no matter what I did, I missed the thickest part of the turkey thigh so spectacularly that, for a while, I left the protein-cooking part of the day in The One’s hands and I took up the immensely less intimidating baking portion of the entertaining program.
But not before one memorable Thanksgiving when I had to call our friend Matty, a former butcher, into the kitchen to salvage the bird, not to mention my flagging self-esteem. (To his great credit, Matty, a man who’ll use anyone’s misfortunes as grist for a few minutes of hilarious stand-up cocktail chatter, never breathed a word of it to anyone. At least, never in my presence.)Read more “Where is the Thickest Part of a Turkey Thigh?”
Love food is, as David explains, the food that you make that’s full of love, desire, hopes, or dreams. Pork loin with apples, sour cream apple pie, it’s the food you share with your favorite person, the meal that’s imbued with all the promise of love, now and forever.
[David wrote this 11 years ago, and it stills holds true on their 28th anniversary.–ed.]
Today marks 17 years that The One and I have been together (which is actually more like 50 in straight years). The way he tells it, it was my linens that clinched it for him.
In 1993 I bought my first bed. Before that, during college and just after, I made do with a futon or, on occasion, a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. But when I turned 32, I decided it was time to have a proper place to sleep. Bereft of the design gene my people are supposed to possess, I chose a ridiculously large model with massive head and footboards. To camouflage this Victorian monstrosity, I purchased tons of pillows and one of those all-in-one matching linen sets that no matter how you use it, you can’t screw up—kind of like Garanimals for beds. Gold sheets with a barely perceptible floral pattern contrasted with a deep brown and burgundy coverlet and matching shams and neck rolls. Read more “Love Food: Pork and Pie”
In defense of grandmother cooking takes a look at the, possibly old-fashioned, notion of how the best food has been patiently tended to with hours of standing and stirring at the stove.
I come from stirring stock. That is to say, my people are stirrers. It’s how my grandmother, avó Costa, cooked. She stood, facing the stove, for hours in her pink housecoat and pink slippers, her tiny hand planted on her hip, singing in her thin, reedy voice. She stirred all kinds of Portuguese comestibles: spicy stuffing with chunks of homemade chouriço; her famous pink (of course) chicken, rice, and potato soup; and vats and vats of kale soup. When she grew too old to stir her soups and stews for long, I’d do it for her. By then, age had stolen a few inches from her, but she still managed to peer over the tops of the pots and instruct, “Mais devagar, queirdo, mais devagar.” Slower, sweetheart, slower.