Well, now that we’ve explored the strange and wonderful world of bizarre holiday foods — let’s talk about tips and tricks for getting that big ceremonial meal on the table …

My mother just called and my cousin Denise wants to know how I did the turkey last year because apparently she remembers it as being especially good — honestly, I can’t really remember. I’m pretty sure I bought an organic bird because those frozen ones shot full of stuff freak me out — and really, if you can get a nice fresh organic turkey, it’s worth the hassle and the expense. I know I didn’t stuff it, because I think stuffing the bird is a sure way to dry it out, and frankly, I get a tiny bit skeeved out by the stodginess of stuffing done inside the bird. I tend to cook a turkey like a big chicken — and since I have a near mystical faith in the power of a roasted chicken to make everything right in the world, I figure a turkey is just a bigger bird for a bigger group.

So, because it is such a big bird, and because the breast tends to dry out — I like to take at least a stick of soft butter and mash it up with a bunch of garlic and herbs into a paste (whichever herbs you like — my favorites are thyme, sage, rosemary, and some parsley for that nice fresh green taste). And although it’s a little bit fiddly, you can smush it in under the skin either from the cavity end or the neck end, depending on where it’s easier to get in between the skin and the flesh. I have short stumpy little fingers, so I use a spatula to get the butter stuff in there, and then you can kind of massage it around to spread it — and of course, the butter will melt once you put the bird in the oven so don’t worry if there are lumps. Then lots and lots of salt and pepper on the skin and you’re ready to go.
Because I don’t like bread stuffing inside the bird, I stuff the cavity with lemons, herbs, garlic, and a couple of onions. Poke lots of holes in the rind of the lemons, or chop them into halves or quarters so you can jam more of them in there if you want. But citrus and onion inside the cavity gives the bird a nice fresh flavor, and keeps it moist.

I might have gotten fancy last year and started the bird breast side down as well. I usually start chickens that way. It crisps up the skin on the back nicely, and I think it helps keep the breast meat juicy. For a chicken I usually cook them at 425 for an hour and a half (remember, we’re at altitude here, so things take longer — at sea level an hour might suffice). I do the chicken breast down for the first 45 minutes, then flip it for another 45. For a turkey I’d suggest looking in Joy of Cooking or some other standard cookbook for temperatures and times — Like a chicken, I think I did the turkey half and half last year — the trick is if the bird is enormous to get one of those big strong men lounging by the football game to help you when it’s time to flip the bird. Also, I just use potholders right on the hot bird — yes they get greasy but that’s what the washing machine is for — just toss them in afterwards.

So, that’s my turkey process — it’s just a big bird, it’s not rocket science. Use some common sense, keep an eye on it and have a nice time chatting with everyone while it cooks. As for the other stuff — we’re not really a gravy people, so that’s never been a source of anxiety in my family — a little jus made from the drippings and some beurre maniere and some booze and we’re good to go. I do stuffing on the side, in a baking dish and don’t really have any standard one — they’re all good — I’m partial to stuffing with sausage in it. My cousin Dede does a nice mix of mashed potatoes and mashed turnips that’s yummy. I like brussel sprouts with some pancetta done in the oven until the sprouts are brown and yummy and the bacon chunks are crispy. A nice fresh salad, perhaps with some apples and walnuts and a little blue cheese — something crispy and fresh to balance all that heavy food. Champagne, a nice zinfandel and something sweet at the end.

Since you guys all had so many great horror-show dishes to share — what about tips and tricks? What do you tell your non-cooking friends when they call you in a panic about Thanksgiving?

Okay, I’ll admit it — I think Thanksgiving is the most boring holiday meal of the year. Perhaps it’s the residue of the Turkey Years, when Mom fed us on a couple of turkeys a month because it was a lot of meat for the dollar, or perhaps it’s just because it *is* the most boring meal of the year — but snore snore snore. Turkey. Stuffing. Mashed potatoes. A couple of sides — brussell sprouts or green beans. Cranberry sauce. Pie.

It’s inviolable. There are variations, sure — every year the magazines plop into my box full of variations, but essentially, you’re stuck with the same meal. For a couple of years there I fled the country — went to Paris for Thanksgiving (I could take a full 10-day vacation and only had to take 3 days off work.) I remember explaining to some French people that it’s a meal no one really likes, but everyone is forced, by the culture, to eat. They were French, a culture in which food ritual is so ingrained that although they were bewildered by the very American excess, and by the somewhat crude nature of the menu — they understood the concept of a shared national meal.

What saves Thanksgiving for me is the annual appearance of those ceremonial dishes that are really horrible, but without which it just doesn’t seem like Thanksgiving. My Aunt Daphne’s Baked Oyster Thing, for example. Beloved to her because it evokes her Maryland girlhood but translated to the Midwest in the 70s and 80s it appeared as a loose gratin of jarred oysters in cream, covered with smashed saltines. To a bunch of 10-15 year olds, it was everything horrible — slimy, wet, oystery and as I recall, a sort of unappealing grey color — but there it was, every year. And we were raised with the kind of manners that required us to take at least a bite, and to thank our beloved Aunt Daphne for the delicious Oyster Thing.

Or my mother’s standard — the Tomato Aspic Ring. This one is right out of some 1960s magazine. A jello mold made with half strawberry jello, half tomato juice into which is suspended a hash of onion, green pepper and celery that has been shredded in the Cuisinart. It’s unmolded onto a lettuce-lined plate, filled with curried mayonnaise and surrounded by a festive garland of canned artichoke hearts and hearts of palm. It’s ridiculous, and actually sort of refreshing, and when my mother tried to retire it, my cousin Denise specifically requested it’s return. It just didn’t feel like a holiday without it.

So folks, spill the beans — what are the ceremonial food items without which your Thanksgiving just wouldn’t feel complete?