I am the cook in the family, bringing many of the superior Southern thanksgiving food traditions to the mid-Atlantic, including braised collards, baked Dijon mac-and-cheese, sautéed green beans and shallots, mashed potatoes rich with cream and rosemary, and of course many French and Northern Italian whites and light reds to accompany.
The bird is truly an afterthought, the garishly large modern white turkey bred for yield and docility rather than flavor. My Florida friend will handle the bird, and she swears she has a solution for dry breast meat by roasting the bird upside down for the first three-quarters of the process. She also stuffs the bird, anathema to those of us from Southern latitudes (Florida south of, say, Gainesville, not truly being the South)—we serve our butter-soaked bread dish baked on the side as dressing, not stuffing. I will trust the process to one who loves cooking truly as much as I do and will pass judgment after tasting. Sweet potato, apple, and bourbon pecan pies served with unsweetened whipped cream and hot toddies will finish the meal.
Cooking is the theme of the day for me, and we’ll relax later with the brilliant and unsung 1995 Home for the Holidays, set here in that Land of Pleasant Living sometimes called Maryland. After dinner we’ll have some of the late release of Foursquare Bajan Rum and I plan on smoking the first of my two boxes of Ramon Allones No. 2s. With no children in tow this year, the small group, I hope, will choose to stay overnight for rare beer hunting the next morning.
Cheers to those who celebrate and push back against the alienation of the contemporary world with friends and family. Company—as Aunt Glady says—what else is there?