Brussel My Sprouts the Fancy Way, Please
Here we are, ladies and g's, on the Sunday after America's favorite indulgent gastronomic holiday. My jeans have been re-buttoned, barely, and I am munching on the remains of a crushed melt-away found in a ziploc at the bottom of my carry-on bag. (Thanks to CB and LB for the sugary treat.)
It was a classic Midwest Thanksgiving feast, except that there was pumpkin-poblano corn pudding and Brussels sprouts. My brother said he had never had Brussels sprouts so fancy. (Roasted with olive oil, paprika and salt may only be fancy in the Midwest.) My seven-year-old niece was excited like Christmas for those sprouts to be ready for mouth-popping. She munched a raw radish while impatiently looking at the greens waiting their post-turkey turn in the oven. There's a little gastronomer in that nugget for sure.
Thanksgiving is always an orchestrated feat. My parents handle the turkey, performing a duet that has been practiced since before I even made it to the table. The stuffing is my mother's recipe. White and whole-wheat Wonder-like bread is toasted in the oven while the celery and onions cook in butter on the stove top. The toast is torn into pieces and tossed into a giant green plastic bowl circa 1970. Fresh thyme, rosemary and sage and chicken broth go in, and my dad mixes the lot with his hands before stuffing the (usually oversize) bird. Since we are all still alive one might wonder what the big fuss is about cooking the stuffing in the turkey. Must be the linings of our Midwest stomachs.
The vegetables, side dishes and alcohol are left up to myself, my brothers and sisters-in-law. Typically they range from fancy (roasted Brussels sprouts) to traditional (mashed potatoes) to new-fangled (poblano corn pudding).
Desserts are anyone's game, but usually handled by my mother and the same sister in law who teamed up with my niece to make the melt-aways (and a delicious apple pie).
There is just one rule.
I am no longer allowed to make the cranberry sauce.
Why, you might ask? It seems so harmless...
Well, at the last family dinner involving turkey and all its crazy-bird trimmings, I tried to make cranberry sauce with agave syrup and honey instead of sugar. I was so confident all would be well. I've used agave to bake muffins and sweeten lemonade and margaritas. It's lovely! And low on the glycemic index. (Bless your well-functioning body if you have no idea what the glycemic index is.)
It took three of us to fix it, and in the end, I think we added sugar. Or maybe orange juice. Or maple syrup. Who can remember? I was so distraught I dropped a baking sheet full of beautifully roasted carrots on the floor.
This Thanksgiving, I left the cranberry sauce to my mom who added the normal quantity of brown sugar, and I ate it. Several years ago, I would not only have passed on the cranberry sauce, but the turkey as well. I'm sure you remember the Food Preacher from a few weeks ago, under the teachings of whom my dive into the world of food consciousness began. Well, sugar followed meat quickly on the list of forbidden gustatory pleasures.
Oh, how I mourn the days of bliss, when ignorance was my friend and meal planner. How I loved the afternoon cookies that came at least three times a week leftover from some meeting or another. What a sad day it was when I read that sugar consumption could exacerbate yeast-related health issues.
And so, the second phase began. No white sugar.
Stay tuned! More details on giving up the granulation to come!
Here we are, ladies and g's, on the Sunday after America's favorite indulgent gastronomic holiday. My jeans have been re-buttoned, barely, and I am munching on the remains of a crushed melt-away found in a ziploc at the bottom of my carry-on bag. (Thanks to CB and LB for the sugary treat.)
It was a classic Midwest Thanksgiving feast, except that there was pumpkin-poblano corn pudding and Brussels sprouts. My brother said he had never had Brussels sprouts so fancy. (Roasted with olive oil, paprika and salt may only be fancy in the Midwest.) My seven-year-old niece was excited like Christmas for those sprouts to be ready for mouth-popping. She munched a raw radish while impatiently looking at the greens waiting their post-turkey turn in the oven. There's a little gastronomer in that nugget for sure.
Thanksgiving is always an orchestrated feat. My parents handle the turkey, performing a duet that has been practiced since before I even made it to the table. The stuffing is my mother's recipe. White and whole-wheat Wonder-like bread is toasted in the oven while the celery and onions cook in butter on the stove top. The toast is torn into pieces and tossed into a giant green plastic bowl circa 1970. Fresh thyme, rosemary and sage and chicken broth go in, and my dad mixes the lot with his hands before stuffing the (usually oversize) bird. Since we are all still alive one might wonder what the big fuss is about cooking the stuffing in the turkey. Must be the linings of our Midwest stomachs.
The vegetables, side dishes and alcohol are left up to myself, my brothers and sisters-in-law. Typically they range from fancy (roasted Brussels sprouts) to traditional (mashed potatoes) to new-fangled (poblano corn pudding).
Desserts are anyone's game, but usually handled by my mother and the same sister in law who teamed up with my niece to make the melt-aways (and a delicious apple pie).
There is just one rule.
I am no longer allowed to make the cranberry sauce.
Why, you might ask? It seems so harmless...
Well, at the last family dinner involving turkey and all its crazy-bird trimmings, I tried to make cranberry sauce with agave syrup and honey instead of sugar. I was so confident all would be well. I've used agave to bake muffins and sweeten lemonade and margaritas. It's lovely! And low on the glycemic index. (Bless your well-functioning body if you have no idea what the glycemic index is.)
It took three of us to fix it, and in the end, I think we added sugar. Or maybe orange juice. Or maple syrup. Who can remember? I was so distraught I dropped a baking sheet full of beautifully roasted carrots on the floor.
This Thanksgiving, I left the cranberry sauce to my mom who added the normal quantity of brown sugar, and I ate it. Several years ago, I would not only have passed on the cranberry sauce, but the turkey as well. I'm sure you remember the Food Preacher from a few weeks ago, under the teachings of whom my dive into the world of food consciousness began. Well, sugar followed meat quickly on the list of forbidden gustatory pleasures.
Oh, how I mourn the days of bliss, when ignorance was my friend and meal planner. How I loved the afternoon cookies that came at least three times a week leftover from some meeting or another. What a sad day it was when I read that sugar consumption could exacerbate yeast-related health issues.
And so, the second phase began. No white sugar.
Stay tuned! More details on giving up the granulation to come!
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