Tag Archives: Thanksgiving

Friendsgiving

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Simple, fragrant place-setting: rosemary sprigs and fresh cranberries, strung with floral twine.

My husband and I moved to Utah in the summer of 2008. Eager to begin a new life out West and unfamiliar with the vacation realities of boarding school life, we arrived in early June, squeezing our belongings into a tiny duplex on Main Street. We knew no one. I can’t speak for my husband, who is an undiagnosed hermit, but as I sat amidst ceiling-high boxes and mismatched furniture in the stifling summer heat, I began to seriously doubt our decision. Then came a knock at the door. A school faculty member named Max stood at our threshold, smiling and welcoming us to town. He invited us to dinner at his house.

We quickly became friends with his family, whose children were close in age to ours and whose sensibilities and warmth won our hearts. They introduced us to several other faculty families. Our circle of friends grew. We hosted dinner parties; we enjoyed parties hosted by others; and, just like that, we weren’t lonely strangers anymore. We became part of a community that has supported us and nurtured us for the last seven years.

In our first year, I hosted an Orphans Thanksgiving for the faculty members who were unable to spend the holiday with their families. Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite holiday. I have so many blessings to be thankful for. It only seemed right to share the day with others. I cooked the turkeys, and guests each brought a side dish. Over time, the tradition transformed into a gathering of an ever-growing family of friends. The guest list changes, but the joyous heart of communion remains.

This year, we grilled New York strip steaks, marinated liberally in rosemary, garlic, and olive oil — a low-stress alternative to turkey that requires much less clean up. I also tried out a hasselback potato gratin from the New York Times (amazing!). Hosting Friendsgiving gives me the culinary freedom to experiment and enables guests to enjoy not one, but two days of revelry and gratitude.

As Denise Chavez writes: “We have so much to be thankful for: Christmas, Hanukah, Kwanzaa, tacos of all kinds, Pad Thai, sushi, chicken chow mein, pizza, meat loaf and mashed potatoes, mariachis, symphony orchestras, rock and roll, rap, funk, rhythm and blues, rancheras, boleros, soul music, day, night, rain, snow, blue skies, clouds, our mothers, our fathers, the many ancestors whose blood and pulse of life we carry within us.” For all of these blessings and more, thanks be.

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Friendsgiving is fun. Here are some tips from a few years of experience.

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Kids’ tables: Craft paper table covers and buckets of crayons are great for little hands. Slightly older child guests appreciate being treated with a little more care. I don’t use my best china, but I put out nice plates and juice glasses.
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Make thrift shops and garage sales your friends. You can score a handful of silverware, dishes, or folding chairs and tables for relatively little money. My tablecloth is a bolt of fabric from a craft store.

 

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Flowers. Bunches of fresh herbs are lovely too.
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Usually, I put out white plates. I opted to use my grandmother’s fine china this year. Life is short.

 

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Parlor tricks: Write notes of thanks to each guest. Ask them to guess the card you chose for them based on the cover art.

 

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Put out several carafes of water for guests to drink throughout the meal. I set up a separate drink station with a range of cocktail and wine glasses, a bucket of ice, and extra bottle openers.

 

 

 

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Noshes are important, too: crackers, nuts, cheeses, and fruits give guests a distraction while you’re carving the turkey or sneaking a glass of wine.

 

 

 

© 2015 Julia Moris-Hartley

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I Heart…

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…Because I Call Them on a Saturday Night and They Are Gracious

A group of friends went to dinner in an early celebration of Mother’s Day. They hired baby-sitters for their children; they coordinated a carpool to a city an hour’s drive north, where they had made reservations at Communal, a restaurant that boasts locally sourced, seasonal menus. At Communal, they ordered wine, appetizers, and six entrees, which they shared, family-style, in an amber-lit, partitioned room. Some partook of dessert, which was also shared. The friends split the bill without quibbling, and tipped their servers well. One of the men offered to drive everyone home. Hunger sated, spirits buoyed, they returned.

I was fortunate to be part of this dining experience. My friends and I live in a rural area with limited dining options, so planned events – I call them food pilgrimages – provide us with rare moments of socio-culinary joy. The details of this meal have since faded into an overall impression: the food was delicious; we had a great time. But one dish stood out: skirt steak with roasted piquillo peppers.

I could not stop thinking about the steak the following day and well into the evening, so I called the restaurant about twenty minutes before they closed. To my delight, one of the chefs agreed to talk with me. I apologized for the late hour and asked if he had a couple of moments. He assured me that he did, then he told me how the dish was made: ingredients, pointers, and all. Dear chef, had you been standing next to me, I would have kissed you.

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… Because They Know How to Make An Experience Unforgettable

My friends, Casey and Laura, occasionally abduct me for a girls’ night out. Recently, we ventured to Chef’s Table, which is located in Orem. Chef’s Table is an eight-year recipient of the Best of State Award in Fine Dining. The restaurant is a luxury that we, on school salaries, can afford only on choice occasions, so we tend to make the most of them.

When we arrived, they seated us in the east room, which has floor to ceiling windows overlooking Provo Canyon. The setting sun blushed against the grey, striated upper crags of the Wasatch front, shrouding the lower valley in evening shade. We nestled into comfortable leather chairs amidst the tinkle of forks and low conversations.

One of our servers brought us a basket of warm, doughy rolls with a side of kalamata butter. We promptly ate them all. Casey, bedecked in a long grey dress and her signature red lips, ignited as the rush of umami engulfed her. We began to talk more animatedly, debating what to order. Which appetizers sounded the best to share? (Three cheese fondue with sourdough crisps and onion soup gratinée.) What entrée were we least likely to replicate at home?  (Lamb with white beans and sausage goulash; mushroom stuffed filet with ‘whipped’; and sirloin steak with truffle frites.) What type of wine should we drink? (Ravenswood Red Zinfandel.)

A change rippled through the dining room sometime in between the second round of rolls and the uncorking of the wine. The room quieted. Other diners, mostly couples, were watching us as we sampled from each other’s plates: spoons swooping, glasses tippling, murmuring in a near-rapturous state. It occurred to us that three boisterous women, high on delicious food and wine, might pose a date night anomaly. Glancing mischievously at one another, our eyes made a silent pact to provide our fellow diners with the entertainment they sought. Unapologetic foodies, we murmured louder.

By the time our entrees arrived, we didn’t really care what the couple seated across from us – who ate their entire meal one-handed, their opposite hands entwined in a sustained, tabletop embrace – thought. I turned my back to the balding man among the party of six in the corner of the room. He had actually leaned forward in his seat, neck craned, ear cocked in our direction. Casey playfully returned the favor. “Maybe we should invite him to join us,” she mock-whispered.

Our servers offered us countless rolls and unending butter; they refilled our glasses, removed plates, replaced silverware, and inquired about our satisfaction with each dish. I think our antics secretly amused them, though the befuddled hostess may have lamented her placement choice. Perhaps we’ll warn her next time: Beware! Foodies Gone Wild! On that night, however, our fleeting celebrity was well worth the cost of the performance.

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… Because Making Others Happy Makes Them Happy

Joe, the chef de cuisine at the school where I work, rides a motorcycle and rocks out in a band. He recently got his last name tattooed on his forearm in large cursive letters, and is someone to whom I might turn if I needed food advice, special ingredients, or, perhaps, the name of a hit man.

Chef Joe is one of the most generous people I know. On my daughter’s birthday, he posted a big colorful sign in the cafeteria. He offers food samples and overages he can’t use to anyone who will take them. He’s given me honeycomb and Thai peanut marinade; he’s even given me duplicate cooking books, because he knows I share his love of food and because he has excellent taste in aspiring food writers who live in his immediate vicinity. Generosity isn’t an air or obligation for him; it’s his manner of being.

I can attest to Joe’s generosity specifically, but in my experience many food people share this quality. I do, as do my food-loving friends. I have yet to meet an ungracious chef. Generosity of spirit marks those who love to share their meals: it compels us to commune, to inquire, to enjoy and delight. Our spirits are propelled by the appreciative gestures and smiles of our efforts. It makes Joe happy to make others happy. It makes me happy to make you happy.

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… Because They Give Me A Reason To Write

To all my friends in food: Thank you for helping to make the world a happier and infinitely more delicious place. Thank you for giving me direction and literary purpose. Happy, happy Thanksgiving!

I thank you!

I thank you!

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Thanks Be

Dear Mary Frances,
Thank you for pioneering the genre of food writing.  Your smart prose blazed the way for thousands of writers today – most significantly, female writers –stripping stigma from a field once thought to be solely esoteric and reminding us that food offers so much more than its nutritional content.  Your writing rallies interest in the pleasures, no matter how modest, of the plate.  I have read The Art of Eating at least half a dozen times, and I always discover new meaning with each reading.  You are my idol.

Cher Jean Anthelme,
Your immortal words set the tone for each episode of Iron Chef.  What would the tone of the show have been without them?  Would Chairman Kaga have appeared so Chairman-ish?  The Iron Chefs so ennobled?  Your keen attention to the virtues of culinary enjoyment is rivaled only by your witty social commentary.  I really appreciate that level of attention.  I’ve been wondering… If I believe that wine, cheese, and bread are major food groups, does that mean I’m actually French?  Do tell, do tell.

Dear Julia,
I’m thankful that we share a common first (and nick) name.  I’ve often envied what I’ve read about your marriage to Paul.  He wrote you lyrical love poems for your birthday, for goodness sake!  Together, you created personalized valentines to share with friends each year.  You had what truly seemed like a passionate storybook relationship.  I envy that.  But I also envy – perhaps I should say admire – your robust sensuality.  You would have been so fun to party with! I would have loved to watch you at work in the kitchen.  Sometimes I pretend to be you. (My daughter, Rory, finds these reenactments hilarious.) I think of you every time I accidentally drop a piece of food.  Thank you for making it okay to use the five second rule.

Dear Laurie,
Your writing gave me the idea to host a tea party in honor of my daughter’s birthday.  As I draped beaded garlands over the lights and scattered lavender buds across the table, I thought I heard your voice calling out in singsong approval.  Thank you for writing about your daughter with warmth and affection.

Dear Calvin,
Though I think your wife, Alice, was spot on when she coined the term “food crazies,” and though chances are likely that I am one myself, I appreciate your sustained interest in all things food-related. Thank you for being a “food crazy.” Your version of the first Thanksgiving is far better than the one I learned in elementary school.  I fully support your campaign to make spaghetti carbonara the official Thanksgiving dish.

Dear Harold,
You know you’ve got real cred when chefs all over the world refer to your tome as their “McGee,” as in, “I’ve got my McGee right here!”  I thank you for your tome and your cred. You’ve helped me through many a food inquiry.  I hope you don’t find this too creepy, but I think of you as Uncle McGee.  You seem like the type of person I’d enjoy spending time with on my deck.  As the sun descends over the western mountains, I might casually turn to you and say, “So, Uncle McGee?  Tell me the story about when you wrote your book.  Did you have a grant to fund your daily expenses as you researched?”  And you might chuckle, take a sip of your Malbec, and say, “Well, it all started back in the eighties….”

Dear Jeff,
You are an enigma when you guest-judge on Iron Chef America and Top Chef.  You share the same name as one of my first “real” crushes, a sous chef named Jeff who worked at the finest dining establishment in my college town.  The state he left me in was not funny, but you are.  Thank you for giving your assistant a comically disproportionate amount of work to do and for fielding so many marriage proposals. Thank you for accidentally poisoning yourself with taro leaf and writing about it with humor.

Dear Jane,
Mushrooms, onions, butter, sour cream, and dill…  Who knew? I serve your sour cream sauce over a big bowl of rice.  The mushrooms whisper, “We are so happy,” and so am I.  Thank you for loving fungi enough to dedicate an entire book to them.

Dear Tony,
I started watching your television show before I read any of your work.  I (unfairly) assumed you had writers.  Then I read your books, and your writing bowled me over. I couldn’t believe it!  Your prose is tight!  I haven’t had the good fortune to travel the world like you, but your writing amazed me with its ability to make me ravenous.  I’ve never tried pho, and yet I feel as if I have tasted it with you on the streets of Vietnam.  In my imagination, we traipsed across the globe throughout A Cook’s Tour, loosening our belts and belching happily.  I was your Zamir.  Thank you for making me hungry.  Even though No Reservations is over, never stop being hungry for more, okay?

Cher Jean Louis,
Will you ever find me indispensable? I think the world of you and would gladly be your scribe.  Thank you for renewing the zeal of my Francophilia.

Dear Readers,
Thank you for reading my work. I’ve been busy with a new job and haven’t been in the kitchen as much as I’d like, but I really appreciate all of your continued support. I am thankful for you.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Love, Jules

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My Favorite Things

How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?

Some of my happiest childhood memories involve The Sound of Music.  My grandparents had the soundtrack on LP at the family cabin in Featherville, Idaho.  Since the cabin didn’t have televisions, its primary entertainment source was the record player, on which my sister, Lisa, and I played records in heavy rotation.  Grandpa had amassed an eclectic collection in the years before LPs grew to near extinction, but our favorites were The Nutcracker and The Sound of Music.  Late at night, with the curtains flung open and moths fluttering against the lighted windows, Lisa and I leapt from avocado green sofa to sofa: hair flying and limbs flailing, like sugarplum fairies gone wild.  We waltzed on tiptoes through the kitchen, humming “Edelweiss.”  We pirouetted around the dining table, wire whisks raised in our hands, our voices warbling: “How do you solve a problem like Mariiiaaaaaaaa? How do you hold a moon beam… in your… haaaaaannnndd?”

When I was sixteen (going on seventeen), Lisa flew to Boise during a break from medical school in Geneva to join me on a tour of colleges in the Pacific Northwest.  We drove the silver Tercel that Grandpa had “sold” to me.  It was an old, no-frills hatchback, but it was mine and I named it Orby, after one of Grandpa’s mischievous brothers.  As Lisa and I left Boise, heading west toward the highway, we stopped at a red light at the intersection of Milwaukee and Emerald.  The engine hummed quietly through the floorboards.  Summer wind blew through the car, the late afternoon sun warm on our legs. I couldn’t wait to start the trip and see the Oregon coast one more time, but as I stared down at my frayed denim shorts and freckled legs, I felt intense heat rise up my neck.  My forehead and cheeks burned.  Lisa looked at me with wide green eyes, the skin on her breastbone mottled with pink blossoms.  Ever responsible, Lisa ran through a shortlist of concerns:  Was the car overheating?  Did we have heatstroke?  Was this an allergic reaction?  What had we eaten for lunch?  Was there a bee in the car?  Did we need to turn around and go to a hospital?  We cranked the AC and started to roll up the windows.  Then we saw them: two good-lookin’ dudes perched high in a jeep in the next lane, peering down into our car with identical lopsided grins.  Lisa and I had been singing “The Lonely Goatherd.”

Goatherd incident withstanding, Lisa and I were accustomed to performing because we had a captive audience of family members staying at the cabin with us each summer, among them our enabler: Grandpa. Our cousins made excuses to go down to the river; uncle Don shuffled through the papers in his briefcase, squinting behind drugstore reading glasses; and Dad sequestered himself in the attic, illuminated by a single bare light bulb, tapping out manuscripts and textbooks on the manual typewriter he kept by his bed.  Aunt Sylvia sat on the flowery corduroy couch in the corner, knitting.  Grandpa had a talent for fixing his blue eyes on the pages of whatever he read, but every now and again, he lifted his gaze to smile at us.  Grandpa remained spry well into his 80s.  On really good nights, he sprung from his armchair and joined Lisa and me, bending at the knees and hooking his fingers into the imaginary suspenders on his chest, as we bobbed and sang, “Lay-oh-de-lay-oh-de-lay-hee-hoo!”

Grandpa was the first person to believe in my ability to write and he encouraged me to explore my talents, unprofitable though they might turn out to be.  He dreamed of writing fiction, and he bequeathed his unpublished stories to me when he died; the note affixed to the large manila folder read: “Keep writing!”  I also inherited my favorite of his belongings: a big, comfortable, tufted reading chair made out of I’m not sure what.  The chair is slippery and caramel brown, and it exhales a soothing pffft when occupied.  Its generous head- and armrests provide ample space for sleeping cats and reading material.  I like to sit in it sideways, my legs flung over the armrest, an avalanche of food books fallen around me, Lilycat coiled into a tight ball of white hair and purring on my lap.  I imagine Grandpa dozing in the chair, snoring softly, a book resting against his chest.  After his death, it felt less like losing him to keep something so big and enfolding near to me, something that felt almost as comforting as the soft scratch of his blue cardigan against my face when he pulled me into a bear hug.

Even as a young girl, before I became aware that it was possible for adults to be goofy, impetuous, mischievous, charmingly self-mocking, or wryly sardonic, I admired Maria’s little whimsies.  I admired the compulsion that drove her to rush to mountain peaks, singing at top volume with her skirt a-twirl.  I admired that she walked away from her faith for a reason that felt important to her.  (Not so much that she did it – at the prodding of the Mother Abbess, no less! – for a decorated military official with a cork up his butt, but at least she forsook her religion for a true passion.)  The von Trapp children adored her.  She was the kind of woman I aspired to be: tenacious, intelligent, resolute, and given to affection, deep emotion, and song.

I watch The Sound of Music every year at Thanksgiving because it is so entwined with the things I associate with love and showing appreciation.  Maria had her list of favorite things, and I have mine.  Thanksgiving gives me the outlet to freely and openly sing praise to everyone and everything I love, which makes it my favorite holiday.  I’m so thankful for my family, children, and incredible friends; for our collective good health, our jobs, our happiness, and our quirks and talents.  I’m thankful for all the things I have learned and will learn in my life.  But most of all, this year, I’m thankful for a life history that is woven together so tightly and completely that I can’t celebrate one memory without also giving thanks for so many others.

Thanks for believing in me, Grandpa.

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