Smooth Sailing to Turkey Town

I'm usually engulfed in flames on this Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but not this time around. Not this year. Nope. I am not cramming a ninety-dollar turkey into a too-small roasting pan. I am not making lists and oven schedules. I am not conquering the horrid, filthy-spirited crowds in the grocery store pre-holiday rush. I am not driving, or flying, or packing Murray's giant suitcase for a trip. And I am so, so thankful.

I am, in fact, sitting on the couch, listening to said dog snore and snuffle, being utterly thankful for my furnace and my sweater that are protecting me from the fifteen degrees outside, and gearing up to tell you about this one-stop turkey stop that you'll really be quite smitten with. You will want to start thinking about concocting this dish after the guests have left, when you're tired of heavy foods, and you just need some easy work-week lunches that you don't have to think about much at all. 

But about that whole I'm-relaxing-today thing. First of all, let's be thankful for new holiday traditions, because that's exactly what got me out of this whole Thanksgiving mess in the first place. For the second year in a row, we've had a Chicago Thanksgiving on the Saturday before Real Thanksgiving. It was, I believe, my mother's idea in the first place, and she is brilliant, so it makes quite a bit of sense that this would be a success. My immediate family comes here, and Andy and I host. We have Thanksgiving-ish foods, but, truly, anything goes. We drink too much, laugh a lot, and eat quite a bit of cheese. Murray sniffs everyone, because that is his best thing, and we want to make sure everyone has a job in which they can succeed. 

The glory of all of this is that I get to do the planning and shopping and gathering well before all the, you know, regular people do theirs. The stores are still stocked, the lines are shorter, no one is grumpy yet, and if I forget something the day before the meal, then I can go out and get it without feeling like I am willingly tossing myself into an erupting volcano. It's so, so good. Holiday hosting has never been so peaceful.

So, then there's round two: Andy's family. While we would typically be loading up the car right now to travel to Indiana, we're not this time! Indiana is coming HERE to Chicago, and all we have to do is go downtown, park the car, get in an elevator, and travel upwards to the 36th floor of Andy's cousins' apartment, where we will enjoy our first-ever high-rise Thanksgiving. (Food provided. Glorious.) I have been assigned to dessert, so I'll rattle around in the kitchen a little later today and come up with some sort of fashionable way to get sugar into the bodies of fourteen people. I think I can do it. This is all pretty sweet, right? 

Now that you know where to find me today and tomorrow, let's just make a plan to see each other next week. You bring the Thanksgiving salad that I taught you how to make, and we'll talk about whether or not we ended up surviving the holiday weekend. I'll bring the whiskey. I know, I know! That's all? That's the best I can do? Forgive me. Relaxation, you see, is the name of the new game.

Thanksgiving Salad

serves a lot 

1 C farro

1 C barley

3 bay leaves

4 C butternut squash, peeled and cubed

1 large sweet potato, peeled and cubed

1 onion, diced

5 stalks celery, trimmed and diced

5-8 cloves garlic, chopped

2-3 big handfuls of green beans, trimmed and chopped

1 C dried cranberries

2-3 C chopped or shredded turkey

small handful of fresh sage, chopped fine

sliced almonds

fried onions

olive oil

salt and pepper

red pepper flakes, optional

parsley, optional

flavored vinegar, optional

Preheat oven and your empty roasting pan for 20-30 minutes at 450 degrees.

Cook barley and farro with the bay leaves for about 10 minutes, or until soft but still chewy. Drain, remove leaves, and set aside to cool. 

Toss butternut and sweet potato with a few tablespoons olive oil and take that hot, hot pan out of the oven. Pour mixture onto the pan and spread evenly. Roast in the oven for 20-30 minutes or until browned and slightly caramelized (every oven is so different when it comes to roasting times, so just keep an eye on it and toss every once in a while to see what the underneaths look like). 

Heat another 2-3 tablespoons of olive oil in a big pan or dutch oven. Sauté onion, celery, and garlic until onions start to brown. I like them caramelized, so I'd recommend adding small amounts of water as the onions cook, and scraping the pan down as you go. Add sage and cook for another few minutes. Then add green beans and another splash of water and cook on medium-high for a few minutes. Make sure the green beans cook only long enough to turn bright-bright green. Turn off heat and stir in cranberries.

Combine roasted vegetables, grains, and onion mixture in a giant bowl. Toss well, adding salt, pepper, and olive oil to taste. I would strongly recommend using a flavored olive oil for this dish! I used garlic olive oil, chipotle olive oil, and a smattering of red pepper flakes. This would also be a great time to add in a handful of chopped fresh parsley if you have it. A dash or two of a flavored vinegar also compliments this dish. I used cranberry-pomegranate vinegar and it was worth repeating.

Top with fried onions and sliced almonds and serve at room temperature all by itself or with a simple cream-based soup (tomato! butternut! red pepper! pumpkin!) and bread.

Notes:

•You can use all barley, or all farro for this if you'd rather. It would also be terrific with orzo, brown rice, or wild rice. 

•Sage! Fresh will be excellent, but dried will also definitely work. 

•The fried onions are, to me, the thing that really makes this dish. I am skeptical of the French's brand, but Trader Joes' makes a much-less junky version of fried onions that are super delicious. You can also make your own, but no pressure here. This salad is already a bit labor-intensive!

•This salad saves well. Keep in tupperware in the fridge, and freshen it up with some olive oil or seasoning before serving. It tastes good at room temperature, but it also heats up well!

Murray gets especially tired after preparing Thanksgiving salad.

Kitchen Dog

He's the kitchen rug. He's always underfoot. He's a catch-all, he's gigantic, and he's exactly where my feet need to be. I have no complaints.

If I am cooking, which is much of the time, Murray is in the kitchen, too. He secures a convenient spot in the high-traffic zone between the sink and the stove, and he becomes an immense, furry obstacle. Most of the time, I don't mind, though. You see, I've spent my whole life wishing for a kitchen dog. Books and television and design magazines have always glamorized kitchen dogs, and I've just known that it was the one kitchen tool I've been missing all these years. And now I have him. I have the very best, and least useful, kitchen tool I've ever invested in.

He catches spills quite well, this dog of mine. He lays in the corner of the kitchen next to my feet and underneath the cutting board. Unflinching, he rests calmly while receiving accidentally-dropped bits of spinach, garlic, onions, coffee beans, broccoli, sprouts, carrots, jicama, milk, peppers, lime juice, corn, rice, cheese, nuts, and ham. Oh, and there's the time that Jimmy spilled coffee on him. And the time I spilled iced tea on him. Murray glanced up, and went back to sleep. His coat is insanely thick, you see, and he is undeniably tolerant. You could likely drop an entire set of encyclopedias on him and he'd really only look up slightly and lick your leg to say hello and confirm that he loves you. 

If Murray was the kind of dog who ate everything he found, or waited for scraps to fall, or wiggled desperately to remove cooking bits from his fur so that he could gobble them up, I'd be panicky and concerned. But we're lucky. He doesn't want to eat all the things that poison a dog: onions, garlic, chocolate, coffee. Fortunately, he really only likes a few foods, and he has extremely good manners in the kitchen.

When we're in the kitchen, and Murray is in the way and covered with vegetable scraps, and Andy is jumping around and playing us made-up songs on his ukulele, and the pots are boiling over, and I'm trying to cook and dance and maniacally pull everything together for dinner, that's when I am at my happiest. That's when I am absolutely, positively sure that I am completely alive. Everything is fast and loud and close, and, somehow, for a historically quiet, slow space-loving cook such as myself, this has become my safest, most glorious place. 

This is for Dawn, who reminded me that a jar full of moldy applesauce is not an appropriate greeting for all of my lovely readers to have to return to over and over for two months. Thank you for your patience, all of you.