Dear friends,
Every once in a while, one becomes an object lesson for one's deeply-held beliefs. I am no exception to the rule. This morning, I became an object lesson for two.
1. New Yorkers have no sense of scale. I have commented before about how New Yorkers fancy themselves as tough, able to roll with the punches and take whatever life throws at them, but given the right circumstances, we will fold like deck chairs and cry like schoolgirls. I will amend this a bit: We are good in big, scary crises like the 9/11/01 attacks and the August 2003 blackout; we walk as quietly and orderly as we can, we help people who have trouble navigating the concrete barricades on the 59th Street bridge, we share our water. Yet, get us into a crowded Grand Central Station subway stop at rush hour, rainwater leaking into the station, and we come to fisticuffs. Getting to the bakery half an hour after the last cupcake has been sold can ruin our day. Having to wait eight minutes in line at the deli, as opposed to five, makes us carry on as though our human rights have been violated.
This might sound like finger-pointing, but I am the first to admit I should be the last to point fingers. Considering that there are people starving and suffering in the world, it is a comparative luxury to discover that you have missed the deadline at your poultry farmstand for ordering your Thanksgiving turkey. This did not stop me from staring into space in shock for a good fifteen seconds, thanking the nice young man at the poultry stand for his time, calling Lloyd and sobbing, "We have no turkey...Thanksgiving is cancelled...I can't believe I forgot the fucking deadline...ruined, it's all ruined." Which brings me to rule two:
2. Lloyd is a much, much better man than I deserve. The correct response to the above tirade of mine would have been either a) "How many weeks have they been taking turkey orders? And it only occurred to you to place the order the weekend before Thanksgiving? You vacuous, cloth-eared bint!" or b) "You are a clearly insane person and I would like a divorce for Christmas, please." Instead, Lloyd instantly made soothing "oh baby, I'm sorry" noises, reminded me that we live in a city full of health food stores and butcher shops and specialty markets that carry organic birds, made further soothing noises when I apologized for overreacting ("but this is important to you, Jen. I know that it's important for you to get turkeys from the farm...you've been doing it for ten years, you can't blame yourself for missing it once in ten years"
, generally advised me not to panic, and -- heaven forbid! -- actually made me laugh.
"That's it," he said. "We'll have to go out for buffet."
"You're not talking about a nice Indian buffet, are you? You're talking about Holiday Inn on Street Road buffet."
"Right," he answered. "I want to go to Bad Stuffing Buffet."
It's almost too bad that the story ends happily, because it would serve the little bastard right if we *did* have to go to Bad Stuffing Buffet. But we do not. Nor do we have to fix our friends and family with Keane-painting stares until they invite us over and ask if we mind sitting at the kids' table. Thanks to the health food ubermarket on University Place, we will have a turkey waiting for me on Wednesday morning. Disaster averted, I returned to the farmer's market, my will to live another day (and buy groceries for that day) restored. We have celery root for the remoulade. We have two bunches of leeks, one for the stuffing, one for anything we might want to make from the leftovers, like soup. We have sweet potatoes and we have potato potatoes, specifically a South American varietal called Papa Amarilla that are some of the best potatoes I've ever eaten. They are a bit of a palaver to peel, as they are, on average, the size of a golf ball, but if you stiffen your upper lip and peel the damn things, your patience will be rewarded. Lots of potatoes are described as "buttery," but these are easily the most buttery potatoes I've ever tasted. They have an almost meatlike depth of flavor. Last night I threw a dozen of them into the chicken braise I made for dinner, and the resulting taste and texture was so marvelous I decided that I wanted to eat nothing else for the rest of the winter (but since I'm not particularly fond of scurvy, I will try to eat some deep greens and oranges, too). We have my adored Winesap apples for pie. We have parsley and scallions and cranberries and cornmeal. By Wednesday we will have our birdie, as well as prosciutto and crackers and salad greens. I stacked all of these beautiful fruits and vedges on my bread board as I got them ready for storage in the fridge, and almost sighed at the sight. It's all so pretty, lemon yellow cheek-by-jowl with deep red, creamy knobbly celery roots smelling of earth and salt, Winesaps dotted with freckles that practically beg you to sink your teeth into them.
Dear friends, I had planned to post the cornbread/prosciutto stuffing recipe tomorrow, along with some musings about just what makes this dish so special to me, but since many of you have asked, and since I'm still doing the little dance of relief and joy over our good turkey fortune, here it is:
Cornbread & Prosciutto Stuffing
(adapted from Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin)
4 oz. (1 stick butter)
1 large or 2 medium leeks, white and light green parts only (slice leeks lengthwise and rinse out any trapped dirt, then cut crosswise into dice)
1-2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 pound domestic prosciutto, diced (for this recipe, cheaper is better; save the fancy imported prosciutto de Parma for your appetizer)
1 pound cornbread, cut into 1"x 1" dice, or 1 pound ready-cut cornbread stuffing cubes
1 bunch scallions, white and green parts (if desired), sliced fine
1 small bunch thyme or lemon thyme, leaves stripped from stems
1 bunch parsley, chopped fine
approximately 1 cup chicken broth
salt and pepper to taste (you will probably want to add pepper but not salt, as prosciutto is salty on its own)
In a large skillet or medium Dutch oven, melt the butter and heat until it is foaming. Add the leeks and cook, stirring, for 5 minutes, or until soft. Add the garlic and cook for about 30 seconds, or until golden. Do not overcook. Add the prosciutto and cook, stirring, until meat changes color. Slowly add the cornbread cubes and stir until the bread is imbued with the butter and onions. Add the scallions, thyme and parsley and heat through. Moisten with the broth until stuffing is, in Ms. Colwin's words, "fluffy but not wet."
Makes enough to stuff a 17-pound turkey, with a bit left over to cook on the side.