As a vegetarian, this holiday causes particular worry to the people around me. It doesn't worry me, mind you, just everyone around me who can't imagine Thanksgiving without turkey. But enough with the tofurkey jokes, guys, and don't even think about just serving me the side dishes (yummy though they are) and sighing about the tragic empty spot in the middle of my plate that "should" be filled with meat. People seem to have the idea that a meal like this needs a single centerpiece --- and that's not a bad way to go, certainly, but it's also not necessary. There doesn't have to be one big protein-laden thing on the plate to which everything else plays second fiddle. There doesn't have to be anything in particular, in fact, except for good food and lots of it. Being vegetarian on Thanksgiving doesn't mean that I'm missing out. It means I don't have to be beholden to any of the past traditions. I've tossed out the turkey, and I can toss the marshmallow sweet potatoes and the canned cranberry sauce with it, and re-imagine what the best possible Thanksgiving meal could be.
Michael and I have been doing this for quite a few years now, starting from the simple observation that our commitment to not eating certain things isn't restrictive; it's freeing. We now have a blank slate on which to create our own traditions and make the best meal that we can with everything that we like to eat, and nothing that we don't. To my surprise, and lasting pleasure, this seems to be something that our families like as well. I'm sure this is due to the food that we make, but I'm sure it's also due in no small part to the fact that we're doing all the cooking.
Because we've been able to build up a new Thanksgiving repertoire from scratch, and because both of our families come to our house for the holiday, we've made it our duty to put on a major, showstopping production number. We follow a few simple rules to make this happen: Use what's fresh and in season. Embrace variety by serving many small courses rather than few big ones.* Make everything yourself. Never repeat a flavor.
What this means is that we end up with a multi-course tasting menu, developed over the course of several months, cooked over the course of several full days, and consumed over the course of several hours. We've developed a tradition of serving French onion soup, so that locks at least one course into place every year. But to fit with the "never repeat a flavor" rule, we try not to make anything else that we've made in past years. So to put together the rest of meal, we start by narrowing down what kinds of things we want to serve to show off the best of the season, like squash, beets, cranberries, and Brussels sprouts. Then we combine the flavors, trying to vary savory with sweet and trying to alternate rich courses with palate cleansers. Of course the "never repeat a flavor" rule applies even more stringently within the meal. For instance, since we know we're having onion soup, other courses can't feature onions.
Just to give you an example of how the whole thing works, here's our menu from last year:
Amuse-bouche: wine-poached pears
French onion soup
Beet salad with jicama, clementine wedges, and micro-greens
Acorn squash halves filled with chickpeas and spinach, served with mushroom sauce
Dessert: chocolate tart with fresh cream gelato and raspberry sorbet
Lots of seasonal stuff, lots of courses, lots of work. This menu actually breaks two of our "rules," since the acorn squash was a fairly hefty course that basically served as a main, and we didn't make the gelato or sorbet ourselves. (Thanks, Capogiro!) But otherwise, it's pretty representative. This year we've got even more planned, and I'm looking forward to almost five straight days of shopping, prepping, cooking, and eating.
Today: bought wine (5 bottles of red and 2 bottles of white), picked up 20 pounds of onions at the farmers market, along with three butternut squash, a stalk of Brussels sprouts and a gallon of raw milk.
Tomorrow: The hunt continues.
*We're indebted to Thomas Keller for this idea. He calls it "the law of diminishing returns," applied to food: "The initial bite is fabulous. The second bite is great. But by the third bite --- with many more to come --- the flavors begin to deaden, and the diner loses interest...What I want is that initial shock, that jolt, that surprise to be the only thing you experience. So I serve five to ten small courses, each meant to satisfy your appetite and pique your curiosity. I want you to say, 'God, I wish I had just one more bit of that.' And then the next plate comes and the same thing happens but it's a different experience, a whole new flavor and feel."
from The French Laundry Cookbook, pg. 14
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