Thanksgiving Dinner, Dorm Style

Ever wonder what Thanksgiving in a dorm room looks like? Here's a shoutout to the gals and guys at NYU's Third North for this delicious glimpse. Daughter Madeline's contribution was a first for her - the turkey gravy. My heart was in my throat for her. It has taken me years to get the hang of the process. There must be 50 ways to glop it up, and I should know, speaking from experience.

The NYU gang had the Macy's Parade in the morning, so in Texas, I was calmly stirring my gravy hours before Madeline would step up to the pan. This was good; I could time certain steps (how long should you cook the drippings and flour paste before adding milk?) and send her tips. My version was an especially good batch this year - practice does help. I wished Madeline was home to taste it, but I was glad she sampled her first Macy's Parade from the actual event, not the TV. I sent her a long, incoherent text message that probably read like a tearful mom being a sap.

In my head, I thought I'd just make another batch of gravy when it was time for her to start, so we could stir it up together. Well, it didn't work out that way. Madeline got started on her own, and that's how it should be - what time in the kitchen is all about. She did call mid-process, and it felt good to be on the other end of the line, like a Butterball Hotline counselor imparting the wisdom of the ages.

She took her lumps; I kept mine in my throat. She had to get off the phone; I couldn't expect her to listen to me while pouring and stirring - if you're the gravy maker you know what I mean. It is a delicate process.

I trudged outdoors for some firewood and kept telling myself "it's just gravy, it's not a college essay. Get the salt and pepper right, and what's not to like? Hungry people will eat it." I give her snaps for even attempting it.

Later as I was stirring the fire, she called to say that everything was fine.

Good gravy. Everything was fine.

So Thankful

Jeanne and Mamma Mia are in our kitchens today,

wishing you a Happy Thanksgiving

with all the trimmings and carefree gravy.

(Photo of Grandmother Daisy's matches from the Manor House in Moorestown, New Jersey in 1959, "Where Cooking is an Art . . . and Eating a Pleasure." Repurposed by John H. Ostdick)

The Great Croissant Tryout

Turkey and gravy are the stars of Thanksgiving, but oh, the look and feel of fresh homemade bread. Maybe you like rolls, cornbread, croissants, pumpkin bread, the options are endless. Sometimes I just make them all so everybody finds something they love.

This year I was thrilled to get the rare opportunity to make bread for someone else's table in a land far away. The Rules of Hoyle and a respect for privacy prevent me from saying who the bread is for, but know this - it was important enough that I needed to hold tryouts.

I knew the form would be croissants, but which ones? I usually make this showoff bread with a sourdough starter, and the results are deeply flavorful because sourdough starters involve long fermentation times, which give the flavor enough time to develop. For some reason the sourdough also makes a softer dough; it's easier to roll out and gives a nicer risen shape than a straight yeast dough, the results of which look more rustic. No idea why the chemistry works that way.

So which version would be good enough to produce bread that could be shipped overnight?

For the tryout, I practiced with a straight yeast method using active dry yeast, and I learned an important lesson. Good thing it was a practice run. I followed the croissant recipe exactly as given save for one key difference. If you substitute active dry yeast in a recipe calling for fresh yeast, you must proof the yeast first in warm water. You can't mix the dry yeast in with other ingredients, as the recipe states. I knew this; I knew it was wrong when I started. But I swear I'd seen bakers add dry yeast into other ingredients without proofing first. And here's why. Instant dry yeast (also known as "Rapid") can be added this way. Active can't. So my first batch of croissant dough never rose. You know it won't rise in the baking, either, because it feels like a wet book of pages. A dough that's alive has an energy you can feel in your hands; it's springy to the touch and much lighter.

I repeated the recipe using Rapid dry yeast (no proofing), and while that was underway, mixed a batch using the sourdough starter. The bakeoff was on - and the winner is shown above - the sourdough version.

I learned something else, too. I had a few croissants from the yeast batch and a few from the sourdough batch, so I placed them on the same baking sheet. The yeast recipe calls for baking at 350. The sourdough calls for 400. Could it make that much of a difference if they both cooked at the higher temp? As it turns out, it does. The sourdough was golden and swelled beautifully. The yeast croissants were charred and weathered. There's likely an explanation of why this happens in Peter Reinhart's definitive book The Bread Baker's Apprentice (Ten Speed Press, 2001). No croissant methods in there, but loads of "this is why" background that enrichs every baker's understanding of extraordinary bread. That's where I read about the differences in behavior for active, rapid and fresh yeast.

Now if I could just test out the effects of "cold in the hold" as a box of croissants flies north for the holidays.

Oh sure, I hedged my bets. Made a batch of flatbreads for the shipment, too.

No rising to the occasion.

(Photo: Pepper Croissants on Parchment. By John H. Ostdick in the Singing Wheat Kitchen)

Turkey Talk

OK. I'm not a WalMart shopper, but they have cheapo turkeys this year, Butterball, no less. Since I'm on the recession budget, I couldn't resist. Bought two.

Last year I did a butterflied turkey. Well, actually, the butcher did the butterflying for me, but you can do it yourself with a good pair of kitchen shears. Mark Bittman says so in his 45-minute turkey recipe.


First I massaged the big bird with butter laced with garlic and herbs, spreading the mixture oh-so-carefully and grossfully between the skin and the meat. Then I put the flattened turkey in the roasting pan, sprawled out and gangly. It was done in 45 minutes, maybe an hour: the skin all golden and crunchy; the meat dribble-down-your-chin moist.

Served it with roasted chunks o' sweet potato and onion wedges, tossed with cooked-till-crisp prosciutto. And dressing, of course, and all the other sides. The turkey wasn't centerpiece worthy, but who carves the turkey at the table, anyway?