I can’t do it! I just spent too much mucho tiempo (welcome to my world of mutilated Espanglish) trying to put my Thanksgiving pictures into a collage—either I’m super picky or Picasa is way too limited. Or else I’m just clueless about Picasa’s superpowers. In any case, nothing suited my fancy, so instead of slapping a couple pictures up and being done with it, now I have to go and write something. Which is fine, I guess, seeing as I’ve gotten out of the habit over the past few days and need to get back in.

Thanksgiving of 2010 will go down in history as the Thanksgiving where we ate pulled pork instead of turkey, Yo-Yo shot and ate a squirrel, the Baby Nickel knocked the bathroom sink off the wall, we had a desert-only evening meal (except for a few conscientious souls who ate a bit of salad first—I was not one of them), and I documented everything with what my aunt Dr. P refers to as my “phallic camera.”

Reading….

We did a lot of it. Mr. Handsome read a book about Hiroshima. I finished Cherry. Yo-Yo started Watership Down. My dad finished Life of Pi. Etc. (And the kids tried to watch a TV that wasn’t in the house.)

Washing Dishes….

It happened, many times over.

Cozy all over the place…

Votives, red globe lights, hot tea, and toasty fires galore.

Music…

They twanged and tuned.

They wailed and crooned.

There were songs about stinky feet and cleaning the toilets of Grand Central Station. (We are not a pious family.)

The squirrel…

The silly thing sat on a branch for fifteen minutes waiting for everyone to move on out so it could eat its Thanksgiving nut in peace and quiet.

But instead it ended up in the frying pan.

You can’t tell from the photo, but it was consumed with much gusto and clashing of forks.

Its hide now resides in my parents’ freezer. I hope it stays there.

The sun came out…

and the kids (finally) took their energy outside.

The woodpile…

got some stackage.

Target practice…

and nobody got a lead foot. Yay!

No pictures of food. Can you believe it? Words will have to suffice: besides the pulled pork, there was a kick-butt cabbage salad (recipe coming once Mom gets it to me—Mom? Mom? Puh-le-e-e-ase?), spectacular oven fries, hearty whole wheat bread, beet and fresh greens salad, shrimp, corn, skillet sweet potatoes, garlic mashed potatoes, squid, chocolate cake, black raspberry pie, cheesecake with sour cherry sauce, two glorious red raspberry pies, and sky-high pizzas. Among other things.

This same time, years previous: apple chutney and pumpkin pie

Apple cake is coming.

But first:

My kids have been fighting constantly.

I’m up to my eyeballs in chains and smashed coins. An etsy shop is happening.

Tried twice to start the fire. It wouldn’t.

Not really into Thanksgiving so it’s good we’re going to my parents. I think there will be pulled pork and … squid. I’m making a cheesecake.

My room is trashed. The terrain is hilly, thanks to socks, gloves, the kids’ too-small clothes, random shoes, and magazines.

My oldest daughter is staging a Class A revolt against the lowly legume.

My daughters have declared World War III … against each other. I’m ready to put them both in the state penitentiary. Or at least their rooms. Oh wait. They already are in their rooms.

I Love Lucy is my saving grace.

I took a picture of the full moon.

Taking pictures is hard. I want lessons.

I cleaned out my bathroom cupboards.

It’s amazing how a cleaned out cupboard frees up my brain space.

Wish it would rain already.

I need a bigger blanket to cover the giant hole in my leather sofa. Or else a seamstress who wants to indebt herself to me.

There is a bushel of broccoli on my kitchen table.

And now, for cake. I discovered a new apple cake and made it three times.

I think this was the apple cake I was looking for when I embarked on last year’s apple cake quest. Next year there will be no searching for I have found the perfect apple cake.

What is a perfect apple cake? It’s an apple cake that uses lots of apples, not just a wimpy cup or two. The cake must taste of apple, lots and lots of apple. There must be no doubt that you are indeed eating a cake made out of apples.

Apples apples apples apples.

Have I made myself clear?

This cake is an apple cake all right. With 4 cups of apple to a 3/4 cup of flour, there ain’t no two ways around it.

Apple Rum Cake
Adapted from David Lebovitz’s blog

I changed the title from “French Apple Cake” to “Apple Rum Cake” since the boozy flavor is deliciously distinct. But not so distinct that the kids fussed. To the contrary, they acted like it was the best cake I’d ever served them.

They (“they” being Frenchified foodies, I presume) say that using a variety of apples is key. I used Golden Delicious, Fuji, York, and Stayman.

One time I added fresh cranberries and some chopped nuts. The cranberries were nice; the nuts were not. Another time I used ½ cup maple sugar plus 1/4 cup regular white sugar. It had a nice flavor, but wasn’t noticeable enough to warrant using up my precious maple sugar.

2 eggs
3/4 cup sugar
3 tablespoons rum
½ teaspoon vanilla
3/4 cup flour
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
pinch of salt
½ cup butter, melted and cooled to room temperature
4 apples, a variety, peeled and chopped (about four cups)

Beat the eggs till frothy. Add the sugar and beat till well combined. Beat in the rum and vanilla.

Stir together the flour, baking powder, and salt. Stirring gently, add the dry ingredients alternately with the melted butter. Fold in the apples.

Pour the batter into a heavily greased 9-inch springform pan, using a spatula to smooth out the top. Bake the cake for 45-55 minutes at 350 degrees, or until an inserted toothpick comes out clean.

Cool the cake for 5 minutes before running a knife around the edge of the pan and removing the sides. (I was dumping my cake upside down every single time—and having mighty problems, too—and just now re-read Lebovitz’s instructions and realized that was not a part of them.)

Serve slices of cake warm, or at room temperature, with whipped cream. Cover leftovers with plastic and store at room temperature.

This same time, years previous: feminism, part II

Friday night I got another migraine. I was cooking supper, feeling all sorts of splendid because it was Friday and I was making a kick-butt supper and Mr. Handsome had taken all the kids with him to run some errand because I couldn’t stand to have them under foot for one more cotton-pickin’ minute, when I suddenly noticed that my kitchen was peppered with bright lights and black spots. This time I knew exactly what was happening and I didn’t waste a second. I popped a double dose of painkillers and then called up a friend to pick her brain for more preventative measures. She recommended natural peppermint oil in water, which I did. And then, even though I knew intense nausea was in my near future, I ate.

I really couldn’t help myself. I was so excited to eat. (Picture an impatient puppy dog bouncing about on the balls of his feet while he waits for you to scoop out his portion of Puppy Chow. I’m like that puppy. I get all tail-waggy when food is around.) Plus, I was hungry and I still felt fine.

So I scooped and forked, scooped and forked, and then when I figured I had eaten more than my share, I took to hovering around the stove top, taking my “just one more” tastes straight from the cooking pot.

My stomach stuck out to China and I didn’t care.

The headache pain did come then, but it was dulled, thanks to the pills and peppermint, and there was no sign of nausea, glory be. I took a leisurely soak in a hot, epsom salt-infused bath. (Though thanks to childbirth, tub soaks always bring back sharp memories of sore bottoms—the mere act of easing myself into warm water makes me feel All Ouch. My children have ruined me. They should be arrested.) And then I crept between the covers and slept for 10 blissful hours. A low-grade headache persisted the next day, but it was nothing compared to the last miserable round. Nothing. I may be wising up.

There’s something else I’m wising up about: pumpkin pasta. Or rather, a creamy pumpkin sauce over pasta. That the sauce, the one I was making when I lost my vision, coincided with my victory over a migraine is just that, purely coincidental. But it feels providential. I mean, really, there were fireworks. I saw them!

I’ve seen recipes for creamy pumpkin sauces all over the place, and I’ve even tried one or two, but I was never very impressed. The pumpkin sauce was always too bland and/or watery and/or pumpkiny. (The one that I already have on this site has sausage in it—not the straight-up pumpkin sauce I’ve been looking for.)

But then I made this sauce and, well, you’ve already read about the pot-swiping and repeat-dishing. It’s nothing short of stupendous, richly flavored with Parmesan and rosemary and bolstered beautifully by the addition of a little vinegar. I know! Vinegar! I never would’ve thunk it, but it dost sparkle up the dish considerably.

Pasta with Creamy Pumpkin Sauce
Adapted from the November 2007 issue of Everyday Food

I used butternut squash for this recipe (directions for roasting are here), but I think a combo of carrots and sweet potatoes could be blended up along with the pumpkin.

1 pound short tubular pasta, like ziti or penne
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary
2 cups pureed squash or pumpkin (or 1 15-ounce can)
1 garlic clove, minced
½ cup half-and-half
1 tablespoon white vinegar
1 cup grated fresh Parmesan
1/4 teaspoon red-pepper flakes
1 teaspoon salt

Cook the pasta, drain, and set aside. Reserve 2 cups of the pasta water.

In a heavy-bottomed pan, fry the rosemary in the olive oil, but do not let it brown. Scoop the rosemary out of the oil and set it on a napkin to drain. Carefully (the oil is hot!), stir the remaining ingredients into the oil. Stir in a cup of pasta water, adding more only if you want a thinner sauce. Taste to correct seasonings before tossing the sauce with the pasta. Garnish with the fried rosemary and extra red-pepper flakes.

This same time, years previous: steel-cut oatmeal