Constructions of National Identity
Ok. So admit it, we all participated because it is fun to feed our friends and lovers for no other reason than the meal itself, with no implied gift-giving and no uncomfortable gift-receiving. Just lots of food.
I do have to say that I find it rather obnoxious that as intelligent people we still tow the line of crap that this is about the Pilgrims landing on Plimoth Rock (that's how it used to be spelled) and the wonderfully docile, eternally helpful native Americans that received them with open arms and corn-growing tips, breaking bread, just like Jesus with the lepers.
Crap, crap, pure crap. It is a WELL DOCUMENTED reality that this holiday is only loosely based on varying pagan traditions - festivals of the fall harvest, and protestant day of thanks (totally different time of year) and was cleverly constructed (its official date shifting several times before settling here) by none other than our treasured (and then assassinated) president Lincoln, grasping at straws to bind in adobe brick the splitting foundation of a nation in the process of a messy (but which would have ultimately been fruitful) divorce. Prior to the secession from the Union, split along the Mason-Dixon line, Lincoln was searching for a symbol of Nationhood, a common denominator, a way to appeal to the American-ness of all, called together in brotherhood, color and white, meeting, discussing, uniting in a peaceful meal, together reaping the harvests of the mutual toil. He was APOLOGIZING for his attempts at the abolition of slavery.
He should have skipped turkey day and just let the damn (read: Texans) keep their backward-ass ideas. (What elegant turn-of-phrase, but maybe this way our "beloved" prez will understand). Maybe if the union had been allowed to dissolve then, it wouldn't have been such a black day for the entire world 22 days ago. Think: The Guardian.
Nonetheless, it *is* a useful excercise to give thanks (but better on a daily basis) and eating with friends and drinking too much (did we really drink over 15 bottles between the 12 of us???)
The turkey was drunk too! Man, Kirsten and I (with Becca's willing hands) whooped that Turkey's ass. Most beautiful turkey I have ever seen (and *not* because it was our, ahem, first). Miguel and Adrian harvested in the garden and fresh broccoli was incorporated as well as broccoli greens and other sylvan seedlings were made into a mind-boggling, pear and pomegranate wielding, gorgonzola adorned salad. mmmm.
Not without appropriate innuendo, K. and I busied ourselves with rubbing butter and spices along the outside, and inner cavities of the doubly penetrable, extra-large (22 lb) bird. Once it began expelling juice, we made clever use of baster and utility-sized syringe, injecting both subcutaneously and intra-muscularly throughout the course of the day, a whole bottle of white wine mixed with a stick of melted butter.
Stock was prepared early with the less-favored entrails, and served as the flavor base for the kick-ass stuffing (If I do say so myself...) Becca ripped open the luscious pomegranates harvested from her mother's garden and the boys were delegated to the task of chopping (and drinking snarky beers), onions, carrots, parsnips, apple... We also partook of the heavenly fall fruit, persimmon, and ate pumpkin bread for breakfast...
Sauteed the onions, garlic, celery, crimini mushrooms in a butter/olive-oil mix, then, added chopped apricot which had been reconstituted in previously made stock, then chopped apple all reduced to a slightly caramel, seasoned with thyme, sage, rosemary and a few other fresh herbs. Cornbread cubes (bought - didn't have time to make and then let dry my own) folded in, with more stock and a little more oil. Finally upon serving, sprinkled generously with fresh pomegranate seeds.
K. did the gravy which needed nothing more than a simple roux,, of butter and flour, and the lovely pan drippings, replete with a bottle of wine, butter and all the marvelous juices. We laughed at our own sauciness in the preparation.
She also managed to snap out an apple-quince, cherry-soaked in red wine and Cointreau pie, with on the spot crust-preparation (she rocks my world!) and then used the juice from the cherries to lightly flavor the cream that was whipped, but this is all out of order...
Meanwhile, I mashed potatoes with a kick, a head of roast garlic and a few skins smashed in for good measure. Garlic = good... good. Always, well maybe not in ice-cream... but I wouldn't be against trying it once (or anything for that matter;)
Roasted sweet-potatoes, tossed with carrots and parsnips in an orange maple glaze. (Mostly Becca)
And our guests even arrived the hour late that we anticipated (saying 3:30 and figuring food for 5:00) with more salad and wine and Tortilla de patata... so we got to shower too!!!
Now, here is the subversive part, or rather the redeeming quality that I will extract, like a bad-tooth, ripped from the gaping cave of an anesthetized mouth. There we were, together, with the excuse of indulging in (some) hedonistic gorging, and excessive laughter for a reason, to deconstruct the National identity which has been shoved down our throats. A total of three and a half (North) "Americans" to the 2 Brazilians, 2 Venezuelans, 2(and a half) Mexicans, 1 Spaniard and 1 Englishman. We could have better been a UN convention on the status of women in Latin America or a free-trade organization spearhead committee. But we weren't. We were just a bunch of goofy friends, subverting the dominant paradigm: not sitting at a big imposing table, but rather, sprawled about, listening to music, smoking and drinking and generally being thankful for the opportunity to have an excuse to get together... AND... We actually stopped to reflect on what we are thankful for.
Only regret. We didn't have time to make the fresh dark-chocolate pomegranate ice-cream, or bake the brie with apricot jam and almonds... There is always tomorrow, and we have another 6 bottles of wine, so it should last until the evening, at least.
I do have to say that I find it rather obnoxious that as intelligent people we still tow the line of crap that this is about the Pilgrims landing on Plimoth Rock (that's how it used to be spelled) and the wonderfully docile, eternally helpful native Americans that received them with open arms and corn-growing tips, breaking bread, just like Jesus with the lepers.
Crap, crap, pure crap. It is a WELL DOCUMENTED reality that this holiday is only loosely based on varying pagan traditions - festivals of the fall harvest, and protestant day of thanks (totally different time of year) and was cleverly constructed (its official date shifting several times before settling here) by none other than our treasured (and then assassinated) president Lincoln, grasping at straws to bind in adobe brick the splitting foundation of a nation in the process of a messy (but which would have ultimately been fruitful) divorce. Prior to the secession from the Union, split along the Mason-Dixon line, Lincoln was searching for a symbol of Nationhood, a common denominator, a way to appeal to the American-ness of all, called together in brotherhood, color and white, meeting, discussing, uniting in a peaceful meal, together reaping the harvests of the mutual toil. He was APOLOGIZING for his attempts at the abolition of slavery.
He should have skipped turkey day and just let the damn (read: Texans) keep their backward-ass ideas. (What elegant turn-of-phrase, but maybe this way our "beloved" prez will understand). Maybe if the union had been allowed to dissolve then, it wouldn't have been such a black day for the entire world 22 days ago. Think: The Guardian.
Nonetheless, it *is* a useful excercise to give thanks (but better on a daily basis) and eating with friends and drinking too much (did we really drink over 15 bottles between the 12 of us???)
The turkey was drunk too! Man, Kirsten and I (with Becca's willing hands) whooped that Turkey's ass. Most beautiful turkey I have ever seen (and *not* because it was our, ahem, first). Miguel and Adrian harvested in the garden and fresh broccoli was incorporated as well as broccoli greens and other sylvan seedlings were made into a mind-boggling, pear and pomegranate wielding, gorgonzola adorned salad. mmmm.
Not without appropriate innuendo, K. and I busied ourselves with rubbing butter and spices along the outside, and inner cavities of the doubly penetrable, extra-large (22 lb) bird. Once it began expelling juice, we made clever use of baster and utility-sized syringe, injecting both subcutaneously and intra-muscularly throughout the course of the day, a whole bottle of white wine mixed with a stick of melted butter.
Stock was prepared early with the less-favored entrails, and served as the flavor base for the kick-ass stuffing (If I do say so myself...) Becca ripped open the luscious pomegranates harvested from her mother's garden and the boys were delegated to the task of chopping (and drinking snarky beers), onions, carrots, parsnips, apple... We also partook of the heavenly fall fruit, persimmon, and ate pumpkin bread for breakfast...
Sauteed the onions, garlic, celery, crimini mushrooms in a butter/olive-oil mix, then, added chopped apricot which had been reconstituted in previously made stock, then chopped apple all reduced to a slightly caramel, seasoned with thyme, sage, rosemary and a few other fresh herbs. Cornbread cubes (bought - didn't have time to make and then let dry my own) folded in, with more stock and a little more oil. Finally upon serving, sprinkled generously with fresh pomegranate seeds.
K. did the gravy which needed nothing more than a simple roux,, of butter and flour, and the lovely pan drippings, replete with a bottle of wine, butter and all the marvelous juices. We laughed at our own sauciness in the preparation.
She also managed to snap out an apple-quince, cherry-soaked in red wine and Cointreau pie, with on the spot crust-preparation (she rocks my world!) and then used the juice from the cherries to lightly flavor the cream that was whipped, but this is all out of order...
Meanwhile, I mashed potatoes with a kick, a head of roast garlic and a few skins smashed in for good measure. Garlic = good... good. Always, well maybe not in ice-cream... but I wouldn't be against trying it once (or anything for that matter;)
Roasted sweet-potatoes, tossed with carrots and parsnips in an orange maple glaze. (Mostly Becca)
And our guests even arrived the hour late that we anticipated (saying 3:30 and figuring food for 5:00) with more salad and wine and Tortilla de patata... so we got to shower too!!!
Now, here is the subversive part, or rather the redeeming quality that I will extract, like a bad-tooth, ripped from the gaping cave of an anesthetized mouth. There we were, together, with the excuse of indulging in (some) hedonistic gorging, and excessive laughter for a reason, to deconstruct the National identity which has been shoved down our throats. A total of three and a half (North) "Americans" to the 2 Brazilians, 2 Venezuelans, 2(and a half) Mexicans, 1 Spaniard and 1 Englishman. We could have better been a UN convention on the status of women in Latin America or a free-trade organization spearhead committee. But we weren't. We were just a bunch of goofy friends, subverting the dominant paradigm: not sitting at a big imposing table, but rather, sprawled about, listening to music, smoking and drinking and generally being thankful for the opportunity to have an excuse to get together... AND... We actually stopped to reflect on what we are thankful for.
Only regret. We didn't have time to make the fresh dark-chocolate pomegranate ice-cream, or bake the brie with apricot jam and almonds... There is always tomorrow, and we have another 6 bottles of wine, so it should last until the evening, at least.
posted by ilana at 2:13 a.m.
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