The Coming Soon Museum

At the end of a long holiday, I always find myself remembering that exact moment in the movie Parenthood where Steve Martin is headed off to coach a game after he's found out an unexpected baby's on the way and Mary Steenburgen says: "oh Gil, do you have to?" And his response is, "My. Whole. Life. Is. Have. To."

It's a ridiculous comparison of course. In that movie, everyone is juggling raising kids, and elderly parents, and grandparents, and multiple unintended pregnancies, and Keanu Reeves as a baby daddy. I only have parents -- whom I love dearly -- all four of em. They're not a burden, they're a pleasure to spend time with. It's just the Holidays I hate. Detest, in fact. The way I see it is this: I had a rare day off work; and there was a Closer marathon on TNT; and, because of Thanksgiving, I didn't get to watch it. I work hard. I'm tired. Sometimes, I just want to lie down. Also, because I'm the best equipped hostess in the family -- by a long shot -- I wish they'd all come HERE. (And then I could watch The Closer, AND cook a four-star dinner...AND play music IIIII like, and not stooooopid Christmas tunes.)

The first glitch of the day was on arrival at the buffet table: WHAT? No fuckin' deviled eggs?! That is an implicit contract in all holiday meals centered in a clerical setting of any kind: there must be deviled eggs. As I told the priest when he asked what was wrong, "think the wheels are comin' off the cart here, Padre."

The second glitch is my own fault. I forgot my hometown is a Pepsi town. They probably have Coke products somewhere, but nobody serves them. I usually think ahead and sherpa my own preferred beverages in, I just forgot this time.

The upside is, this being an Episcopalian extended-family, they do make alternative libations available.

The downside of Episcopalians: they don't seem to calculate for volume the same way the Baptists do --- every year, they run out of turkey. (If it's Christmas or Easter, they run out of ham.) Someone assigned to bring "sweet potatoes for 20" might bring...A Sweet Potato.

And they've fallen prey to the same fate that has befallen most organized religion: the new conviction that it is ok to bring store-bought food to community dinners. It isn't. It never will be. Growing up, every grandmother and mother had a signature dish, and was expected to bring it. My grandmother, Nell, and my Aunt Helen's mother, Lucy, had decades of dueling dumplings. This was only resolved -- to some degree -- when my Aunt Helen married my Uncle Don, thereby uniting the two clans....and more importantly, the dumplings. By then, Lucy had died, but her legacy is preserved in the title, used by both sides of the family: Lucy-Dumplins.

The Thanksgiving meal was about 50/50, which is a fairly good average --- several store-bought desserts, various breads from various bakeries (this is acceptable); and the rest was mostly the standard fare of broccoli casserole, green bean casserole, creamed corn, etc. Once I realized there were no fuckin' deviled eggs, I went foraging and was somewhat mollified to find: chicken 'n dumplins and cheese grits, and I quickly sat down with the tranny who brought them and made fast friends -- s/he sent me home with leftovers -- God love 'im/or/'er.

These are a couple pics I snapped across from the Church. I can't wait to see what's up at The Coming Soon Museum .

Martha Stewart says: Dispatch the Cock.

"...Seconds later, Martha Stewart regains her composure, flashing the subtly supercilious grin that has helped her conquer the American bourgeoisie...To anyone that knows her work, the news that Martha Stewart is a domineering control freak will hardly come as a surprise -- control, after all, is what Stewart sells."
--Spy Magazine, July/August 1996

I am an out-of-the-closet Martha Stewart viewer for too many reasons to count (a long way from the days of my "Is Martha Stewart Living?" column). I love her cooking segments (of course they're derivative, as Spy Magazine charged in 1996; that's kinda the point); I love her imperiousness; I love her for returning from prison to grind her enemies' noses into the dirt. I love it when she gets all visibly uncomfortable with the huddled KMart Masses who built her empire and seeks refuge at Macy's. I love her inability to conceal her contempt of has-been food "personalities" like Emeril, which she barely bothers to disguise, because he is (at the moment) making her money. (I still think buying him was a bad business decision shoved down her throat by her irritating Chairman Charles Koppelman).

That being said,  I've gotten behind this season since she switched stations in this market and they exiled her over to a cable number, and I keep forgetting she's on. I usually don't watch the holiday shows anyway (I hate crafting), but I TiVo'd yesterday's episode because TooMuchSexy Thomas Keller was on. I had just read the new Esquire feature from Ryan D'Agostino who cooked from Ad Hoc the night Thomas Keller came to dinner and it's added considerably to my already-rich library of fantasies, culinary and ...otherwise. Keller told Martha he's never spatchcocked. He made leek bread pudding instead. But here is a very old Esquire link to a Thomas Keller Thanksgiving. It involves mayonnaise [my personal kryptonite], but Keller would never steer you wrong. He also showed Martha some of his "lightbulb moments," like how to spank a pomegranate (thank you, Chef...speaking of fantasy: otherwise).

But she kicked off the first segment by showing Meet the Press's David Gregory how to spatchcock a turkey:

"Now, you know what it is to spatchcock a piece of information, right? To interpose something unexpected? That's called spatchcocking...It's an 18th century term. It's said to be Irish in origin. The theory is that the word is an abbreviation of 'dispatch the cock... Which...is a Bird. You can say it...it's a word. [Not one giggle or titter. The audience has clearly been briefed.] It's a way of grilling a bird after you split it open, down the back, spread the wings, spread the legs, and put it in a rather compromising position."

The butchered product almost puts one in mind of her spineless husband Andy who left her for her 20-years-younger assistant. (Or, as Spy Magazine put it: "not to be confused with the famously well-hung Police guitarist of the same name.")

I love Spy almost as much as I love Martha, but their big 1996 beef with her seemed to be that she didn't actually do all the legwork she chronicled in her magazine and on her show:

"Without her downtrodden legion of assistants, people are beginning to realize, Martha Stewart would probably be as helpless around the home as the rest of us -- just a lot less fun to be with... 'She goes on TV and says, 'I found this,' when actually someone on her staff of 50 found it,' says a former Living employee."  [emphasis added]

Seriously? I don't think we're supposed to take "hands-on television" quite so literally. If Martha isn't out personally plowing the back-forty before breakfast, it's ok by me. Oprah hired a dog nanny to raise her puppies and nobody bitched (pardon the pun). Does anybody think she's hanging out in the greenroom backstage passing out the Gatorade? Oprah ended up in a lawsuit over her stupid "aHa moment" catchphrase. My Wildest Dream? Here's a hint: it is NOT a Pontiac. (You get a car! You get a car! Oh Please. You get a Commercial! YOU get a commercial! How's GM doing now, by the way?) I can't stand Oprah. I find her smug -- the very personification of Condescension masquerading as Warmth. Martha doesn't bother to fake it. I can get behind that. As Spy put it, "If you respect Martha Stewart, respect her because she knows there's a sucker born every minute. Don't respect her because you're one of them." That's A Good Thing. If Control is what she's selling, I'm buying, and it's a bull market.

I'm not cooking Thanksgiving dinner this year, but I don't want any readers to feel suckered out of a Thanksgiving column. The guys over at The Bitten Word have posted their rendition of Martha's spatchcocking, along with this helpful video:

Thanksgiving's Best

"When I worked in a grocery store, I loved nothing more than watching last-minute shoppers panic. Sometimes even now, I'll pop into a grocery store, on a holiday, just for my own amusement. Thank you, lady trying to buy a turkey on Thanksgiving!"

--Amy Sedaris, I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence

I realize I am someone who is lucky to be invited ANYWHERE, and especially lucky to be invited anywhere for the holidays. Right now, I am on my way to Thanksgiving at my friend Kimmy's -- she has been up since "dark o'thirty" preparing our feast.

I don't have a lot of "holiday classics" in my culinary repertoire (frankly, I consider them a little beneath me), but dues must be paid, and I dusted off the two absolute BEST Thanksgiving menu items I could muster.

The first is an undisputed crowd favorite: "Maker's Mark Sweet Potato Souffle." The title pretty much says it all. The second, is more controversial: my Dad's dressing.

It's very traditional (again, an area where I'm outta my league): cornbread, sage, celery, onions... you get the idea. I have only made it a few times in my life, but I have honed it. It is (if I do say so myself) perfect.

It's controversial because EVERYONE has their OWN version of stuffing -- what we call dressing in my family (presumably, because we don't stuff it into the cavity of anything, lest we all spend the holiday weekend at the E.R.; we're A. alarmists, and B. hypochondriacs).

Some people use oysters, some people use fruit and walnuts (what we call "waldorf salad"). Some people use bread, and on Martha Stewart just this week, somebody used canned cling peaches.

Yeah, it takes all kinds. Except: I think it DOESN'T.

It isn't just that theirs is different, everyone has to concede that mine is BETTER. My college roommate suggests, diplomatically, that when it comes to classics (meatloaf, turkey, chili, etc.) EVERYONE assumes theirs is "best."

Well... Maybe they do.

But they would be what I would call: Wrong.

(They gotta know if it starts with opening a can of anything or includes "cheez" in the title, it's NOT RIGHT. They might LIKE it, but it's not RIGHT.)

When I get invited somewhere, I bring my "A" game. If my dressing wasn't the best (not "my" best, but THE best), I would bring something I was better at. There is no diplomacy in my kitchen. There is no diplomacy in my CD collection. Or on my bookshelves.

BEST is meant to convey something different than "favorite."

For example, I had a good time at "Mamma Mia" this summer (good company, good times, beautiful day, Kentucky Theatre), but the BEST movies I saw were Before the Devil Knows You're Dead and The Savages. I loooooved Death Race, but it wasn't the best anything except the "best chance to see Jason Statham without his shirt on before the next Transporter.

I could go on... And I will...

But dinner awaits one block away.

And they'd BETTER like this dressin'.