Pass the Stuffing

A Thanksgiving to remember

“I’m so excited!” he says. He calls to tell me he’s baking popovers this year. He bought a special pan.

Uh, oh, he bought a special pan. It’s September, and Labor Day can still be seen in the rearview mirror and my father is making plans and testing recipes for his annual Thanksgiving feast.

Every September he starts making lists. Lists of recipes and the necessary ingredients––never skimping on anything––no cutting corners with this guy. Referring to the notes he made the year before at his post-Thanksgiving recap of what worked well and what didn’t, he begins to make his plans and a list of kitchen tools he needs.

He likes to get an early start.

I’m about to ask, “what’s a popover” when he reads my mind, explaining to me that a popover is a New England version of a British pastry called Yorkshire pudding, but the difference is the pan that’s used for baking.

Wait, I’m confused. Yorkshire pudding isn’t pudding? I thought it was pudding.

It’s clear he’s done research, a lot of research. He goes on to tell me that a popover is as light as air, it’s a type of roll, it’s a very fluffy and very puffy roll. They’re really easy to screw up. He confides in me that “timing is everything, if you bake them for too long, they’re no good, too short, a disaster,” and “the popovers must be eaten piping hot right out of the pan, before they have a chance to fall, like a sad ruined soufflé.” He’s completely obsessed. Every year brings a new idea, a brilliant inspiration, a special highlight to the meal.

Dad informs me that he’s already baked four test batches, mostly because he’s an insane perfectionist who must get it right; failure is never an option; and partly because he loves to eat. He was inspired to bake them for his boyfriend, T.O.S., a Brit, living in the USA, conveniently situated in the studio apartment right next door. They thought that would be a good idea. “T.O.S.” stands for “The Other Sid,” because my dad’s name is Sid, too. We couldn’t call both of them Sid, that would be ridiculous. The studio turned out to be not such a great idea, but that one’s for another time.

Popovers and the special pan!

The three or four of us on his guest list are the beneficiaries of his passion and commitment to this holiday. He goes all out. Never just one dessert, or two, or even three. There must be a minimum of four. Three different pies, vanilla ice cream for a la mode, a lot of whipped cream––ask me about whipped cream the next time you see me, I’ll know what you’re referring to and I may fill you in––and there must at least one type of cheesecake, a plate of cookies, and chocolate truffles to finish the meal.

Thanksgiving is fraught for me every year. My mother asks if I have plans even though she knows exactly where I’ll be. She invites me every year––and every year I’m filled with guilt––and say no. I feel like that baby King Solomon wants to keep in one piece. Pulled in two directions, I make the same choice every year. I guess part of the tradition is disappointing my mother because it’s my dad’s favorite holiday and I’m super-codependent. I’m so afraid to hurt him by saying I’m going somewhere else. And he’s a much better cook than my mother ever was or ever will be. I don’t remember a single Thanksgiving at our house when I was a kid. We were always invited somewhere else, and somewhere else is where we went.

From year to year most of the staples of Dad’s Thanksgiving meal remain the same. The roasted brussels sprouts with slivered almonds, the mashed sweet potatoes, the pumpkin bisque, and of course, the turkey. There’s always a turkey, despite my repeated objections, that are often fueled by the fact that I’m a vegetarian some years, and some years when I’m not a vegetarian, it’s because I hate turkey. Hate it. I beg him to mix it up, to no avail. My plea for him to do a ham or a chicken, a pot roast, or maybe a nice piece of fish falls on deaf ears. Most years, I just opt for the vegetable side dishes and his killer stuffing, and for dessert, a slice or two of my favorite, the ever-present pumpkin pie.

He pores over cranberry sauce recipes in The New York Times, assigning this crucial condiment to me as my only contribution to the meal. He prefers a fancy chutney and provides me with exacting directions so I can make it in my kitchen. I effort to stay patient as I stir and stir and stir the syrupy mixture of hard fresh berries, way too much sugar, orange zest, and a multitude of spices, being extra careful not to burn the stuff. I prefer Ocean Spray in a can, that tube of deep red gel that holds it’s shape when un-canned; a throwback to my childhood.

My favorite thing by far is his stuffing. It’s a masterpiece. He knows how much I love it and every year he sends me home with a roasting pan all my own, filled with my idea of heaven. Every year, I promise myself that I’ll savor it slowly throughout the holiday weekend, maybe even into the following week. The stuffing is usually gone by Saturday morning, but only if I’ve exercised restraint. Most often, I devour all of it by Friday night.

My father lives in a small, one bedroom apartment with a micro-kitchen. A tiny galley, even tinier than mine with hardly any counter space at all. He’s methodical in his planning, able to Tetris everything so that it all flows smoothly.

Dad has more kitchen tools and appliances than anyone I know. He’s purchased cookware that he barely uses; a perfect example is the salmon poacher that he used exactly one time for his first dinner party in 1977. It lives in hope underneath his sink, waiting to be brought out of exile to poach once more. There’s the pricey chestnut peeler he happened upon at Hammacher Schlemmer to help with the tedious work of prepping the nuts for their final resting place in my stuffing. That peeler saved his tender fingertips from the cuts he suffered before he found it. Peeling chestnuts is nasty business. I’ll never forget the day he discovered that he could buy already-peeled, jarred chestnuts. He called me just to tell me about it, over the moon at his discovery. Now he can use the extra time he’s saving to attend to other details in the preparation of our meal. But he’s keeping the peeler just in case.

He loves buying new toys, the chance to do it better than he did the year before. He makes his final list of entrees and side dishes, commits to which cheesecake he’ll bake––pumpkin, marble, or maybe just old-fashioned New York plain this year? He strategizes minutely, deciding what he can cook ahead of time and freeze, what he can prep the week before, the day before, and the day of.

He develops a tightly-structured schedule for when to start the turkey. The turkey going into the oven always coincides with the kick-off of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade; it plays in the background on his TV––it’s the soundtrack for his preparations. Dad invests in a couple of extra kitchen timers to automate the workflow. When to brown the stuffing? When to roast the sprouts? The soup gets warmed right before the meal. Should he just nuke the sweet potatoes or throw them into The Other Sid’s oven? He’s not doing marshmallows on top this year, so no need for the broiler. But most important, when to baste, and baste, and baste. His table is set on Wednesday night.

He commandeers my frosty freezer, and between us, the two freezers barely equal one that’s standard-sized. When The Other Sid still lived next door, my father used Sid’s freezer and his fridge, as well. My Sid is meticulous in everything he touches. His attention to detail is excruciating; precision is his middle name.

Should he get new tableware? Maybe not new silverware, but YES, he must have new placemats, napkins, a tablecloth, wine glasses, water glasses, and oh, those crystal candlesticks he’s had his eye on. He assures me he’ll find a place to store them. He’s really good at tucking stuff away.

Dad spares no expense. He delights in all the planning, living in his happy place, surrounded by his careful index cards written in his gorgeous hand, clipped to the fridge for easy reference. Each time he makes a choice or has a new idea, he rings me up to share the news. Watching my father plan the holiday is a spectator sport, and even though I know the menu, the meal surprises me every time. I’m his biggest culinary fan.

This year, the popover year, I’m in one of my vegetarian phases, and we go around the table sharing what we’re grateful for, and I declare with utmost appreciation––while chewing on a mouthful of stuffing, how lucky I feel to eat that very same chestnut stuffing. I go on to say how kind it is that he sends me home with my own tray of Thanksgiving joy.

He gets a funny look on his face, a semi-smirk, and he tilts his head, looks at me, a mischievous smile playing at the edges of his mouth. I return his gaze, mirroring his head tilt, and say, “What?” he shakes his head, smiling, while considering his options. I repeat, “What?” He can’t wait to tell me, I can see it on his face. That other part of him is peeking through. The-not-as-nice, teasing, troublemaking, mean part.

He says, “it’s not chestnut stuffing,” and grinning slightly, he reveals, “it’s sausage-chestnut stuffing.”

Instead of spitting the stuffing out of my mouth onto my plate, I swallow hard, and look at him, feeling angry and betrayed. I realize that he’s been messing with me for years. “Forever?” I ask.

He nods, less cocky than before.

I throw my napkin down, get up from the table and move five feet away to sit on the couch, not knowing what to do with the onslaught of emotions rising up in me. I feel violated. I feel poisoned.

Uncomfortable with telling him how hurt I am, I swallow again. This time, I swallow the pain, my pride, the rage, and my disappointment. I bury the feelings and go back to the table to eat my piece of pumpkin pie. I take a pass on the scoop of ice cream, I refuse the whipped cream.

And the popovers? They were amazing.

When I go home that evening, I take the tray of sausage-chestnut stuffing with me and finish eating all of it by Friday night.

I loved that fucking stuffing.

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Addendum:

My cousin Steve––who reads my newsletter––has shared my father’s recipe for the sausage-chestnut stuffing. Why does he have it when I don’t?

Oh. I don’t cook. Right.

Uncle Sid’s Sausage-Chestnut Stuffing
Preheat oven to 325°

1 stick butter 
1 crushed clove garlic
1 cup chopped onion
3 stalks chopped celery
16 oz Pepperidge Farm Herb Stuffing
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1/2 tsp sage
3/4 cup or a little more chicken broth (low sodium) Swanson's
1/4 cup fresh chopped parsley
1 pound bulk sausage (not hot)
2 dozen peeled cooked chestnuts chopped

Melt 3 tbs. butter, add sausage, celery, garlic, and onion 
Cook 5-10 minutes until brown. Empty stuffing mix into bowl, 
Add meat mixture minus the fat. Melt remaining butter and add to mixture
Along with remain ingredients, mix well –– should be moist.

*Substitute Impossible Sausage and vegetable broth for a vegetarian version.

Bake 30 minutes, covered

Let me know how it turns out?

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