Talking Turkey

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

by Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS, Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—12/6/10—I couldn’t face Thanksgiving this year. The flurry of Thanksgiving survival kits dropping into my inbox, the relentless online prescriptions for the perfect turkey, the thought of having to plan, shop, cook, stuff the bird and myself, and then clean up—all left me panting with anxiety. I was a housewife on the verge of experiencing my first panic attack.

What was wrong? Was it our on-going summer? As I write this, it’s the end of November, and we haven’t even thought of turning on the central heating. With the lilacs blooming down the street, it feels more like spring than the brink of winter. Or perhaps the fact of hosting a pig roast for 45 people in September depleted my enthusiasm. There’s even the slight possibility that the slashes to our pensions played a role, making me feel poor and stingy. Whatever the cause, I seemed to have lost my appetite, literally and figuratively.

For the very first time.

I’ve been celebrating Thanksgiving with gusto in Greece since 1972. It’s my favorite holiday, a time for getting together with friends and family, with no strings attached. Everyone chips in, with a dish or a bottle, and the only obligation is to enjoy oneself.

I used to love the preparations. They started with a run round our supermarkets looking for a turkey. Our fanciest supermarket chain stocks fresh birds from the American Farm School near Thessaloniki. Raised to a plump 4-5 kg, they might seem anemic compared to those 30-pounders you get in the US, but they are infinitely tastier. And even their breasts are moist and not-cottony. They provoke the kind of appetite my cowboy brother Shelty had in mind when he’d drawl, “The only trouble with a turkey is that it’s too big for one and not quite big enough for two.”

But because there’s so much demand around Thanksgiving—think of the huge number of Greek-Americans, as well as a fair smattering of ex-pats—you have to grab a turkey when you find it. Heaven help you if you haven’t had the foresight to reserve. One Wednesday night, we must have hit every branch in the “Northern Suburbs” in our search. Only to end up with a frozen French fowl that barely defrosted in time to go in the oven.

Greek turkeys do exist, but they don’t come on the market until Christmas and they are scrawny creatures with a 5 o’clock shadow of poorly plucked feathers. And so tough that, in the old days, cooks had to boil them before they were fit to be roasted.

With the bird in hand, in a manner of speaking, the next task I looked forward to was choosing the stuffing. Our favorite one comes from a Greek friend on Corfu (don’t ask). It’s incredibly elaborate, taking two days to prepare, and it calls for homemade cornbread, tangerines painstakingly divested of all white threads, cranberries, chestnuts, mushrooms, apples, sausage. . . .  And so rich, the turkey’s almost superfluous.

I have it filed in my copies of Cook’s Illustrated for various Novembers. These are required reading every holiday season. I leaf through them, mulling over the pros and cons of high heat or low heat, the best technique for gravy and, of course, brining instructions. Brining, in case you haven’t been paying attention, is the latest refinement to ensure juicy, tender meat. But you do need a wash tub or a clean bucket big enough to hold the submerged bird, failing a special brining bag. Not always easy to procure.

Then there’s the guest list and the business of assigning who brings what, without attempting to include all the traditional American accompaniments. But secure in the knowledge that no one will suggest sweet potatoes with marshmallow fluff (one of the few things that makes my taste buds pull a disappearing act). I always try to invite one or two American friends who can help explain what the holiday means.

Generally, we stick to the myth. Why ruin the party with a discussion of perfidious white settlers and the eventual annihilation of the very natives who saved them from starving and taught them ecological farming practices? Instead, I read Art Buchwald’s version in franglais, reprinted every year in The International Herald Tribune. Much more entertaining is his account of how Miles Standish (Kilometres Deboutish) brought about the first Jour de Merci Donnant.

Finally, the table’s extended and set with my mother’s silver, the smells from the kitchen have us swooning, and we bring the bird out. It is always “the best turkey ever,” and my son and I have an amicable squabble over the Pope’s Nose, which we share—along with all the tastiest morsels from the platter. He has taken over the carving (my husband the surgeon only slices into living flesh), I serve the full plates.

And, as always, I’m reminded of my father’s motto: “Never worry about the dealer or the carver.” We know how to take care of ourselves.

But this year, none of this held any charm for me. I kept harking back to 1973 and my second Thanksgiving in Greece. Athens had just been rocked by the student uprising against the Junta at the Polytechneion on November 17th. The Colonels reacted by imposing a curfew, among other things. With no gatherings of friends possible after dark, my holiday turned into a tryst, a candlelit chicken dinner for two. It was certainly the most romantic of Thanksgivings, our first together. And I could not have been more grateful for the concatenation of events that had brought “Joy of the People” (my spouse) and me together some months earlier. I blessed the curfew that made the evening so special.

Back then I could tuck my little offspring into bed, while we sat googoo-eyed in semi-darkness. This year, he decided to rescue me and the holiday. We couldn’t not celebrate, but we’d keep it small and do it at his place.

“P” would cook glazed turkey breasts from a delicious-sounding recipe in the NYT and his signature roast potatoes. We’d bring the veg, dessert, and some good red wine.

My panic retreated. I could breathe normally again and even enjoy plotting my two offerings—a gorgeous “fractal” broccoli from the handsomest farmer at the market, and a pumpkin pie.

The evening was delightful, just five of us. We even brought out Buchwald. But, the next day something was very wrong. The refrigerator was bare. There was no carcass, no stuffing. Nothing to make soup with, or sandwiches, or curry, or croquettes. I felt empty despite the superb dinner.

It was a good lesson. Next year, I’ll look forward to business as usual. Turkey with all the trimmings: fuss, angst, expense; fun, festivities, love, and leftovers.

Pumpkin Chiffon Pie in Gingersnap Crust

This is the pie I made from a recipe given to me by a very dear friend, known to some of her intimates as The Fish. I’ve adapted it from The Sunset Cookbook of Favorite Recipes, which her mother bought in London in 1961. It is easy and deceptively light as air. Since we’ve missed Thanksgiving, try it for Christmas or any festive occasion.

1½ cups cooked or canned pumpkin, strained and liquid reserved

3 eggs, separated

3/4 cup sugar

1 cup milk

½ tsp salt

¼ tsp nutmeg

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp ginger, fresh grated and/or powdered

2 tbsp melted butter

1 envelope unflavored gelatin, softened in the pumpkin liquid

at least a dozen gingersnap cookies

Squeeze out as much liquid from the pumpkin as you can into a cup. (I had about two good handfuls, but don’t worry about exact amounts.) Heat the pumpkin in a double boiler. Beat the egg yolks with half the sugar and the milk. Add to the pumpkin along with the salt, spices, and melted butter. Stir and simmer 5 minutes. Add the softened gelatin and stir until dissolved. Remove from heat and chill. When the mixture begins to thicken, fold in the egg whites, beaten to stiff peaks with the remaining sugar. The original says to line a 9-inch pie pan with whole gingersnaps, but I crumbed them in the blender with softened butter and pressed them into the pie dish. Pour in the pumpkin mixture and chill for three hours. Serve with whipped cream.

(There was no leftover pie, either. Should serve 6.)

Editor’s Note: The Fish would have the salmonella-obsessed among you know that, since there are now “irradiated” eggs available in most supermarkets, her mother’s Pumpkin Chiffon Pie has become even safer. Those raw egg whites gave her pause for years before zapped eggs came on the market.