Just in case

Thanksgiving morning dawns in less than 24 hours. I hope you're ready, armed with your mother's creamed onions, heirloom pumpkin pie, and a big, juicy turkey. But just in case you're not, just in case this year your early planning slipped away a bit, I have a side dish for you.

The fishmonger created it the other night, with me too tired even to watch. It isn't often I make a plea for him to cook, but this night, I needed it. I slipped into the tub while he worked, sniffing the steam every now and again to see if I could catch of whiff of his creation.

I knew there was bacon involved, that much was clear from the start. But even between listening and calling down questions, I couldn't imagine what the rest could be. Eggs? No, too much chopping going on. It could be broccoli or carrots, or perhaps parsnips, but none of those sounded particularly good with bacon. Must be BLT's then, or maybe a bacon topped salad.

When I finally got out, well-warmed and hair dripping, I saw how far off I'd been. It was a salad of sorts, but a warm salad, Brussels sprouts and apple sauteed in bacon fat and topped with little slivers of the meat itself. He'd made a bed of greens, too, to plate the sprouts and apples over, and they melted deliciously into one emerald green dish.

It wasn't long before we'd demolished the tower. Greens, sprouts, and apples slid glibly down into our hungry bellies, bacon warming the ride. It was the perfect dish, it hit me soon after, for a Thanksgiving side, if only we would be cooking.

We won't; with eighty people celebrating in the same family, the turn doesn't often come. So instead, I'm offering it to you, as a back-up of sorts, because you never know what the holiday will bring.

Happy eating.

WARM BRUSSELS SPROUT SALAD

Serves 4

Fry 4 pieces bacon in a large, heavy-bottomed frying pan. While they cook, wash and halve the sprouts from 2 stalks Brussels sprouts. Set aside, then core and dice 1 medium sized apple. When bacon is done, remove from pan and set aside. Saute sprouts over medium heat until they begin to soften, about 8 to 10 minutes. Add apple and bacon, cut into small pieces, and continue cooking for several more minutes, adding olive oil if needed. When sprouts and apples are tender, serve warm, over greens.

Indian pudding

Technically, I suppose we shouldn't call this Indian pudding. There aren't many things that can be kindly called that anymore, unless of course they've actually come from the east. But somehow, corn and molasses don't sound nearly so comforting as Native American pudding, and so I think we'll stick with the old-fashioned name, at least for now.

My mother has always had a soft spot for the dish. We used to go down to a clam shack along the rocks where I grew up in Maine on summer nights to feast on lobster rolls and steamers. Henry and Marty, the impromptu cooks, always beamed out of the kitchen at the end of the meal, fussing over my sister and me and pushing a paper basket of pudding onto the table.

It was rich, thick, and brown; molasses seeping through the paper and corn rough on our tongues. The pudding came topped with whipped cream and vanilla ice cream, and it was hot, too hot. We almost always burned our mouths with that first bite, cooling off quickly with the cold cream and digging in too soon for another.

I've been meaning to recreate it for a while, now, but it's quite a project for the average day. First you have to scald and stir, wiping up sticky molasses and taking care with the milk, and then there's the oven time—two hours, at least. But when you have a day, it's well worth the work.

It doesn't involve so much as you imagine, beyond the time and the mess. There will be a shopping trip to pay—I used up a quart of milk, nearly all of the molasses, and a good bit of cornmeal in the process—and probably an oven to clean. I despaired a bit at the beginning, as the pudding bubbled and burped, belching molasses onto the oven ceiling, but with one bite I was able to let even that offense go.

It was worth it, you see. The transformation of thin liquid and grain into a thick, sweet porridge is so startling, so delightful, that no scrubbing will deter me again. I can only hope you agree.

INDIAN PUDDING

Serves 4-6

Preheat oven to 300 degrees. Grease a large, heavy bottomed pot or baking dish. Scald 3 cups milk in a saucepan. Add 5-8 tablespoons cornmeal, and reduce heat to low. Continue cooking, stirring frequently, until mixture thickens. Remove from heat and add 2 tablespoons butter, 1/3 cup molasses, 1/3 cup maple syrup, 1/4 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon, 1/2 teaspoon ground ginger, 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg, and 1 egg, beaten. Stir well, until butter melts. Pour into greased dish and bake 30 minutes. Pour 1 cup cold milk over pudding and turn oven down to 250. Cook 2 hours, or until top is brown and crisp. Serve warm with ice cream or whipped cream.

Last call for raw milk

As you may know, I'm part of a milk coop that buys raw milk straight from Paskamansett Farms in Dartmouth. I've gotten a pig there, and several chickens, and even a turkey this Thanksgiving, but mostly, it's about the milk.

It isn't legal to sell raw milk at stores in Massachusetts. The laws vary state by state, some allowing cow sharing, others sales at farmers markets, and still others full delivery.

Growing up in Maine, where raw milk can be sold legally on store shelves, I was surprised to find it so much harder to find on the Cape. Once you get the grassy, full-fat taste of the stuff in your mouth, you understand, it's hard to go back to the stuff you find in plastic jugs. Raw milk isn't pasteurized, or homogenized, so the cream separates from the milk and floats to the top. Sometimes I skim it off for coffee or tea, other times to make butter, though you'd be surprised how much you need to make even half a stick.

Photo courtesy of Paskamansett Farms

The reason raw milk is so controversial is because of its potential to carry bacteria. Kept cool and clean, there's very little chance of contamination from a small, family farm. We drank raw milk for hundreds of years before industrialization came on the scene. But then, with hygiene and health conditions deteriorating quickly, scorching the milk offered a quick fix to dangerous bacteria. Rather than require clean milk, we decided to clean it ourselves, putting the industrial milk filled with hormones, corn, and anti-biotics on the shelves as we find them today.

Next week, our milk coop is splitting up. There's such a demand for the milk that we're breaking into two groups—one from Wellfleet and Truro, the other out towards Orleans. We take turns doing the pick-up—the more people we have, the less often you have to make the trip. And while it is a drive, I only do it a few times a year, and each time so far I've picked up an animal to boot.

The milk costs $3.50 per half gallon, and comes in on Saturdays. It's from grass-fed, antibiotic free cows, and it tastes to match. That being said, you have to do your own research to decide whether or not you're comfortable with un-pasteurized milk. If you decide you're interested in joining, now's the time.

Links to read up on raw milk:

Paskamansett Farms

Raw Milk Facts.com

Real Milk.com

Boston Globe Article

Calico slaw

I've always liked the word calico. It echoes long forgotten kitchen aprons and oven mitts, warm mottled cats snuggled up by the wood stove. It's long since fallen out of fashion, but I can't help loving it still.

So when I found a recipe for Calico slaw, you can imagine I was charmed from the start. I dug it up online, on one of those endless recipe search sites, and copied it down immediately. The only trouble was, once I started paying attention, I didn't really like the creation.

I began shifting things around, hoping to keep the calico pattern of the slaw but change the ingredients a bit. I wanted a turnip slaw, not cabbage, and apples rather than green peppers. Carrots and onion I kept, and mixed up a bit of cilantro, oil, and cider vinegar in place of the ubiquitous "salad dressing" the recipe had in mind.

The resulting salad was very, very good, I have to say. It was tangy and salty, a bit sweet, and clean in the mouth when the cilantro rang in. The turnips were sweet and earthy, the apples perfectly crisp, and the carrots so fresh they practically jumped in my mouth.

I ate it for lunch yesterday, and again after breakfast today, and at this point, it's nearly gone. I don't know about you, but I can't think of a better way to eat half a turnip, 5 carrots, an onion, and an apple. I've certainly had my vegetables for the day.

CALICO SLAW

Serves 4

Mix together 4 cups grated Eastham turnip (about 1/2 medium turnip), 2 cups grated carrot (about 5 medium carrots), 1 cup grated white onion (about 1 medium onion), and 1 cup grated apple (about 1 and 1/2 pieces fruit). Toss with 1/4 cup cilantro, chopped fine, and a dressing of 1/2 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup cider vinegar, and sugar, salt, and pepper to taste. Serve chilled.

*P.S. : If you make this slaw in mid-winter (as my mother just did), do not, I repeat, DO NOT grate the vegetables. Being a bit less firm than they might have been in the fall, they will simply turn to mush. Instead, julienne them into long, thin strips. This will yield a much better texture come February.

An invitation

This is an invitation. I'm helping to throw a dinner party, and I very much hope to see you there. It's a community supper, of sorts—on December 11th, at 7pm—a celebration of the fall harvest and the varied fruits of the season.

There will be lamb, from Border Bay Junction Farm in Barnstable, delivered whole and roasted in cuts from top to tail. There will be turnips, too, simmered into soup and served up hot and creamy from the roadside stand in Eastham.

There will be Brussels sprouts from Crow's Farm in Sandwich, greens from Tim Friary's garden at Cape Cod Organic Farm, and fruit pies made from local cranberries and apples.

It's being held at Willy's Gym—tucked back into a wood-floored, mirror paneled room out of the way of all the hubbub in Eastham. The executive chef from Mac's Shack, Jerome Watkins, is cooking there for the winter, and he'll be in the kitchen with me. Sarah Robins from the Flying Fish and Hillcrest Pizza will be there, too, along with her pastry chef Marissa Ferry.

I do hope you'll be there. Between the orchestration of flames beneath pots and pans, the roasting and the plating and the eventual serving, it could be quite a tiring day, and it would be nice to see some familiar faces at the table.

Reserve your spot soon, if you're coming—we can only serve so many (and five courses, too!). They have a list going at Willy's, and you can put your name in by commenting here, too. The cost is $35, which covers not just the food, but a little extra for the women at Safe Harbor Shelter in Hyannis, too. If you're anywhere near, I hope to see you there.

The Local Food Report: turnip pie

I hope you've brought your sense of adventure. Because today we are headed into murky territory. To be exact, we're making turnip pie. Still here? Good.

It wasn't my idea, I swear, but the nice ladies from the Eastham library convinced me, and now here we are. Turnips aren't the first winter vegetable to come to mind for pie; even I know that. But according to Geoffry Antoine, it can be done.

He created the recipe for the Eastham Turnip Festival several years ago. They host a turnip cook-off each fall, the only guideline being that the dish must include a turnip. He rolled out a piecrust, began boiling up a pot of Eastham's finest, and mixed and mashed until he found himself with a filling.

The ingredients were simple: eggs, sugar, cinnamon—salt and cloves and nutmeg, with a bit of heavy cream and a pinch of ginger at the end. It cooked like any other pie, for nearly an hour in an oven at first very hot, and then turned down for the duration.

It was so good, in fact, that it won the prize—not just any prize, mind you—but the Grand Prize. The women at the library didn't make it sound easy. Upon their insistence, I made the leap of faith in my kitchen last night. I thought of Geoffrey as I mixed—wondering what sort of a man the creator of turnip pie must be.

It was several hours before I found out. Between the boiling and the mashing and the rolling and the baking, I was just about exhausted when I finally picked up the spoon. But the fuss my tongue made! It began dancing and whooping, all lit up with cinnamon and root, bowing at the knees of the turnip. I still can't quite wrap my head around it, but I can promise you, that for some strange reason, you are bound to love turnip pie.

TURNIP PIE*

Serves 8

Prepare one 9-inch pie crust. Combine 3 eggs, slightly beaten, 1/2 cup brown sugar, 1/2 cup granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1/4 teaspoon cloves, 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg, and 1/4 teaspoon ginger. Add 1 cup heavy cream and beat well. Blend in 15 ounces Eastham turnip, cooked and mashed. Pour into pan lined with crust. Bake in oven heated to 450 degrees for 10 minutes, then reduce temperature to 350 degrees and continue baking for 40 to 45 minutes. The pie is done when knife inserted into center comes out clean.

*Geoffrey Antoine's recipe, Grand Prize Winner of the 2006 Turnip Festival, reprinted from First Encounter with a Turnip, a collection of recipes from the Friends of the Eastham Public Library.

A photo from the book Images of America: Eastham taken in 1928, when a special turnip harvest took place. George Nickerson, a longtime Eastham grower, was in the hospital during pulling time, so the whole town came to help. By the end of the day, they'd pulled 1,400 bushels for market. Not bad for a days work!

From top to tail

I love it how at farm stands and farmers' markets, you get the whole vegetable. No one's stolen the squash seeds or the beet greens, and the carrot tops are still intact.

This week, after a trip to Crow Farm in Sandwich (which will be selling vegetables until Christmas, mind you), I made an all-beet salad. It was my version of top to tail cooking, if you will, minus the animal and the endless parade of parts.

It was easy enough to put together—I simply peeled and sliced thin the beets, chopped up the greens, and threw the whole lot into a pan hot with oil and garlic. The leaves began to wilt, the beets to soften, and at last I blew out the flame and declared them tender. With a bit of chevre on top, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper, I had a hearty fall salad.

It looked like Christmas with the colors—deep, maroon beets mixed with holly-hued greens and a sprinkling of white—just the thing to whip up for a holiday party or cold weather lunch. Even once the beet greens are gone, there'll still be spinach to gather, which with its deep forest green could easily step in.

But something about using the whole beet—every last bit of it, minus the well-intentioned skin—is so satisfying that I think I wouldn't dare. Usually I wait too long on the greens, letting them sit idle in the crisper until they are wilted beyond repair. It seems fitting that instead they leave together with the beets, hand in hand without hesitation for the next.

Try the salad if you can—before the holidays set in and the bustle becomes too much—because I'm sure once you do you'll decide you want it on the table. I'm willing to bet you like it so much, in fact, that you'll want to practice at least once or twice, to get it perfect just in time. Until then, if you need any help with the leftovers—well, you know I'm always here.

WARM BEET SALAD

Serves 4

Wash and cut the greens from 5 small beets. Dry and chop greens roughly. Boil beets for 10 to 20 minutes, or until they are slightly tender and you can slip the skins from them easily. Remove skins and slice into thin, 1/2-inch pieces. In a large, heavy-bottomed frying pan, heat up 2 tablespoons oil. Drop in 1 clove garlic, minced, and cook 30 seconds. Add beets and greens and stir well. Let cook, covered, for 5 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until greens are wilted but have not lost their color. Transfer into a serving dish, season with salt and pepper to taste, and top with 1 to 2 ounces chevre. Serve warm as a light main course or side salad.

Dune bogs

My friend Talilla took me adventuring the other day. A fine mist fell as we packed into the car, dog and bags and rain jackets jostling loudly.

We drove away from her house, past the East End playground and out towards the highway on Snail Road. At an old abandoned parking lot at the base of the dunes, we camoflauged the car behind a bush and piled out.

We wound up the sand track, rolling up and down the sea of dunes as we headed towards the water. The vegetation changed—trees gave way to shrubs, shrubs to beach grass, and finally sand to sea. The waves rolled in, crashing white, and we walked south along the shore.

It took us nearly a half hour to reach the bog. Talilla veered inland, suddenly, and there it was: a massive expanse of wild cranberries. The plants burned red. Growing amongst the berries were clumps of grass, and strange tan mushrooms the consistency of jello. We picked, stooped over, until we'd each filled a bag. The berries were firm, a deep scarlet, and big in hand.

When our backs began to ache, we straightened and turned home. We wandered back through the warm rain, searching out the expanse of pavement and the silver glint of my car. We hadn't picked much, I realized later, at home. A few cups, perhaps, barely enough for a pie. I wondered what to do with mine—a pudding, maybe a salad?

I found a few pudding recipes scattered online—most too sweet, one with rice, another with cinnamon and apples. But none were quite what I was looking for. It was morning, still, and I wanted a breakfast dish.

I decided to adapt a dessert pudding, cutting the sugar and raisins and adding an egg for thickness. The rest was easy: scalded milk, a cup of oatmeal, a few spoonfuls of sugar and the cranberries, halved. All told, it couldn't have taken more than 10 minutes to prepare, and after a half hour in the oven, it was ready to eat. I cleaned my bowl, twice, and scribbled the recipe down for safe keeping.

CRANBERRY OATMEAL BREAKFAST PUDDING

Serves 4

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium heavy-bottomed pot, stir together 2 cups whole milk, 1/4 cup brown sugar, and a pinch of salt. Stir well, and heat until very hot but not boiling. While you wait, half 2 cups fresh cranberries. Stir together with 1/4 cup white sugar in a bowl. When milk is hot, stir in 1 cup oatmeal, 1 egg, beaten well, and cranberries. Bake 30 minutes; enjoy hot with cream or milk.

Bobbing for bagels

We went to hear Molly O'Neill speak last weekend, up in Camden, Maine. I soaked up her booming voice and sardonic laugh as the sounds echoed off the walls of opera house, and the noise reminded me of my sister.

Even as very small children, we reveled in her New York Cookbook. We paged through Katharine Hepburn's brownies, Sophie Minkoff's spiced pumpkin bread, and Bagel Oasis very good bagel. We dirtied the pages with our sticky fingers, splattering photos and print with brownie batter and butter, and finally pulling our creations from the oven to present with pride to my mother.

The voice, though, was an unexpected addition to the memory. It was as though I could hear her now, speaking to us as we hurried from bowl to mixer, stove to sink, thundering down the words as we cooked. As the applause in the opera house drew to a close, I hurried upstairs to pick up my own copy of the cookbook I'd grown up with. I waited in line at the signing, watched as pen and hands signed the thin white paper, and tucked the book away for the car ride home.

Yesterday morning, I pulled it out again. I opened straight to the bagels, and began to scurry around the kitchen in search of ingredients. There wasn't much to gather—yeast, sugar, salt, and flour—but I could feel my sister helping all the same. We proofed and kneaded, waited and shaped, boiled and baked until finally they were ready. A row of 12 perfect rounds, slightly golden and dusted in cornmeal, they were slightly chewy, and every bit as wonderful as those two little girls had imagined.

BAGEL OASIS VERY GOOD BAGEL

adapted from Molly O'Neill's New York Cookbook

Makes 12 bagels

Proof 2 and 1/4 teaspoons yeast with 1 and 1/2 teaspoons dark brown sugar and 1 and 1/2 cups warm water. Wait 5 minutes, or until a slight foam forms, and add another 1 and 1/2 teaspoons dark brown sugar and 1 tablespoon salt. Stir well and gradually add 4 cups flour, 1 cup at a time, mixing the dough until flour is well incorporated. Knead until smooth, about 7 minutes. Cover bowl and let rise in a warm place for 40 minutes.

Lightly flour a cutting board and place dough on top. Cut into six thick strips, then cut each in half to make 12 short, thick strips. Shape each strip into a wide circle. Place on a baking sheet dusted with cornmeal; let rise uncovered in a warm place for 30 minutes.

Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Fill a large, wide pot 2/3 full with water and bring to a boil. Using a slotted spoon, drop bagels in batches into the water. Boil on first side for 2 minutes; flip and boil another 1 and 1/2 minutes. They should firm and puff up. Remove from water and let drain for a few minutes on a rack.

Place the bagels on the baking sheet (dusted again with cornmeal, if needed), and bake 12 minues. Flip bagels an bake until golden brown all over, or about 7 minutes longer. Let cool slightly and eat with butter, jam, or cream cheese.

A shelter from the cold

Did I mention that there's a greenhouse outside?

I should have said something sooner, I know, but I'm just as surprised as you are. It's been a long time coming—since that crazed Saturday in August when I began planting for winter—but still, every time I glance outside, I can hardly believe it's there.

There were a few setbacks, to be sure. A tree fell on the garden in the midst of clearing the way; Grower's Supply sent the wrong size plastic, and a very short door frame, too. Damp leaves squashed a row of scallions; the carrots were planted too late; and the Vietnamese cilantro succumbed to cold before it could be ushered in.

But for a first try, I have to say I'd call the experiment a success. The spinach sprouts new leaves every day, the lettuce has begun to spiral, and the kale, though small, shows promise. The surviving brussel sprouts are just about ready for picking, and the radishes are gaining inches and leaves at an exponential rate.

Part of this, of course, is thanks to the seeds. The lettuce is a four season variety, the spinach a winter bloomsdale, and the radishes cold-loving nero tondo. But the stretch of plastic helps, too. On those nights when the temperature dips into the 30s and 40s, the garden sits warm beneath its watch.

We aren't quite there yet—next year, I'll plant with more organized walkways, I'll start the seedlings earlier, and I won't worry so much over density. I'll seed directly in the greenhouse for the more delicate plants like scallions and spinach, and I hope we'll have a real door. But all in all, for $800, I'd say it's an investment bound to pay off. In a January salad, that is.

BUYING & ERECTING A GREENHOUSE/COLD FRAME

We bought our kit from Grower's Supply. I can't say I'm raving about it—they got most of our order wrong, and then charged us extra for doing so. But, in the end, when we got the right pieces, it was quite a good kit. If you order from them, be sure to double check EVERYTHING on the phone. And order far in advance, and check the parts when you get them, before you start to build, just in case. That will save you a lot of frustration.

The construction is not a small project. It will take 2 able bodied people at least 2-3 days to complete. But once the frame is up, it's up, and taking the plastic on and off as the seasons change is easy.

Don't expect to erect the greenhouse over your plants. We did manage that, but I recommend putting it up in the spring, before you plant. Then you can plant your early seedlings inside, remove the cover when the weather gets nice, and put it back in place when it starts to get cold again. Winter seedlings (except the fragile ones) can be planted in trays, and then moved into the greenhouse once the summer plants have run their course and been pulled up, and the soil composted.

As for options besides plastic, there is a company called Moveable Greenhouses that makes gorgeous glass greenhouses out of Rockland, Maine, but they carry a hefty price tag. If I could afford to buy one, I would, but they are most certainly out of the range of the average grower. Someday, perhaps—it never hurts to dream.

Until then, good luck and happy planting!