About that Turkey breast...

...I'm stealing an idea from Alex Guarnaschelli & covering it with cheesecloth dipped in melted butter. OK, I'm set then!

"'Cause it's all about control..."

Should I really be feeling as triumphant as I am for scoring what I did on the MarthaStewart.com "Which Thanksgiving Side Dish Are You?" quizzle. A score only 5.99% of those who took it received, beeteedubs:

You are undoubtedly
Savory Sweet-Potato Souffles.

You aim to impress with everything you do. You appreciate elegance and showmanship. You've been planning your Thanksgiving feast for weeks now. This holiday season, there'll be no canned soup in your kitchen.

Oh, I've been planning. This Thxgv'g is a special one because Paul & I will soon be in a new place that will accommodate the fucking amazing dining table & chairs making their way to us now. I ordered my organic Diestel turkey a week ago not even knowing where we'd end up because I knew this year was going to be the year. What year?

THE YEAR I'M THE BOSS OF EVERY THXGV'G COMESTIBLE. In my home, anyway.

First things first: do I brine the bird or not? Well, I was going to, until Harold McGee disabused me of this plan. Like I'm going to let watery gravy happen in my kitchen! I'm not bummed about the breast getting dry because I eat that 1 part meat to one part canberry sauce. Oh, that's no typo. I only like Ocean Spray cranberry sauce WITHOUT chunks. It's so delicious, I can eat it with a spoon. I also love the "fffwop!" sound that happens when it comes out of the can in one semi-solid, indented mass. LOVE.

Next is gravy. I'm making stock for it as soon as I can unpack my big pot. & just like my Grandma Nadine, I'm augmenting this viscous delight with the neck meat & giblets. Meat with a side of meat, y'all.

Dressing. Yes, 'dressing', not 'stuffing', which is what I would call it if I was to shove it up my bird's cunt. But I'm not. Ciabatta, mirepoix, some of that affore-mentioned stock & pancetta. OK, I ganked this from Giada de Laurentiis. So what? I would add the chestnuts, but Paul does not like them (weirdo! I think the soft texture & nutty flavor is perfect). Just because I'm the boss of this endeavor doesn't mean I can't be benevolent.

The green beans I'll cook with combination steam/sauté. Sautéing 100% makes the beans wrinkly, & 100% steaming is just...so sad. I plan to dress them with minced shallots, mustard, & butter they will cook with. I cannot abide by the horrific gut-bomb that is green bean casserole with the canned onion thingies. Unless if maybe we're talking bechamel instead of cream of mushroom soup. That I can't accommodate on my stove top room-wise.

This next component is an homage of sorts to a good friend of mine who I've spent Thxgv'g with the last four times. Waldorf Salad, with spicy roasted walnuts. What's not to like? Thin slices of tart Granny Smith apples, sweet & earthy carrot, spicy walnuts, creamy dressing. If I was one of those people who spent more time & energy on salads, I would make this at least once a week.

Lastly, in a nod to Paul's birth place, he will be making Yorkshire puddings. I would say we're having these in lieu of dinner rolls, but dinner rolls are the dog's breakfast compared to Yorkshire puddings. A little turkey drippings in the muffin tin, batter, in the oven, & out comes the most poofy, soft & satisfying starch I've ever stuck in me gob.

Whoa! I said 'lastly', but I forgot about the cheesecake. No pumpkin pie because apparently I'm married to a total hater. W'evs! I like cheesecake more anyway.

I have a mental list of everything I can prepare in advance to avoid collapsing under the weight of my own expectations on the kitchen floor. Wine should help, though.

Stained & drained.

Staying up to do laundry, yeah yeah! (I was singing that more than saying that.) What an ass-pain white is. They (as in the faculty) have really put the screws to us about our uniforms being spotless & pressed. Sometimes, I iron in the morning before class because the night before I was too lazy to bother. As I'm pressing half-awake, occasionally still drunky, I think I'm seeing stains, or that my coat isn't really white & I won't notice until I get to school. Ugh! Besides inducing paranoia, the uniforms are messing with some of us.

I'm not afraid to admit I'm still not used to mine. The pants are of this heinous-anus small b&w check fabric that hasn't softened despite repeated washings. The cut is ridic; exaggerated hips, & the legs are far too short. If only I could transfer the superfluous hip fabric to my ankles. The coat is OK, though for a small, the trunk is very baggy on me. The hat...oh, the hat. It's a white skull cap that threatens to pop off my head from my hair being shoved up in it. The thing leaves a mark on my forehead when I'm finally able to take it off. Makes my small head look even tinier, which contrasts the hip-y pants & apron on top of them. Top everything off with a pair of skid-resistant clogs, & my friends, you've got yourselves the most sexless outfit you've ever done seen.

I get that "it's not supposed to matter," & ultimately, it doesn't matter that we look silly. It's fairly clear that the men-folk couldn't care less... Of course, the uniform was made for men, so why should they? Some of them look handsome in it, but most just look well-suited.

I, on the other hand, feel like it enhances everything I try to play down. I have my own system of doing this in my "street wear": Got a small head? Have lots of big hair. Hips kinda wider than your bust? Wear tight pants. Even though I'm not even thinking about what I look like when I have to meet deadlines prepping & cooking food, when I catch a glimpse of myself in uniform, I recoil internally. I know some of the other women feel the same. It's nothing worth dwelling on, but it's a reminder that stings & serves a purpose. It's not about sexy (or more to the point, if anyone can tell if we're hot underneath the layers of fug), but that we have an opportunity to be obscured enough physically for everything else to matter so much more.

God help ya if you're a butterface.

Now I promise never to use "butterface" ever, ever again.