Thanksgiving Feasts

It's no secret:  I look forward to the planning of feasts.  

Dirt Monster

This year, my husband has asked to make the Thanksgiving Dinner (TM).  I assumed all my watching of Iron Chef (the original, generally done as a drinking game with sake - rules to follow) had rubbed off on him.  No, he admitted later, after I sulked silently for about a week with the knowledge that I would not be making the chestnut stuffing I'd been mulling over, and would not be subjecting the husband to my heart-attack brussels sprouts (though, in retrospect, the fact of the sprouts are probably have some part in his desire to cook it himself - he calls the things "turtle brains," and will not eat them in a house, with a mouse, etc).  Apparently, I "do it wrong."  Thanksgiving, he says, is not for culinary experimentation.  Thanksgiving is about a dry stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, green bean casserole, and the turkey needs to be stuffed with apples, thank you very much, not citrus as I've done in past years.  Oh, brother.

So, here's the thing.  This means my husband (whose past culinary feats have been of questionable success) is going to be all up in my kitchen.  More importantly, I will need to somehow resist the urge to hover or provide him with all manner of unsolicited culinary advice.  I'm not sure if this will be possible, but I have a feeling that the tranquility of our five day vacation depends on it.  Instead, I'm furtively playing with the children and catching up on some reading.  It's not working.

Sharky still refuses to wear clothes.

So, I'm turning my creative juices to the Christmas Feast, which my mom has let me take over.  So far, I'm planning a curried bay scallop and plum salad with arugula, and my mom has apparently hoarded some giant beef tenderloin that needs doing, which to me just screams for a yorkshire pudding done just so.  I'm also plotting a blue cheese and fig souffle, mostly because my last attempt was not as successful as I wanted it to be.

Iron Chef Drinking Game:  The Rules

Get a friend.  Drinking alone is for the British.

Get a bottle of sake.

Find an episode of the original Iron Chef (none of this new-fangled Bobby Flay garbage).

Drink whenever:

- Chairman takes a bite of the pepper and for a moment looks like he's going to barf.

- Chairman gets a wistful look on his face and says "as I recall..." or "if memory serves..."

- Allez-Cuisine!

- During cooking, one of the panelists says definitively what they're making.

- During cooking, one of the panelists comments on the exertion of the chef.

- During cooking, the lady panelist says something unanimously considered dumb.  (ie. "wow, those eggs look really soft!)

- During judging, the old guy uses some crazy Japanese metaphor to describe the food ("these mushrooms are like cherry blossoms on a breeze.")

- During judging, the lady says "in my mouth." (seriously)

- The Iron Chef wins.

Congratulations.  You and a friend have likely just finished a bottle of sake in under an hour.  I hope you've got a designated driver.

Remiss!

It has been over a month since I've updated.  It's not out of laziness - I have just finished seven papers, and I have two more to go.  My favorite is one I submitted Friday to a theater research symposium - a case study on famous Italian courtesans-turned-starlets (cleverly titled "Harlots and Starlets").

Meanwhile, grants!  Oh, and La Fenice was nominated for a local award!  Oh, and the hubby has many projects in the fire (as per usual), but these latest are very exciting and all a little hush-hush until they're released unto the world.

Today, the hubby finished installing a knife-throwing board in the yard.  (Crazy, right?  Yes.  Crazy awesome.)  After about twenty minutes of practice, I got decent at it.  Even little Monster took a turn, after learning some safety precautions.  VERY exciting stuff.

In sad news, Delilah, the sole surviving chicken of a series of hungry dog attacks, went missing last night.  Usually she hides under the barn if there's a predator of any kind, and she loved to ride around the yard sitting on the hubby's foot, would come running over when we'd come home and adopt a pose that we called "the chicken line-backer," which meant she wanted us to pet her coxcomb.  There are a few scattered feathers, but no more than a chicken loses when agitated.  I thought I heard her a number of times during the day - I'm hopeful that she's just scared and under the barn, and we'll find her taking a dirt bath tomorrow.