Tag: Foods

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Thanksgiving

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE. Even though my family is far away, I seldom spend the holidays alone. Most years, I will have a few friends over. Occasionally, I celebrate with friends and their families. This year, I will share it with some neighbors and their friends.

I knew about this American holiday and some of its traditions before coming here. Eating turkey also wasn’t a totally strange experience for me. Often, mom would ask our relatives in the country to bring a free-range turkey up for Chinese New Year. Not that mom had any special liking to the birds. Nor did she have any special recipes for them. For her, it was simply a practical matter: In those days, the market would close for almost two weeks for New Year. So, having a large bird would guarantee that we wouldn’t be short of supplies. Taiwanese turkeys weren’t as huge as their American counterparts. Mom would roast them as if they were oversized chickens. I was quite indifferent to eating them.

I spent my first Thanksgiving in Cleveland with my roommate at her aunt’s house. Their families have immigrated to Ohio some years back and established roots. Her aunt prepared a feast. Yet, instead of a turkey, there was a duck—a common practice in many Chinese American families.

Back then, all stores were closed on Thanksgiving. Even McDonald’s were not open. So, international students often planned a big get-together on Thanksgiving Day. Sometimes, there might be a turkey. But no one really knew what to do with it. Some years my American friends would invite me to their house. There, I learned the history of the holiday and the traditional dishes.

After returning from Italy, I moved to Champaign-Urbana to work on my dissertation and to study with John Wustman. Although I met many new friends, I really didn’t belong to any group. I wasn’t bound to any fixed schedule and didn’t have to worry about final projects or exams. For the first time I considered making my own Thanksgiving meal.

What would a geek who lived in the library and tied to the computer screens do about preparing her first turkey? SEARCH THE LIBRARY CATALOGUE, of course. It was the pre-Google Era. Illinois was all about farming. My search resulted in a few government documents—Agricultural Department/USDA type. With my bookstack privilege, I went deeply into the jungle of books and documents, coming out with a booklet in hand.

It started with “How to Buy Your Bird: And What to Look for On the Label”—Fresh or Frozen? . . .Buying the Right Size Turkey. It taught me how to thaw a frozen turkey (thawing time by the weight). The instructions (and warnings) on stuffing a turkey followed. Ready to cook the bird now? The booklet had a timetable for roasting fresh or fully thawed turkey, and another one for roasting an unstuffed frozen bird. Additional cooking methods included: using oven bags, MICROWAVE cooking, barbecue and using a rotisserie. (It said NOTHING about deep-frying the bird.) “How to Carve a Turkey” section came with step by step illustrations. Leftovers? Just read ahead. You would know when to take the items off the table and into the refrigerator. You would know why you should divide large quantities into smaller portions. You would know whether to keep the items in the refrigerator or the freezer. . ..

Knowing that a bird alone would not a good Thanksgiving dinner make, I went to the “periodical” section, flipping through the Thanksgiving issues of Bon Appètit and Gourmet in previous years. I chose recipes for cornbread, stuffing and cranberry. The menu for my first Thanksgiving meal was set.

I must have followed the instructions word for word, because no one got sick and nothing was burnt. I don’t have any recollections of how anything tasted. Nor do I remember who joined me at the table: With the limited capacity of my refrigerator, I must have had guests. What I still have are photocopies of the pamphlet and the recipes.

Gradually, I became quite comfortable preparing a Thanksgiving feast. After trying many types of marinades, rubs, and brine, I realized the freshness of the herbs and spices was the key to good flavors. My best turkey was a 32-pounder. Busy schedule forced me to run to the store at the very last minute. By that time, all the smaller turkeys were gone. With no time for thawing, my only choice was a fresh organic bird. Chopped fresh herbs, Dijon mustard, honey and citrus juice and melted butter made perfect marinade. It came out of the oven much earlier than I expected and right at the moment when my guests arrived. I haven’t had the same luck since then.

While rotating various side dishes, I make the same cranberry preserves every year. I prefer biscuits to breads. I have a favorite apple-cranberry pie recipe. Some friends know what to expect at my Thanksgiving table.

I count my blessing on this special day and every day. I am thankful to the people that taught me everything about Thanksgiving. I give thanks to the people that make my daily life possible: subway conductors, bus drivers, mailmen, delivery guys and sanitation workers. I give thanks to my friends who stand by me: They listen to me; they appreciate my thoughts; they help me getting through dark times; they push me forward. I give thanks to my family and relatives who allow me the opportunity to live a creative life.

Here are my favorite recipes:
Cheddar Cheese Biscuits
Cranberry Orange Preserves
Colonial Times Apple-Cranberry Pie with Cornmeal Crust

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Guardo sui tetti

I went a little too heavy on vinegar and salt when making a simple salad. It reminded me of the food at the mensa, the cafeteria for the two universities in Perugia, Italy. I went there with friends only a few times. However, I remember the salad well. The Romaine lettuce was always fresh. But, somehow, the dressing was always salty, oily and very acidy. The lady behind the counter serve the food swiftly. Their utensils, hitting on the mixing bowl, created a chaotic atmosphere.

I lived in Perugia for a little over six months, attending language classes at Università per stranieri. Between late September, when I first arrived, and early November, I moved three times. Although the school brochure indicated that students could be placed with Italian families, the only thing available upon my landing was a sublease, one room in an apartment over ten-minute walk from school. With winter months fast approaching, when I heard that a spot in an old building near school opened up, I quickly took it.

I shared a big room with two young girls from Taiwan. The land lady would not allow any visitors. Day and night, she looked out from her window overlooking the stone path, making sure no strangers passing through her gate. I was her darling until I told her that I found a better place and would move out by the end of the month. She rampaged through all my drawers and suitcases when I was at school, just to make sure that I was not stealing from her.

I couldn’t be happier moving into a two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a family-orientated building. A fresh coat of white paint was applied to brighten up the entire apartment. With high ceiling and sparsely furnished, my room was spacious and echoey. My roommate was a fifteen-year-old girl from Central Taiwan, extremely homesick and very quiet. I was home a lot, preparing for my dissertation. Often, the only sounds in the apartment were news broadcasts or music coming from my radio.

In comparison to my room, the galley kitchen seemed unusually small. Even the white appliances and brand-new cabinets couldn’t make it appear bigger. In those days, my budget was very tight. The living costs seemed impossibly high. Other than cabbages, carrots, onions, tomatoes, pasta and flours, I could afford very few things. To make life more tolerable, I would invite a few newly-met friends over. We would find the most creative ways to cook with limited ingredients. The fire and the boiling water would quickly warm up the space. The results of our experimental recipes would often make us laugh. Those were the happy moments of that long winter.

On sunny days, I loved to open the windows in the kitchen, looking over terracotta rooftops to find a little piece of blue sky. The view always reminded me of Mimì’s descriptions of her little place:

Vivo sola, soletta,
là in una bianca cameretta:
guardo sui tetti e in cielo;
ma quando vien lo sgelo
il primo sole è mio*

I live alone, all alone,
there in a white little room:
I look over the roofs and in the sky;
but when the snow-melt arrives,
the first sunshine is mine.

By the end of my six-months sojourn in Italy, I only began to understand the langue, the people and the beautiful country. Yet, I learned from those months how a beam of sunshine could warm up one’s heart and drive away one’s wearies. I miss the cerulean sky of Italy.

*La Bohème,  Act I, Giacomo Puccini; Libretto by Luigi Illica and Giuseppe Giacosa.