S. Worthen | Weblog

The local shops started, increasingly, to advertise their turkeys and fresh cranberries in early December, the week after American Thanksgiving. For the first time, it struck me as an afterthought, like a shop remembering to put Halloween candy out the first week of November, or bubbly displays appearing in early January.

I know better, really, and for years have been appreciating that I can have three Thanksgivings in some years: Canadian, American, and English Christmas, nicely spaced out at 4-6 week intervals so I have time to recover. Further, at least I *can* buy fresh cranberries for American Thanksgiving these days, as opposed to my first year or two back in the UK, when they weren't available.

But there's a reason that the Thanksgivings are when they are, and they contain the food they do. They're harvest festivals, and most of what's traditionally eaten is seasonal. That includes the cranberries, which are harvested in September through November.

I only just looked up when cranberry harvest season was. That's because I just cooked cranberry sauce to go with an English Christmas meal, and the cranberries were really not as good as they usually are - not as juicy, not as flavorful. For the first time, I needed to add water while making cranberry sauce; the berries were not self-sufficient that way. It made me wonder if they were past their season, older cranberries.

So that's the downside of celebrating in December with cranberries in the UK: by the time they're "in season" in the shops, they're out of their growing season already.

***

That said, I have every expectation that the meal(s), on the whole, will be as spectacularly good as usual.

I walked over to my local butcher's yesterday morning to collect a rather large turkey. As the only customer in a small shop with three staff people, we fell into conversation about my turkey.

No, American Thanksgiving is not on the Friday, it's Thursday, always Thursday. Suddenly, everything fell into place for them. That was why they had already delivered three turkeys locally, in addition to the one I was collection. (I had no idea they delivered.) They pointed over to local streets and directions, indicating where those other three American customers live.

We moved to this town two-and-a-half years ago. I have never run into another American here, but figured they must be around somewhere. It's nice to know how to find them, for future reference. At least, the local meat-eating Americans.

***

It happens every year. I think I will make a token effort at American Thanksgiving, and then, a couple of days before, feel compulsed to do it properly. In this case, it really was only going to be larkvi and us up until I ordered the turkey. I wanted lots of leftovers, so they recommended a 6 kilo bird. They checked stock and didn't have one in stock, but I was willing to be talked into an 8 kilo one.

In the cold light of day evening, we realized just how big this bird was going to be, and hurriedly invited more people. It was my best turkey ever, all 8.6 kilos of it: it finished early, perfectly golden, and, for once, successfully achieved the internal temperature it was meant to. Shortly after that, lintilla72 called. The Underground line which runs out here was suffering severe delays. She had to cancel.

At this point, no one else had made it yet, and I was seized with a conviction that, poetically, the one-and-only time I managed to produce a perfect, enormous turkey, would be the one-and-only time that absolutely no one else would be able to come, not even C. They would be stranded in central London, foiled by transit, and I would be alone, all alone, just me and a giant bird.

Happy ending: everyone else was delayed, but not foiled. There was plenty of food, and good friends. About half of them were Americans, even the two who were visiting from Canada. I had very little chance to talk to them since they were here barely two hours (what with delays and all), but that's okay. The leftovers are not intimidating since they saved me from a surfeit of Certain Turkey.

Clear blue skies made the still-white snow brilliant among the tall, thin trees. The trees are silvered-brown, with a glow of red to them, elegant and towering. They feel so much taller than the forest I live near in England, so much narrower and flimsy than the strong, over-arching oaks of Des Moines. I associate them strongly with Connecticut; the woodland perched among the bluffs and excavated cut-throughs of the highways here.

We left D.C. this morning in darkness. Dawn rose, pink and gold, over Maryland, and by Delaware, it shone sharp and clear. I spent New Jersey thinking about the geography of friendship, all the people I know temporary or long-term staying along my route, unvisitable in the rapid tour which is this trip. The air was so clear over the Hudson that we could see New York City crisply backlit off in the far distance from the Tappan Zee bridge.

In Connecticut, sun-warmed water dripped slowly from tall, thin trees, and the air smelled fresh and clean from the light breeze over snow.

I have a hypothesis: there will be no more package deliveries until the last delivery date before Christmas.

Only an unexpected box arrived on Wednesday. None arrived yesterday. None have arrived so far today, and they're more prone to doing so in the morning than any other time. Today, I suppose, they have an excuse. It snowed last night, a few iced-in inches of decorative, world-brightening lightness. The roads around here are still wholly passable.

You'd never guess from this packagelessness that I ordered a frenzy of packages over the weekend, paid for their prompt delivery (but not overnight or two-day), and have received dispatch notices for most (all?) of them. I have sat in the house by the front door all day (working, it is true), waiting for their arrival. But no.

Perhaps it is this absence of delivery that has made me increasingly conscious of the tags and reassurances attached to the packages I am ordering at the same time for delivery in the US. They all tell me that yes, yes, it will arrive in time for Christmas. Some companies will provide free shipping upgrades to ensure it. No, they will not ship yet, not yet but soon, and soon will be in time for its arrival on the 24th because they are considerate and paying extra so it will ship late and fast.

What if I wanted it sooner than the 24th?

We came back from a weekend away (C. in Preston, I in London, Oxford, and Preston), parking along the street as usual.

I looked at the house on the left. I looked at the house on the right. "Why do so many people have fully-lit menorahs when we're only a couple of days into Hannukah?" I idly mused to C.

He thought they weren't menorahs at all, not in the usual sense, but rather an extrapolation: menorahs are sold this time of year, therefore they must be a Christmas decoration. Therefore there are lots of fully lit ones in windows around the neighborhood. It's rather surreal.

Speaking of which, ( Decorating with holiday cards... )

I first met taldragon at American Thanksgiving at sioneva's, back when she lived in Manchester. We've often had them together since; and I might not have bothered this year if she hadn't mentioned it, so all credit to her for the impulse which made it happen.

My first thoughts were of a day of advanced preparations in which there was plenty of time for work alongside the cooking. Part of the labor-saving was in not cooking a turkey. In the end, however, the cooking ate the entire day.

On Thursday, in Canterbury, I bought the Crown Prince squash for the tart, a large, hefty pale green one which the vendor assured me was tastier than pumpkin. He also sold me the fennel bulbs. I lugged them around town, and the hours back to home.

On Saturday, we returned several times to different grocery stores. For the last trip, C. went back just to buy plain sugar. We had caster sugar, light brown sugar, dark brown sugar - but not enough plain sugar. I didn't have the heart to go out again when I realized we only had wholegrain, mill-ground flour - and so I made white sauce with brown flour, not realizing the humor of it until lazyknight pointed it out. We used the squash tart recipe my sister once sent me, and the cranberry sauce recipe my mother had demonstrated on Monday.

And so we ate. Roast duck legs, roast fennel, squash and cheese tart, green bean casserole (with "white sauce"), stuffing with celery and chesnuts, cranberry sauce, wild rice salad, orange-ginger-cream sauce. We paused for an hour's recovery before pushing on to a decadence of gingerbread trifle, rich with smooth, full-bodied cream and mulled wine-softened fruit, dappled with crunchy chocolate-coated toppings - not just decorative - thanks to rosamicula's culinary genius. Fruit salad. Amaretti. Galler's "Volcaniques" chocolate range, with delicate touches of pepper or chilli or smokey Lapsang Souchong.

The worst of the rain rumbled down while we ate. Friends tested out our still-new sofa. The wood-burning stove warmed the entire house for perhaps the first time. ewtikins let us keep the quince bucket, due to now having a surfeit of buckets herself and brought us sloe jelly. Today, I had trifle for breakfast.

There's nothing quite like having a full work day on Thanksgiving; oddly enough, this may be the first time it has happened. In Canada, I had classes on American Thanksgiving, but never such a full day that there was no time to come home after and do something relevant.

brisingamen and PK kindly met me at The Goods Shed for a celebration; I am so grateful they did. The day is a harvest festival, among its other uses, so late November in England yielded squash (puréed dabs underneath my pleasantly buttery scallops, with overly-thin slivers of bacon); bird with roast vegetables (albeit duck, not turkey, but the roast potatoes were superb!); and a pecan-pie-like treacle tart (only without the pecans). We had kitchen-side seats, watching flame roar up and mass plating for the banquet table, party of twenty.

I am not, however, in any way Thanksgiving-deprived this week. On Monday, geesepalace and printperson celebrated with us, with parts of turkey, fresh cranberry sauce, mashed squash, salad, and rolls. We weren't dressed up, but the table was. Yesterday was The Good's Shed. Tomorrow, we're hosting another Thankgivingy meal - more wild rice, no turkey.

Sign of seasonal influence: for the first time in my life, I'm vaguely tempted to try making sweet potato pie. I partially blame ladybird97 for this.

I'm like the Befana. She arrived twelve days after the Wise Men did, and that's how her day is celebrated every year. For the second year running, I went to the Birmingham Hippodrome panto, following the crabbyoldbats there, one day later. I follow the same star they follow, and C. and I had such a good trip the first year than we went back for another.

The Birmingham Hippodrome takes its pantos very seriously. The budget is lavish, and that's part of why they're so amazing and worthwhile. With John Barrowman in the lead role, Dancing on Ice stars, and a t.v. ventriloquist, the cast is a sound one. It's lavish: I mentioned the Dancing on Ice stars. That's because they're there to ice skate, there on stage, in an entire ice skating sequence, complete with bubbles. The Dame had a costume change for pretty much every day he came one stage, complete with different shoes and hair. There was a turning waterwheel on stage in the opening sequence. For the finale, there were fountains with real running water. The production values are sumptuous.

it's fun: there are jokes aplenty, and all the actors really looked like they were enjoying themselves. They found some of the jokes pretty silly too, even after doing the play for so many weeks, stopping scenes for a moment to get over their laughter at a gag that was funny all over again. The Sheriff of Nottingham, the bad guy, was played by Pete Gallagher, the same actor as last year; he was fabulous evil fun.

( In search of plot... )

Despite my extensive listing of frustrations, they were, in the scheme of things, minor enough not to mar the fun of bubbles, glitter, ice skating, silliness, fun songs, and wacky hijinks. I do like a good panto. Last year's was better, but this was still pretty good.

Approximately a year ago, I visited double0hilly in Paris and took photos of windmill-related things there as part of the easterbunny 2007 LJ Collection Challenge. I have a new project this year, involving documenting things related to a particular saint. As I want to stand a chance at actually being able to do the challenge, I've gone with the most obvious saint-of-the-day for July 25th, St. James Apostle.

[Poll #1203157]

Bonus factoids:
- Ilyap'a kept his rainwater in a jug, which he topped up by dipping into the Milky Way.
- St. Julian mystically created a fresh-water spring for the drought-ridden Gauls, which converted them to Christianity.
- Eupraxia was accident-prone, falling down wells, getting a splinter in her eye, and cutting herself in the leg with an axe.

Correction: Cougat had pepper, not salt, apparently.

San Martino cookie

printperson brought us a San Martino cookie in all its gaudy restraint! The festa di S. Martino occurs on the evening of November 11th. Kids, in Italy at least, dress up and go from store to store, begging for treats. In honor of the occasion, bakeries make these elaborate cookies. (At least, they do in Venice. I don' t know quite how widespread this particular cookie-type is.) Many, like this one, are shortbread. Chocolate-dipped cookies are apparently the big trend this year. Other shops do full-fledged three-dimensional San Martinos, all edible. Apparently, this particular cookie is one of the most restrained in its decorative ornamentation.

It's not necessarily obvious at first what this cookie is an image of - it's a man on horseback, with a bit of ground underneath the horse's hooves. The man is St. Martin (San Martino) who, when he encountered an half-clothed beggar at Amiens' city gates, gave him half of his cloak to keep him clothed and warm.