Thanksgiving traditions vary widely (oyster stuffing: need I say more?), but pretty much everyone can identify with these two Thanksgiving staples: Roast Turkey and Mashed Potatoes. The turkey recipe (Barefoot Contessa Parties!, pp. 182-183) does not call for any fancy brining or basting, deep-frying or stuffing with other birds, but there are some aromatics (onions, garlic, lemon, thyme) stuffed in the body cavity. I excluded the roasted vegetables under the turkey in the original recipe, simply because if we didn’t have mashed potatoes on the table, there may have been a revolt. The mashed potatoes (Barefoot Contessa Family Style, p. 118) were, quite simply, divine. But what wouldn’t be, with half-and-half, sour cream, and butter mixed in?
Now, if someone could just broker a Thanksgiving Peace Treaty between me and the dog who just dragged in what can only be skunk poop all over the carpet… Happy Holidays, y’all!
This is listed under the kids’ section of Barefoot Contessa Families (p. 205), but the garlic, lemon zest, and pine nuts definitely jazz it up for an adult audience, too.
Because we can. Because it’s inexpensive. Because we had potatoes and onions that needed to be eaten. Because it’s quick and toddler-friendly. And, because it’s delicious.
For the second year now, I’ve donated a “dozen dozen” cookies to a silent auction fundraiser at our church. This means many things: I get to bake a ton of cookies and they leave my house, which is generally a good thing. Someone else is relieved of baking duties for the holidays, and local charities benefit. It’s a win-win-win, really, especially when my house smells like these:
Barefoot Contessa Parties!, p. 236
I substituted shortening for butter (clutch the pearls) because it makes for a fluffier, cakier cookie.
This recipe (The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook, pp. 112-113) called for turnips or rutabagas, and I’m not quite sure what the difference is between the two vegetables. I made a half-batch, using just one turnip. I ended up cooking it for less than the recommended time, as it cooked fairly rapidly. The final product turned out to be quite thin, so I think in the future I will add the liquids more slowly (and with more reserve) to control the texture. The picture in the cookbook looks slightly thicker and more chunky than our final product, but ours was still tasty. This would be a nice alternative to potatoes or rice as a starchy side dish.
I have a confession: I use boxed cake mix and frosting from a can. I’ve made cakes and frosting from scratch, but the cake mixes are so much easier, and they often turn out better. I’ve never had a cake from a boxed mix that falls, and I wish I could say the same for every scratch cake that I’ve ever made. My husband requests a cake (from a boxed mix, with canned frosting) every year for his birthday, and I happily give him his wish. So, it’s with some trepidation that I approach the cakes in the Barefoot Contessa cookbooks. In this case (Chocolate Buttercream Cake, The Barefoot Contessa Cookbook, pp. 194-196), my anxiety was for naught. I chose this recipe first because of the pretty picture featured alongside it, and the fact that every time my husband sees that picture, he says, “That looks pretty.” This cake was beautiful, and actually quite easy. The frosting was a bit of a challenge – it was really, really thin. The recipe instructed that if the frosting is soft, one should let it cool and try again. Eventually, after whipping the frosting at high speed and refrigerating it, it firmed up quite nicely, to the point of being almost fudge-like the next day. This cake is awfully rich, so a small piece is all you’ll need. (These are words you will not often hear from me.)
You’ll notice that this was not made as a layer cake. I’m lazy, and as every good Midwestern girl knows, a layer cake recipe can be made in a 9×13 pan, and anyone who complains about it won’t get seconds. So there.
I’ve made a white chicken chili for years, and was anxious to try out this version (Barefoot Contessa…..) for something different. I made a half-batch, which still turned out to be plenty for at least 8 main dish servings. As you’ll see from the photo, I made some mistakes. The onions were supposed to be chopped and not sliced, and the peppers could have been chopped more finely. I roasted the chicken breasts as directed, and when I started adding the chicken to the chili, it looked like it would be heavy on chicken (perhaps given the size of these particular chicken breasts), so I added half of the recommended amount. In retrospect, I probably should have added the entire recommended amount of chicken, or at least closer to 3/4 of the recommended amount.
All of that said, though, it still turned out well, and I would definitely make it again. My husband preferred this over the white version of chicken chili, so I imagine it will be appearing again in our kitchen before winter is over. The sour cream, as suggested on the side, was essential.
I’d never cooked capon before using this recipe (Barefoot Contessa at Home, p. 102), and I figured it couldn’t be all that different from a roast chicken. After all, a capon is merely a rooster which is… no longer a rooster. A gender-confused (or relieved-of-gender) bird. The capons are the castrati of the poultry world, so to speak. I purchased the last capon available at the grocery store, ignoring the fact that it was frozen solid. The packaging was slightly misleading in its promise that this bird was “ready to cook.” I thawed it overnight in the refrigerator, and when it was still partially frozen the next day, I continued to thaw it in a large bowl of cold water, changing the water frequently. When I was satisfied that the bird was sufficiently thawed, I set upon the task of removing the bag of innards from the body cavity. Really, why is nasty little bag necessary, poultry people? I know there are some people who like gizzards, and God bless them, but why do the rest of us have to suffer through extracting a bag of them from the body cavity of the poultry we’re about to cook? Can’t they be sold separately? Or packaged outside the bird? Why? WHY?! (This process always reminds me of a Butterball commercial from a few years back, in which a woman was on the telephone with the poultry hotline, raw turkey in hand, saying, “You want me to put my who-who in the what-what?!”)
Apparently the capon wasn’t quite as thawed as it should have been, because it took an extra hour of roasting to get the breast meat to 165 degrees, the temperature recommended by the USDA for poultry. Of course, the sufficiently-thawed parts became overcooked in the process, and by the time the whole thing was done, I was afraid we’d encounter something like this scene from National Lampoons’ Christmas Vacation:
Alas, the capon was edible, if a little dry. Next time, I will thaw the whole damn thing before roasting it. Or, I’ll just make two smaller chickens instead.
