Thanksgiving preparations are upon us. A glance out the kitchen window reveals the few lone brussel sprouts standing like sentinels over the raised beds full of garlic nestled amongst the straw. But, back to the matter at hand … preparations for my favorite time of year where sharing food with family and friends is the season’s best gift.
Gazing at shelves full of cookbooks, I wonder whatever happened to that 4-H pamphlet, where the recipe for “spritzer-something” started me on a lifetime of the appreciation of flavors tied to the seasons. Mother reinforced my contribution, “Will you make your special drink?” Grandma added the mark of excellence that forever motivated me to excel with her exclamation, “Delish!”
I recollect, cranberry juice, orange juice, eggs, sugar beaten together until frothy and poured over cracked ice pulled from a towel after a few good whacks with a hammer. That reverie is sharply pierced by the caution of today’s educated mind, “Oh my goodness, the thought of raw eggs in a drink today, or even in a Caesar salad dressing,” has me cringing. Whatever shall I do? Never fear, dried powdered egg whites will need to substitute. The pleasure of learning to crack the eggs after I’ve gathered them from the hen house fades.
Cranberry juice wasn’t a year round staple and orange juice was found in the freezer section unless you splurged on the “never frozen.” My “local meter” now starts bumping up against the “health meter.” While the cranberries are native to New England, less than 400 miles away, the only orange tree I’ve seen that weathers the Vermont winter is in a green house. I become even more confused as I glance at the refrigerator case, with pulp, without pulp, with calcium, without calcium. Adding to my mental distress are the choices of honey, raw sugar, maple syrup, or that white stuff.
I much prefer my food past where recipes were simple, flavors marked the seasons, and what mattered most was sharing it all with loved ones.
