Wassail doesn’t make me think of apples or the brown pulpy foam, or the potpourri you end up ingesting with the quickest of hot pecks. It makes me think of WASPs, sailing. And of ferrets. Because Wassail might as well be weasel, which is quite ferret like. And ferrets make me think of the way thin old boobs hang, long and lean. Our whole lives we try to be just that, defined, carved, elongated. And with Christmases past and soon present, the bits of us we’d hoped were rounder go oblong. Then we wrap a silk scarf ’round the wattle, thank heavens for the Ally McBeal characters with real life contemporaries, apply a brighter shade of lipstick than we would, say, in spring (or at least hopefully with less orange), and we pour ourselves some Wassail. No, more, dear friends, no more. This year, my drink of choice will be salty, sweet, sticky and soused up but good.

That’s right. Enter the Salted Caramel Vodka (or Maker’s Mark) Hot Chocolate. The real question is: when will Fourbucks get their liquor license already? Because my other winter go-to hooch beverage is a kissing cousin of the Spiced Caramel Apple Cider. Just add calvados and bourbon. Or really anything alcoholic. Who cares. Soon, if you do it right, you won’t.

With Ribbons, Bows & Nautical Knots, here’s to tying one,

Stephanie
 

I’m at the library with books stacked to my chin; it’s the Holiday Preamble, a preface to the pudge, a prologue to the pounds. Planning for the holiday season makes me want to smack my mama and roll her in the mud. Gathering lists, comparing recipes, flipping through holiday circulars, it’s all tastier than spoonbread, more toothsome than cider-glazed turkey, sticky sweet sin pudding. I can’t get enough.

Duck That Goose

This season, however, we’re taking our show on the road, winding our way up to the Treasure Coast, where we’ll be giving thanks at Yiayia’s house.

We’ll be picking up my grandmother “Big Yiayia,” in Delray Beach, then heading north to my mother’s home in Stuart, FL. My sister Lea will be meeting us there, after her drive down from Gainesville (she graduates this January with a degree and license in Chinese Herbs and Medicine and Acupuncture, a nice addition to her massage therapy and cosmetology licenses). I call first!

At my mother’s home: She and her husband Don, Lea, Big Yiayia, Phil, Lucas, Abigail, and their mother, The Glutton. My grandmother, age 96, will be baking cookies and assembling Baklava (she has worked as a chef and caterer, and she spent a lifetime married to, my pappou (pah-pooh), a Greek man named Euripides, so the Greek sweets and appetizers are always aplenty. My mother will bake her cider-thickened apple pie and will construct a salad, roast a bird, reduce a cranberry sauce with pear, nuts, and mandarin orange. As always, she’ll compose a gravy—without saying the word “giblet”. If she uses innards, we needn’t know about it, even though we know about it. Then, she’ll orchestrate a dressing (stuffing) worthy of hymn.

Oh, the stuffing. As an indecisive Libra, I can allow that I’ve always got my hand in it, and I’m never completely satisfied until I’ve taste-tested my way through the options. There’s the traditional sausage, celery, white raisin or apple, sure. There’s the wild mushroom camp. The cornbread addicts. The chestnut fools (Sorry, but chestnuts only smell good. They taste like mealy mush scrotum). Oysters. Sage. Wild rice! How you dress your bird is a decision as paralyzing as how to trim a tree (another obsession of mine).

A few doors down, my aunt will host neighbors and her own children and grandchildren. Then, after dinner, we’ll all gather together at a tented pool reserved for our family, where we’ll binge pick our way through desserts. Together, we’ll be close to twenty-five people, give or take a drumstick.

My job: glorious side dishes and extraordinary desserts. My dream job. Where, oh, where to begin. My answer: the library. One thing I know for sure: I’ll be making a tray of macaroni and cheese at Phil’s request. ‘Cause he likes nothing else on the Thanksgiving table. I can’t believe we’re related.

Previous Thanksgiving Love Notes:

It’s The Thought That Counts, Not The Calories
(This includes links to previous Thanksgiving years)

Giving Thanks For Leggings

I‘ve learned that there are new neighbors in our development. Hence, the flour and sugar. I happened to have twenty-four Italian prune plums on hand, because, well, that’s just the kind of psycho kitchen I keep. The violet gems aren’t around long, so when I see them at the market, I nab them up. Growing up, my mother cleaved each plum and cooked them on the stove top until they were thick and bubbling, with cinnamon, vanilla bean, and sugar, “Just enough,” she’d say. “Who needs crust!” I was too impatient to wait for them to cool, dipping my finger in when her back was turned, shoving that finger into my mouth before she could spot me. She was right. They were better once they cooled and thickened up a bit. We’d spoon them over vanilla ice cream or swirl them into breakfast farina or yogurt. There’s something soulful about them, which you can’t say for many end of summer, very early autumn, fruits.

More slender than their stubby round-bottomed plum cousins, Italian Prune Plums look as if they’ve been dusted with a fine coat of powder. Slice them open, and you won’t find bursting runnels or vibrant flesh. They aren’t as juicy, which makes them the perfect candidate for a dessert bar. The Italian jewels have a green tint to them, a telltale of tart. Which is exactly what I look for in a fruit destined for the shortbread life. Tart fruit that flirts with the sugared butter crust is all a girl can ask for. It’s why I like rhubarb bars, and even, although sweeter, blueberry bars. And don’t get me started on my all-time favorite Blueberry Buckle Bars. Sense a theme here. I love me some (walnut honey!) bars because they make good gift. Oh, right, and my Blondes Have More Fun Bars.

Also, if you ever find yourself in South Florida, make your way over to The Boys Farmers Market in Delray Beach, FL. It’s basically a kissing cousin of Zabar’s, but with even more Jews. Their produce is the best I’ve found, ever. Seriously, I’d say it’s on par with Eli’s, which was obscenely overpriced. The Boys produce is all “sugar sweet.” Sugar Sweet Peaches. Sugar Sweet Corn. Sugar Sweet Bing Cherries. The whole place is juicy and makes me want to take my top off and let them squeeze my melons.

The Boys Farmers Market, Delray Beach, FL

Lifetime Member Moment

120 lbs. Last week I passed Go and collected the Gold. I’ve become a Weight Watchers Lifetime Member this year (for once a New Year’s Resolution kept)! I wasn’t an exercise psycho, didn’t force myself to go to the gym when I was tired. I drank wine, ate ice cream, and mostly tried to give my body food that lasts, that keeps me full, food that my body likes. A lot of Greek yogurt for this Greek Tragedy.

I set my goal, and kept within 2 lbs. of it for six consecutive weeks. I set the goal at 125 lbs. I’m 5’4 1/2″. I’m 120 lbs., so now that I’m a lifetime member, so long as I never weigh in past 127 lbs. I no longer need to pay. But I can weigh in less than my goal weight and not have to pay. So for all of you out there who Weight Watchers it up, pick a higher/ Thanksgiving weight as your goal number.

In the above photo, I am indeed, at a meeting, in front of a room full of women, punctuated with three men. And I am crying. Who took the photo? One of the other members who keeps a journal of all the inspiring stories she hears. How nice is that, seriously? The world really can be such a loving, warm place… especially in a room full of dieting women.

Blondies with Walnuts & Semi-Sweet Chips

May I just go on record as saying that I truly began to lose weight when Phil bought me a deep freezer for Mother’s Day last year? This way, I can bake love into lives, sample for a day, then pack the rest away for company, so there’s no longer a week’s worth of IN YOUR FACE to encourage the sugar overdose.

I’m down to 123 lbs. again, but I’ve set my official Weight Watchers goal to 125 lbs., which means, so long as I stay within two pounds (up or down) of 125, for six, count ‘em (6), paid weeks, I will make lifetime member, where I’ll no longer have to pay WW my moolah.

It has been, very surprisingly, easy. Like, damn easy. I still hit up Cold Stone Creamery, still bake, still eat plenty of carbs, and I for sure still drink (not those skinny drinks either). I’m a big believer in “the real deal.” I don’t mess with artificial sweeteners, fat-free this or that. I have the real thing. And that’s been the beauty. I no longer have Phil chiming in with, “I love you the way you are, but you said you’re miserable, so do you really want to eat that tub of Baskin’ Robbins?” Because he’s been knocked upside the head… and he’s realized that I can eat these things and still lose weight.

I think the real key has been shifting my priorities away from “can’t” and toward “can.” When I phrased my daily goal to be “getting in at least 90 – 120 grams of protein,” I was so focused on doing just that, that there wasn’t room for “I shouldn’t” or “bad,” or “anti-christ-carbs.” I can have whatever I think I want, just first hit your daily goal of 90 – 120 grams of protein. Totally works. Deny myself nothing. I love it.

I’m on week four of maintenance (this week, plus two more weeks and I’m a lifetime member). And no, my brain hasn’t quite caught up. It still thinks I’m overweight, despite my size 27 jeans. Know why that is? Because yes, as much weight as I’ve lost (30.6 lbs.), the shape of my body is the same. The proportions are the same, just narrower. So, my new goal is going to become a goal of strength. I haven’t set it yet, but it will be something like, “Do a pullup.” I feel lighter and more free, more able, more yes. And really, who wouldn’t want that?

The Original: Milk with toppings

I am, and always have been, intrusively obsessed with plain tart frozen yogurt. It’s not some yogurt prancing around trying to be the equal of ice cream. It’s beyond comparison when it’s done right. And now that I’ve changed states, I’m on the hunt for the equal of Yogurtland’s creamy (dairy-based) Plain Tart yogurt. Today, this very morning, I plan on hitting up Haagen-Dazs and 16 Handles, hoping with all hopes that one of them comes close to the bliss that is Yogurtland’s tart (Yogurtland in Coral Springs is a good half-hour drive). Will let you know my own findings in this very important world event. Newsflash: I think Haagen-Dazs has discontinued their tart natural (and while Chai Latte sounds like it might wanna be my BFF, it’s not within a 50 mile radius of my arse). Where, oh where, shall I find a *creamy* milky goodness tart?