Happy Thanksgiving!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! I hope your holiday was merry. Here's the spread we feasted on today:
We had turkey......mashed potatoes......cornbread and sausage stuffing......brussel sprouts with pancetta......cranberry sauce......gravy......cornbread pudding......and champagne!I can't wait to eat leftovers!

Lentil Sausage Soup

As the temperature plummets and snow flurries fill the skies, it's time to break out the soup recipes. I made this Ina Garten recipe for dinner the other night. It's a variation of basic ham and lentil soup. Decidedly delicious!

LENTIL SAUSAGE SOUP

1 lb French green lentils (recommended: du Puy)
1/4 c olive oil, plus extra for serving
4 c diced yellow onions (3 large)
4 c chopped leeks, white and light green parts only (2 leeks)
1 tbs minced garlic (2 large cloves)
1 tbs kosher salt
1 1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tbs minced fresh thyme leaves
1 tsp ground cumin
3 c medium diced celery (8 stalks)
3 c medium diced carrots (4 to 6 carrots)
3 qts chicken stock (I used 2 1/2 qts)
1/4 c tomato paste
1 lb kielbasa, cut in 1/2 lengthwise and sliced 1/3" thick
2 tbs dry red wine or red wine vinegar
Freshly grated Parmesan, for serving

In a large bowl, cover the lentils with boiling water and allow to sit for 15 minutes. Drain.

In a large stockpot over medium heat, heat the olive oil and saute the onions, leeks, garlic, salt, pepper, thyme, and cumin for 20 minutes, or until the vegetables are translucent and tender. Add the celery and carrots and saute for another 10 minutes. Add the chicken stock, tomato paste, and drained lentils, cover, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer uncovered for 1 hour, or until the lentils are cooked through and tender. Check the seasonings. Add the kielbasa and red wine and simmer until the kielbasa is hot.Serve drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with grated Parmesan.

Sausage and Feta Hand Pies

SAUSAGE AND FETA HAND PIES

makes 12

1/4 c extra-virgin olive oil
1 lb sweet Italian sausage, casings removed
1 large onion, thinly sliced
1 small head fenned (about 1 pound), trimmed, cored, and thinly sliced
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 plum tomatoes, quartered lengthwise, seeded, and cut into 1/2" dice
8 oz feta cheese, crumbled
1/2 c fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves, coarsely chopped
All-purpose flour, for dusting
Pate Brisee (see recipe below)
1 large egg, lightly beaten
3 tbs fennel seeds

Heat 2 tbs oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Crumble sausage into pan; cook, stirring occasionally, until browned, about 4 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the sausage to a paper towel-lined plate; set aside.

Add remaining 2 tbs oil to skillet along with the onion; cook, stirring occasionally, for 2 minutes. Add sliced fennel and red pepper flakes; season with salt and pepper. Continue cooking, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are tender, about 8 minutes. Add tomatoes and cook, stirring, until they release their juices, 3 to 4 minutes. Add the reserved sausage, and stir to combine. Remove from heat, and let cool completely. Stir in feta cheese and parsley; set filling aside.

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees, with racks in the upper and lower thirds. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper, and set aside.

On a lightly floured piece of parchment paper, roll out one piece of dough to a 16x11" rectangle. Trim to 15x10". Cut into six 5" squares. With a dry pastry brush, sweep off excess flour. Place 1/2 c filling in the center of each square. Fold up all four corners around the filling, so that the points meet in the center but do not touch (leave about 1/4" of space between them). Repeat with remaining piece of dough and filling. Transfer to prepared baking sheets.

Brush tops of dough with the beaten egg, and sprinkle with fennel seeds.Bake, rotating sheets halfway through, until pies are golden brown and filling is set, about 40 minutes. Cool slightly on a wire rack. Serve warm.PATE BRISEE

makes enough for one double-crust or two single-crust 9" pies

For the flakiest crust, make sure all ingredients (including the flour) are cold before you begin.

2 1/2 c all-purpose flour
1 tsp salt
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, cold, cut into small pieces
1/4 c ice water, plus more if needed

In the bowl of a food processor, combine flour and salt; pulse to combine. Add the butter, and pulse until mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some larger pieces remaining, about 10 seconds. (To mix by hand, combine dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl, then cut in butter with a pastry blender.)

With the machine running, add the ice water through the feed tube in a slow, steady stream, just until the dough holds together without being wet or sticky. Do not process more than 30 seconds. Test by squeezing a small amount of the dough together; if it is still too crumbly, add a bit more water, 1 tbs at a time.

Turn out the dough onto a clean work surface. Divide in half, and place each half on a piece of plastic wrap. Shape into flattened disks. Wrap in plastic, and refrigerate at least 1 hour or overnight. The dough can be frozen for up to 1 month; thaw overnight in the refrigerator before using.

Collard Greens with Bacon

Healthy: leafy, virtuous collard greens.
Unhealthy: fatty applewood-cured bacon.
Delicious: collard greens with aforesaid bacon.

I make several variations of collard greens, but I usually have leftover bacon in the freezer, so it's a cinch to throw together a Southern comfort side dish. Cut out the long, bitter stems of the collard greens, roll up the leaves, and chop them into bundles to create strips.In a heavy-bottomed skillet, fry the bacon strips.Add the collard greens, a few tbs of olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste. Be sure to thoroughly cook the greens so they will not retain their naturally bitter taste.Here, the collard greens complement a pork chop that has been sauteed in a cast iron skillet.Sweet tea, hush puppies and pecan pie are optional.

"The Meat of the Issue"

I wrote the following essay when I was studying abroad in France two summers ago. Apparently, a mere six weeks without red meat was more than I could handle; instead of penning nonfiction prose about the wildflowers in the French Alps, I wrote a diatribe about my yearning for a juicy steak."The Meat of the Issue"

Rousseau was on to something when he wrote about the passions of savage man. As Professor Sullivan outlined the representation of hunting in the state of nature, my carnivorous instinct made itself apparent. Doodling in the margins of my Poli Sci notebook, I sketched a T-bone on a silver platter, a parsley sprig, a knife and fork, a double-hamburger surrounded by 22 hearts, and the phrases “J’aime bien le bifteck,” “I miss steak,” and “Meat...I love you.”

More than friends, family, cell phones, Internet access, or Dunkin Donuts, the aspect of American life I miss most is red meat. For the past month, I’ve suffered from severe beef withdrawal. “Please grill me a steak and FedEx it to France,” I half-jokingly jot as the conclusion to all my e-mails. Omahasteaks.com has quickly become my favorite form of pornography.

France is a land full of ridiculously thin people who love their salted and cured meats. I adore ham as much as anyone else, but the extent to which the French consume it is outrageous; they might as well sprinkle it on their cereal. I’m convinced their national food pyramid has a separate category for pork derivatives. A former prosciutto-lover, if I see another rosette or jambon or saucisson, I’ll slaughter a pig myself, Wilbur be damned. Beef is my antidote to a life of porcine crime. I’ll risk Mad Cow Disease if it means my belly is happy. One night, I stared down at my dinner plate to see a lone artichoke head glaring back at me. Bon appétit indeed. My heart pangs for Morton’s and palpitates at the thought of slabs of quasi-mooing cow.

I phoned my mom to complain about my protein deprivation. “Haha, I’m grilling Delmonicos as we speak,” she retorted, ever the wit. “Your dad went to Ruth’s Chris Steak House on Friday and ate a 60 oz. Porterhouse. Do you know how many pounds of meat that is?!” My friend called to describe in minute detail the feast at his sister’s wedding rehearsal dinner. Filet mignon, lobster, steamed clams, and, how dare he say it, ribs, filled out the menu. I icily reminded him that my host family just served me boudin Lyonnais: pig blood pudding. Chowing down on a piglet’s sanguinary kidneys, interspersed with flakes of uterus and the occasional whisker, is not my definition of a good time.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I organized a group excursion to an establishment dubiously named “Bora Bora Restaurant” because Gabriella, our program’s Executive Director, raved about its American-style hamburgers. Never a fan of McDonald’s, I found myself making pilgrimages to Quick Hamburger Restaurant to supplement my jambon-on-buttery-baguette lunches. Bacon-flavored snack crisps vie for prime shelf-space at the Huit à Huit in Talloires, yet American-style bacon is nowhere to be found. Instead, questionable circles of mauve-colored pork peek out from my weekly indulgence, the Maxi Bacon Burger.

My host family left for Marseilles one weekend, indicating that, in the interim, I could feast on three containers of ramen noodles and two cans of tuna salad “Americana” with boiled corn. Instead of coal, they had stuffed my stocking with sodium. Livid, I stalked the cobblestone streets of Annecy, credit card in hand, in search of beefy satisfaction. I sadly learned that the traditional French cut, Parisian entrecôte, doesn’t do justice to the steak family. Pounded thin with an angry patch of congealed fat running through the center, entrecôte is rough and stringy. Like Clara in the classic Wendy’s ads, I wanted to shriek, “Où est le boeuf?”

Upon arriving in Paris, my friends and I raced to the first restaurant with the word viande emblazoned on its awning. Saliva pooled on the menus as we greedily translated the phrases steak au poivre, coeur de rumsteak, and tournedos de boeuf. Masticated chunks of filet de boeuf never tasted so good. Notre-Dame, Sacre-Coeur, Sainte Chappelle—the great Parisian churches were beautiful, but my religious experience that weekend involved a knife and a fork.

Every day, the Crolard bus passes a pen of pygmy brown sheep. Without fail, Hillary, my usual seatmate, coos, “Ooooh! Look at da baby sheepies! I want to play with them!” I peer down and think, yes, those would look nice. If they were prepared medium-rare with a nice Béarnaise sauce.