After a week of family, friends, and general merry-making, I’m back to my traditional existence of food-making and solitude. Rockin’. It was great to have everyone in town traipsing around the house and eating the things I made with gusto. I guess I appreciated knowing that someone besides Chris likes the food I make, since he’s obligated to appreciate everything by virtue of the fact that he has to live with it or starve. Or eat Chipotle for 8-10 weeks at a time, no breaks. Which is no punishment for him, I promise you. Regardless, I’m back.
I’m not back with a vengeance, since it’s leftoverpalooza until I can get my fridge back to a state of emptiness that would make a bachelor proud. (I was going to say “make an Ethiopian proud” but then decided it’d be offensive to someone, somewhere, so I left it out. How mature am I??) But there is good news out of this fog of leftovers; I now know what street gangs eat for Thanksgiving. How, you ask? Simple. I RUN WITH GANGS, and that’s why I do what I WANT, and why I defied “the man” to make Kristie pie just how I wanted to make it.
Originally, I was going to make a pot pie with mashed potatoes on top, but I was then informed that it would then be a shepherd’s pie instead. I didn’t want to make a shepherd’s pie, I wanted to make a pot pie with a potato crust. Lest anyone become confuse, I went outside, ran with my gang some more, and came up with Shepherd’s Pot Pie. A gorgeous concoction of a blind-baked, homemade sage pie crust that had been pressed into the bottom and sides of a gratin casserole dish, topped with a thick layer of garlic mashed potatoes (and then baked again to crust the top of the ‘taters),, and then filled with turkey, amazingly gelatinous turkey stock,
browned mirepoix, cut fresh green beans, diced green peppers, butter, cream, and a dash of sherry vinegar ‘cuz I’m a wild woman like that. Then topped all of THAT with another sage pie crust and baked it again. Then I thought about the name, “Shepherd’s Pot Pie,” and thought about a bunch of shepherds, all bored in their fields herding a bunch of bleating sheep around, stumbling upon a funny looking plant, smoking it and then getting all hungry for pie. I figure, it has to have happened at some point, and I prefer to be original. So now it’s Kristie Pie.
How’d it go? Well, Chris is looking at me with renewed love in his eyes, the cats are sniffing around and yelling at me, and I feel all spunky and rebellious. Unqualified success in my book.
Ah, how I missed you folk.
Oh, BTW, with the exception of cutting a yam in half, covering it with sugar, taking a torch to it, and calling it “yam brulee,” my T-day prep was pretty standard. My turkey cooked in about 1/2 the time that it should have, though it turned out great. That meant I went into full-on crazy-person panic mode, had about 25 minutes to make 5 side dishes and bake off my sourdough rolls (thankfully, they’d been rising already), and collect myself enough to sit down and relax. And I was still sober, which was a little upsetting. This is where some magic happened– I put my gravy in the blender because I like the chunks to stay in and be part of the gravy, and I was in a hurry and overfilled it, and the lid flew off and shot boiling gravy all over my arms and hands and made me cry like a little bitch and turn a violent fuschia. So that was good. I wasn’t very thankful for that, I’m ashamed to admit.