Stock in trade

My cookbook exhorts me to make my turkey stock early the morning of the day following the turkey feast. Meaning that I ought to have made my stock a good 48 hours ago.

Oh, dear.

Everything now takes longer than expected, and I'm making my turkey stock today.

I'm sure that, once finished, it will be happy in its containers in the freezer, longing for the day so far in the future when it will be used to make a risotto alla funghi...

Kanadasalat

My family's potato salad is as simple as it is delicious. Embarrassingly simple, to tell the truth. So simple that I'm embarrassed to share it with others.

Three ingredients:

• Potatoes (did I really need to say that?)
• Diced apple
• Miracle Whip

Yes, Miracle Whip. That bottled mayo-esque substance. It lies at the heart of my family's potato salad.

There, I've said it. The metaphorical cat is out of the bag. (The litteral cat is begging me to throw her mouse.)

This is the kind of food that is best enjoyed at home with those who won't judge. As good as it tastes, I don't think I've ever brought it along to a potluck, for instance.

But when my in-laws were visiting from Europe in the spring, I made it for them. My mother-in-law loved it. At least, she said she did. She couldn't quite believe me that there were just those three ingredients. My German is quite poor (Ich spreche nur ein venig Deutsch.), but the receipe is simple enough that even I could describe it in German. And, as it happens, Miracle Whip is available in Germany. (Of course, it is pronounced more like Mirakel Vip.)

So my mother-in-law (and this is probably a good place to point out that, unlike too many women, I actually like my mother-in-law, and she seems to like me, too) decided to make this salad, which she dubbed Kanadasalat (because, of course, she first tasted it in Canada), for Christmas Eve.

The cat is not only out of the bag, it has scampered across the pond.

My reputation as a reasonable cook must be in tatters.

I hang my head in shame as I pass the bowl for seconds.

9:20 pm

That's when we finally sat down to our Christmas supper.

For turkey cooking time guidance, I checked my trusty Canadian Living Complete Cookbook and my Mom, too. Both provided times based on a stuffed 6.5 kg bird, about 3.5 hours at 325F. Our turkey was just 4.6 kg, so surely it would take no longer, right?

Wrong.

I got the stuffed critter in the oven at 3:12 pm. Five and a half hours (and a few incremental jumps in oven temperature) later, I hauled it out for the last time. I'd used one digital instant-read thermometer and one dial-type leave-in thermometer to monitor the bird's progress, and they were finally closing in on the magical 82C mark. The juices were running clear. The scent of roast turkey had finally permeated the house.


During the turkey's rest (nap?), the veggies (potatoes, yams, butternut squash, carrots, parsnips, and shallots) roasted, the white asparagus steamed, and I made a Hollandaise sauce and (yuck) gravy. The cranberry sauce I'd made earlier in the day. When Werner carved the turkey, we were reassured that the bugger was well and truly cooked (though not overcooked, which I would have expected after that long in the increasingly-hot oven.)

The meal was good, if far too late in the evening for our liking. By the time we'd finished eating, it seemed too late for dessert, and the Yule Log, which I'd struggled to finish on Christmas Eve, was left untouched.

That's it, I'm baking

I've had a crappy day. The baby has spat up on me, as always, but courtesy of leaky diapers (damn those Huggies) has also pooped on me during his first feeding and peed on me during his second.

Werner has taken him out for a walk. This is the first time I've had the house to myself since the baby was born.

I'm baking chocolate cupcakes.