First, let me say that I am NOT a Thanksgiving humbug.
Quite the opposite. I love Thanksgiving.
It’s the highest, holiest food holiday on the calendar, the only time when the entire country is galvanized around cooking, saturated by the idea of spending a day or two in the kitchen.
I love cranberry sauce. I love mashed potatoes. I love gravy, squash, green bean casserole, roasted cauliflower, and stuffings of all varieties.
I love the freezing-cold martini that comes before the meal, the tastefully boisterous California zinfandel that goes with it, and the bracing glass of calvados that inevitably appears at the end.
And don’t even get me started on pie, which I believe should be the 51st state.
But here’s the kicker on how I feel about Thanksgiving, and what a kicker it is:
I don’t like turkey.
I just don’t. I can’t help it. Especially the white meat.
It doesn’t taste like anything. It’s always dry, stringy, mealy, tough, bland. If it’s been brined, it’s too salty. If it’s been deep-fried, it’s too soggy. And if it’s been disguised with sage or bacon or garlic, then it just doesn’t taste like turkey.
Nope, I just don’t like it.
I’m cool with the skin. It’s basically crispy roasted fat, so what’s not to like?
And the dark meat, I can handle. But only on a day-after sandwich, on country white bread that’s been amply coated with both butter and mayonnaise.
But straight up roasted turkey carved straight from the breast and onto my plate? No, thanks.
I’d much rather give thanks to a planked salmon. A roast of pork. A salt-baked red snapper. A steak.
I suspect I’m not the only one.
Yes, there will be those who argue with me, who will say that I just haven’t had a turkey prepared correctly, or that I need to try a free-range heirloom turkey, or that I generally don’t know what I’m talking about and should be ignored. (It’s that last criticism that will be the loudest.)
To them, I ask: How many non-Thanksgiving turkeys did you roast last year?
Hm?
Thought so.
That said, I love Thanksgiving. Bring it on. Stir me up that martini, and save me an extra piece of pie: I’m in.
In other news:
I blogged about this on our website (you can find the Post’s food blogs at ), but I think it bears repeating in print, because it’s interesting to food geeks.
Several readers called in last week to – well, I think challenge would be the polite term – to challenge me on the spelling of pinoli cookies in last week’s review of Chesco’s Vero Italiano.
They wanted a “G”: pignoli.
We consulted four trusty sources when deciding which way to go: The “Food Lover’s Companion,” “The Oxford Companion to Italian Food,” the DK Italian-English dictionary, and the Association of Food Journalists’ style guide.
Most of them had both spellings, with the G-less version preferred. So, while pignoli is also correct (and for all I know there are even more acceptable spellings) we decided to save the ink and go with pinoli. (For fun: The singular is “pinolo.” )
Tucker Shaw: 303-954-1958 or dining@denverpost.com. His dining review will return next week.
