Man, it is almost Christmas and I am still trying to perfect a Thanksgiving dish! My poor family has eaten the infamous Green Bean Casserole at least a half a dozen times, if not more, in the last few weeks. I wanted to get it right. And Thanksgiving didn’t wait for me: it came, it went—and I kept cooking green beans.

I was intent on finding a new version of this old favorite. And despite the fact that I am wedged between holidays, with a million things to do, these green beans were worth the fuss.

Thanksgiving is lovely for all its familiarity: the same side dishes, the familiar faces, even the same conversations (updated for this year, of course). I love Thanksgiving and all of its sameness. But this Thanksgiving wasn’t about sameness for our little family.

This year we were suctioned out of what is the same and abruptly—and curiously—inserted into novel Thanksgiving territory. Instead of the extended family and the recipes that have been passed down our own family line, we enjoyed Thanksgiving with families from New Orleans, from Portland, OR from Seattle, WA, California and Hawaii. My humble, little family was inserted into a much larger and just-being-established family by way of my dear friend’s Thanksgiving & Wedding Extravaganza. Because THAT is what it WAS. No one will deny it.

It was as novel and Thanksgiving as a balance could strike. My friend loves Thanksgiving; it has long been her favorite holiday. And marrying her soul mate is nothing if not reason to be thankful. So there we were—the whole lot of us—on the coast of Oregon in a little town on the 4 mile wide mouth of the Columbia River. Where inland meets ocean, where frigid air meets unnaturally bright sun. We cooked and toasted and drank and danced; we had Thanksgiving, then a wedding. It felt like Mardi Gras. And yet, with so much extended family from New Orleans, what better way to celebrate? Why limit festivities and yards of food to just one day? Night poured into day, breakfast just shy of dinner, libations and laughter and touring and tasting continued around the clock.

It was the same: there was lots of food, lots of family, lots of conversation. Yet is was different: unfamiliar food, different families, new conversations. And on the ride home, my son remarked that although it was really fun, it just wasn’t the same. And the side dishes that he has grown to love were not present. And so, when we came home I made him his sweet potatoes, and no less than six times: the Green Bean Casserole.

I wanted to keep the sacred casserole the same comfortable dish it has always been; yet, something inside me likes to change things, if just a little. Update them, evolve them a bit, or more likely poke at their credibility as a beloved standard. I have loved the Green Bean Casserole my whole life. I have made it when invited to Thanksgiving dinners; and when serving the dinner myself I make sure it is assigned and placed appropriately at our table. No doubt layers of grandmothers—since the time of Campbells Mushroom Soup—made this dish. And yet, I wonder.

Instead of the Campbells, I made—from scratch—the ‘creamed mushroom soup’ that goes into the casserole. And in the end, I kept the same French beans and the same topping we are used to; and the casserole retained its sameness. (My inspiration for this revision came from Alanna, author of A Veggie Venture. Though mine looks different from hers, this is surely a tribute):

Green Bean Casserole
8 ounces sliced mushrooms
2 T butter
4 garlic cloves, minced
kosher salt, coarse pepper
1/4 cup flour
optional: 1 T finely minced rosemary
1 1/2 cups chicken broth
1/4 cup sherry
3/4 cup half and half
3 cans french sliced green beans
fried onions, canned

Butter in skillet over medium. Add garlic and mushrooms, salt and pepper, and sautee until mushrooms release liquid, about 6-8 minutes. Add flour (and rosemary if using) and stir for 1-2 minutes; add broth and simmer 5-6 minutes. Add half and half and simmer 10-15 minutes. Open cans of beans, drain. Off heat and stir in beans. Put in 8×8 pan, and cover with 1 1/2 cups (or so) fried onions. Cook at 400 for 20 minutes, serve.

Here, a view from our Astoria, OR:

We adore roasted veggies at our house. It seems the possibilities are endless when it comes to roasting veggies. Roasting is especially important for those eyebrow raising, face wincing vegetables (translation: not sure about these, mom.); roasting seems to assuage any concerns about flavor, texture and ultimately consumption. The proof is in the roasting: none of us liked brussel sprouts. BUT when roasted with olive oil and coarse salt they become an immediate favorite, a request in the name of side-dishes. Cooking them this way causes two of us to become giddy, and a third to keep saying: “I really don’t like brussel sprouts… but I really like these.” And a fourth? The jury is still out.This Thanksgiving, we have a history-marking, unusual dinner to attend. My dear friend is getting married, and Thanksgiving week is the time she chose. It is perfect, really. Not only is it her favorite holiday, but it will involve a pile of people coming together to be thankful for love, for festivity, for cause to celebrate over a table bursting with food.

And we each signed up for a plethora of food favorites, must-haves for the big meal, memories from families near and far. My contribution will be brussel sprouts and orange rolls. I will roll up my sleeves and help everyone else, since these brussel sprouts—which often appear on our table at home—will take no more than 10 minutes to prepare:

Roasted Brussel Sprouts
brussel sprouts
olive oil
coarse salt (fleur de sel is best)

Cut tops off sprouts, slice in half if they are nearing the size of golf balls. Douse with olive oil, use hands to toss, so all are lightly coated with oil. Sprinkle with salt. Place in 400 oven for 30 minutes. Give thanks and serve.

I was in a slump: I admit it.

I cooked impressive-sounding things like pinot noir braised red onions with roasted chicken, and soy braised beets with salmon in arugula cream sauce, and bruschetta with rosemary white bean puree. But things—these recipes—were just not going my way.

Some of them took too long to make, involved step upon step upon step and the end result while good, wasn’t worth the ardor. Or the recipes were adequate but not exquisite. Or even worse: they were merely decent but took a lot of effort to make. My goal is employing shortcuts, cutting out unnecessary steps, keeping all the necessary flavor and delivering a great tasting meal.

Life is short: our palate only has so long to enjoy flavor combinations and find favorite recipes. So as much as I can help it, when choosing between ‘eh, that was okay’ (aka functional food) or ‘wow, shut my eyes and enjoy the savory moment’ (aka fabulous food), I am going to have to go with the latter—for myself and those who sit around my table.

A tall order, and no, not every bite in our family is to die for. BUT I am always trying to find recipes that work for us, that we sincerely appreciate and enjoy, a sort of treasure hunt to find food that entices us, that beckons us to pull up a chair and stay awhile…

All of that to say this: I don’t share every recipe with you that I try. Many of my recent endeavors have fallen short. Translation: I won’t be making them again, so why would I share them? I am not going to send recipes to your kitchens, if it fails to pass the test in my kitchen.

That said, sometimes pressing on through a slump is the only way out. I pressed on, and [whew] have two new recipes that I am quite tickled with. One is Eggplant Parmesan: watch for the post and recipe soon. And the other, an appropriately fall Fennel Pear Soup (recipe follows).

I love soups. For a special first course at dinner, for lunch the next day… with a big wedge of just-baked bread… It isn’t a stretch to believe that soup is good for the soul—especially this one:

Fennel Pear Soup
2 bulbs fennel
1 yellow onion
2 comice pears
2 T butter
4 cups chicken broth
2 T flour
coarse salt & white pepper
½ cup half and half

Trim base and stalks of fennel, thinly slice bulb. Do the same with the onion. In skillet: add fennel, onion, butter and 2 T water. Cover, cook over medium high for 5-7 minutes. Add 2 T flour, stir for 1 minute. Add peeled and chopped pears and broth; cover and simmer until pears are soft, 5 minutes. Puree. Return to pan, add [coarse] salt, pepper and the cream. Simmer 6-8 minutes, serve. (optional garnish: fennel fronds).

I am in love with fennel; read more of my obsession in what to do with 2 bulbs of fennel. Oh, and if you DO make this as a lovely first coarse for Thanksgiving, also consider mixing up the Ginger Orange Cocktail (skip the Halloween rantings, this ginger-forward drink can easily squeeze in a chair at the Thanksgiving table).

It is sad, tear-worthy really. You know how you make a certain dish at Thanksgiving, the one that you [almost] enjoy more the second day? The otherwise forbidden treat, that special side-dish that you can’t wait to beckon off your fork?

I realize Thanksgiving is quite over, but I cannot shake the fact that my favorite side dish was left in the back of the oven. Yes, really. I made two small trays of pecan crusted sweet potatoes, and one of those two trays never saw the table—or my mouth.

On a Thanksgiving table bursting with sides and special dishes, one tray of sweet potatoes was among them. But on day two, when the cravings for repeat Thanksgiving sensation appeared, I was unhappily surprised that the sweet potatoes were not to be found. So many dishes, so many guests: I had no idea we were missing a dish. Nor did I realize it lay waiting in the back of a now cold, otherwise vacant oven. Until I found it—four days later. So you can understand, now, why my sadness lingers.

I figure the only remedy is to remake this little gem, this side dish from heaven, the sweet potatoes that could bet a wager against any dessert. And a special thanks to my sister-in-law, who first brought this dish to the Thanksgiving table. Now I understand that glisten in her eyes… her second tray was safely stowed away in her fridge for the next day!

Pecan Crusted Sweet Potatoes
3 cups mashed sweet potatoes (29 oz. can yams)
1/3 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
1/3 cup milk
1/4 cup melted butter

Topping
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup flour
1 cup pecan pieces

Mix first 6 ingredients (I usually puree potatoes in processor or use a food mill) and place in dish; Mix topping, place over sweet potatoes. Bake @ 350* for 35-40 minutes. Fills one 8×8 pan or two small ovals. Check back of oven for stowaways.

Although Thanksgiving has passed, I have ingredients beckoning me to remake the infamous orange rolls that don our Thanksgiving table year after year. In fact, they were made and presented on our family table long before I came along. I best check, but I am pretty sure I am third generation on these little savory sweet spirally gems and this year, my son became the fourth generation. He made these special orange rolls with me, knowing exactly what he was in for and just like I did when I was his age, he was looking forward to the stack of rolls he would enjoy over the course of Thanksgiving Day.

One cannot possibly eat enough of them, and should they ever replace a traditional pie-eating contest, many generations of my family—child after child plucking them out of a warm, cloth-lined basket—would not hesitate to line up and stuff orange rolls into their ready mouths. On good memories alone, their psychological preparedness, would equip them to out-eat any would-be orange roll competitor. Stand aside all you plain roll eaters, here come the orange roll inhalers!

This orange roll tradition was the basis of an annual plot to horde and to hide. I can speak for myself: my cousin and I would sit on a piano bench at the end of the Thanksgiving table and unbeknownst to the adults, would gorge on orange rolls. We would even hide some in napkins for later. As far as we were concerned, they were the main course and everything else was a ‘side.’

Orange Rolls
2 c Bisquick
1 egg beaten plus fresh OJ to make ¾ cup
1/4 c melted butter
1/2 c sugar
1/2 c orange zest (4 medium oranges)

Heat oven to 375. Mix Bisquick and egg/OJ mix; knead slightly and roll into 1/2 inch thick rectangle. Use Bisquick to flour countertop prior to rolling out dough (I skip the rolling and just use my fingers to press out a rough rectangle). Brush with melted butter, sprinkle with sugar orange peel mix. Roll up from one long side to the other, cut in 1 inch slices and place on oiled cookie sheet. Bake 8-10 minutes.

Luisa at The Wednesday Chef inspired me to write this post, after I read her scrumptuous description of Wheat and Cornmeal Cheese Rolls. Hats off to baskets of rolls adorning tables everywhere!