by Dawn Lerman
Pumpkin Pie, Egg Coffee, Sweet Potato Hummus, Creamy Cashew Butternut Soup
In my daydreams, which is where I spent a good part of my childhood, Thanksgiving would be a perfect time that would bring my extended family members—some of whom I did not know very well—together. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents would travel from near and far, and they would bring their favorite dishes that would contribute to a picturesque meal. As we ate, we would swap stories, jokes, and recipes; and we would compliment one another on the beautiful casseroles, entrées, side dishes, and desserts. Then we would all retire in front of a warm, dancing fire, listening to the crackling flames as we watched the first snowfall, ate dessert, and played games like charades and backgammon.
I could taste all the delicious foods that I imagined would be at our gathering as I pasted the cut-out food pictures from Better Homes and Gardens magazine onto the back of my seventh-grade binder. There was a turkey stuffed with apples and sage that had a golden brown skin, a creamy butternut squash soup with cashews, and roasted Brussels sprouts with a pomegranate reduction. And for dessert, there would be a choice of a pumpkin pie with a graham cracker crust or a warm berry cobbler. I was salivating studying the possibilities.
Since we’d moved to Manhattan, Thanksgiving was always at a restaurant, and there were never any extended family members, just big crowds of strangers and an all-you-can-eat buffet. Everyone would rush for the food and not really take the time to notice how it was prepared or how it smelled. I would watch my dad dash for seconds and thirds without taking a breath. His favorite advertising slogan was Alka-Seltzer’s “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing,” and eat the whole thing he did more than once—especially when he was on the Stone Age Diet, which allowed large amounts of protein and fat, and small amounts of carbohydrates, so he could eat as much turkey as he desired without guilt. “Men are supposed to eat like cavemen,” he would say—devouring the gigantic turkey leg, wing, breast, and thigh. Sometimes April and I would hardly even eat since we were always getting elbowed out of the way in our attempts to get into the food line. It was all about my dad filling and refilling his plate.
At mealtime in the restaurant at Thanksgiving, we would never sit and have a conversation and talk about what we were grateful for. I would pretend I was Harriet the Spy and try to listen to what other families were talking about—the families that went up only once for food and seemed to genuinely enjoy one another’s company as they ate their meal slowly. I always longed to be back in my grandmother Beauty’s kitchen, where she asked me if I was enjoying my meal, and if I liked how she made the sweet potatoes with brown sugar, crushed pineapples, and tiny melted marshmallows, and she always pinned my overgrown bangs off my eyes while I ate, using one of her special rhinestone bobby pins.
Finally, after three long years of living in New York and much pleading, the phone call came. My grandmother was going to come to visit! She and Papa were going to take an overnight Amtrak train, the kind with a sleeping section like in the Orient Express. Beauty had never left Chicago and was scared to take a plane, but she knew how important it was to me to have her with me for the holidays, so she decided to brave the train trip. She was also dying to see what my dad looked like. He had put back on thirty pounds in the last three months but still was down over a hundred pounds since the last time she saw him.
In anticipation of our first real homemade Thanksgiving feast, I began to prepare the menu. Not only had I become good at following recipes, but I had become pretty proficient at re-creating traditional recipes with a healthier twist. Beauty said I was a natural in the kitchen, but she was much faster and far much more efficient. She could peel potatoes and apples in one smooth coil without ever breaking the skin, and she knew how to make real dark, decadent brown gravy by boiling the turkey neck and the giblets. Her butter for the corn muffins was never from the store, but always homemade—shaken by hand. My grandmother was very petite, but she was extremely strong from working in the kitchen, doing housework, and carrying groceries, so she could shake the heavy whipping cream in the glass jar vigorously for a full ten minutes with ease.
Before my grandparents arrived, my sister and I did our best to help clean our house. Beauty liked everything spotless. She never had a dish in the sink or a crumb on the floor, which she would scrub on her hands and knees daily. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for her visit. I even went to the Third Avenue Bazaar and bought a bunch of tiny vases so I could put flowers throughout the house—yellow tulips, baby’s breath, and daisies. I wanted her to feel at ease and relaxed. Beauty was a creature of habit, and since buying her house over thirty years ago, she had never slept anywhere else. “Why would I want to go to a hotel when everything I desire is right here?” she’d ask, pointing out her full cabinets lined with mason jars of dried beans, grains, oatmeal, flour, and sugar. When Papa traveled for business, she never accompanied him. In all her years of marriage—forty years total—she had never taken a vacation. I wanted everything to be as perfect as possible for her first big trip and for her to feel as special and comfortable as she always made me feel when I came to her house when I was a small child.
After a seventeen-hour train ride, my grandparents arrived, and my mom and I were waiting at the station to greet them. Beauty seemed totally unfazed by the chaos that was always at Penn Station. Before I could even say a word, she had me open her suitcase, right there, in the middle of the station with the crowds rushing by. Reaching into her bag, I felt many round metal tins, just like the ones she always had on her counter and in her refrigerator. She had me peek into each one. There were soft oatmeal raisin cookies, crispy sweet potato pancakes, salmon patties with chunks of green pepper, kugel slices with a cornflake topping, and peanut brittle squares with chocolate shavings—all my favorites. Papa handed my mother a big package of lox, packed on dry ice, and a bag of onion bialys—one of the few Jewish delicacies she enjoyed.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had told Beauty we would cook together when she arrived and all she needed to bring was herself. “It isn’t your job to take care of me,” she said, “but mine to take care of you. You are only twelve years old. I should have not waited so long to visit.”
Later that day, as we sat around in the living room munching on all the mouthwatering treats, Beauty and Papa shared their adventures of riding the train. There was a sleeping car with beds that pulled down from the wall, a smoking car for my Papa, where he was able to get a 7 & 7 (Seagram’s and 7UP) while he read what horses were running at Aqueduct Racetrack, which he planned to visit while my grandmother took my mom, my sister, and me shopping, and a fancy dining car my grandparents dressed up to eat in. My grandmother said she had the most delicious veal scallopini with artichokes, and my grandfather was very excited about the clam chowder and the New York strip steak with baked potato that he ordered. “You can judge how good a restaurant is by the size and texture of the accompanying baked potato. The baked potato on the dining car of the train did not disappoint,” he announced, nudging my grandmother to agree with him.
“It really was a beautiful baked potato, Dawn.”
“Most definitely Idaho,” Papa said.
“I usually buy those to make twice-baked potatoes for April; the skin makes such a great shell,” I added.
“Did you guys really travel all the way to New York to talk about potatoes?” my mom complained.
“No,” my grandfather snapped. “We slept in a cramped compartment with a hard mattress, so we could spend time with our daughter and grandchildren. Sit and have a little bit of the Nova I brought you.”
“We have to get moving; otherwise, we are going to miss everything.”
“What’s ‘everything’?” Beauty interrupted. “Everything I came for is right here. I don’t need to go anywhere to have a good time,” she said, reaching her arms around me and kissing me on both sides of my face while April played the piano.
; But my mother had a different idea of how we were going to spend our evening, hurrying us to get our boots and coats on while rushing us out the door. “We can still beat the crowds if we do not get stuck in traffic.” Once outside, she hailed a taxi. “West 77th Street and Central Park,” my mom instructed the cab driver.
“Mother, I am going to show you how real New Yorkers see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Tourists go to the crowded parade in the morning. Real New Yorkers like us,” she said, pointing to April and me, “view the floats the night before.” We didn’t have many family traditions or rituals, but viewing the humungous balloons come to life once a year was one of them—one that I cherished. I was glad my mom was bringing my grandmother.
Exiting the yellow-checkered cab a couple blocks from our destination, my mom loosened up a little. She locked arms with my sister, my grandmother, and me so no one would get separated. We began strolling around the crowded streets while munching on roasted chestnuts, peanuts dipped in honey, and large soft pretzels from the pushcarts. Beauty was in awe of all the people and how huge Minnie Mouse, Snoopy, and Woody Woodpecker were when the balloons were fully inflated. “I never realized how big they were. You just can’t imagine when you see them on TV. Papa should have come. This really is an incredible sight,” she said, marveling at Smokey the Bear soaring above her.
My mother was pleased that Beauty was experiencing the real flavor of the city. We showed her Central Park, the Museum of Natural History, the Dakota, where John Lennon lived, and the San Remo, where we once spotted Dustin Hoffman. Walking with my mom, my grandmother, and my sister, I realized how comfortable I had become in New York. I was not a visitor, but a real New Yorker. I knew the subways, the buses, the museums, and the stores like the back of my hand. I was excited to take Beauty to all the neighborhoods where I shopped. Her recipe cards had been my lifeline when I first arrived to the city—they gave me a focus. They were a starting point on a very long journey, one that I was now deeply immersed in. Now I wanted to be Beauty’s lifeline to Manhattan and different cuisines—taking her to my favorite vegetable, poultry, and fish stands in Chinatown and taking her to lunch at my favorite macrobiotic restaurant, Souen on the Upper West Side. I wanted to show her how to use bamboo shoots, bok choy, and Chinese eggplant in a stir-fry and how to use dandelion greens in fresh juice. Beauty was not shy about trying new foods and was always delighted by everything I showed her—reminding me she still had many secrets yet to reveal.
Returning home, we found my grandfather and my father bonding over bagel and lox sandwiches while debating about where our Thanksgiving dinner would be held. My dad wanted to go to our usual spot, the Friars Club, where there were unlimited amounts of appetizers and desserts, and each table got its own fourteen-pound turkey, or Luchow’s, where in addition to turkey, they had roasted suckling pig, Wiener schnitzel, apple crepes, and huge steins of beer. But my grandfather had never had Thanksgiving in a restaurant, and after traveling all night, he was not about to start. My father backed down, but he was disappointed. My grandfather assured my dad that in all his years of marriage, he had never left the dinner table hungry. With less than twenty-four hours to prepare our holiday meal, Beauty and I began dividing the tasks. I showed her the recipes I had been saving—even showing her many interesting vegetarian dishes, like pureed yams with grated ginger and apple cider, string beans with pine nuts, and a sweet potato hummus. We were ecstatic preparing our shopping list for the next morning.
While my grandmother and I were busy cooking our first homemade Thanksgiving feast in our Manhattan kitchen, my sister busied herself watching the parade on TV, periodically begging me to take a break so we could take a walk to see the holiday windows. And my dad kept announcing he was available to be a taster and offering to go on grocery store runs.
“It wouldn’t hurt to get a little cheese. I am sure we can always use some ice cream for the pies. Maybe a little sorbet to cleanse our palates in between courses? Let me taste that soup; I’m sure it needs a little dash more of pepper. If you want, it is not too late to get some bacon to sprinkle on the Brussels sprouts.”
My mother and grandfather stayed clear of the kitchen, arguing about why my mother did not want to move back to Chicago and work in Papa’s store as an accountant, why she did not have a coffeepot, and why my grandfather wanted dishes and real silverware rather than paper plates for the dinner. The loudest argument of all was about why my grandfather had set up work meetings when he was supposed to be visiting us, and why he was going to the track alone instead of going to Rockefeller Center for hot chocolate with us the next day.
In spite of the bickering that we heard between my grandfather and my mom, Beauty and I stayed focused. Beauty said she had hoped Papa would be able to take a real vacation while in New York, but he couldn’t wait to make an appointment at Tad’s Steaks, Big Nicks, and Gray’s Papaya to try and sell them his new super-sized cups for their drinks. “I am the king of Chicago. Now that Beauty has found a new love of trains, I can be the king of New York,” he proclaimed, explaining why these meetings were so important.
“When your mom was a little girl,” Beauty told me, “your Papa had planned a special outing with her. He was going to take her to his favorite ice cream parlor in Winnetka; ice cream and fountain sodas were a passion they both shared. But on the way, he realized that he had to fill an order and left her in the car by herself the whole day. She was only seven. She came home crying. Your mom said, ‘It was light when he went into the restaurant and dark when he came out.’ Apologies don’t come easy for either of them and neither of them will acknowledge how similar they are.” I always appreciated Beauty’s insights about my mother, helping me understand why she was the way she was.
“You really are my little beauty. You are so easy to be with. We always understand one another,” Beauty said, giving me a squeeze. I don’t remember being happier in the years since we’d moved to New York than at that moment.
Grabbing pots and pans and putting things in the oven and fridge created an excitement in the air. Rich aromas of spices, onions, and celery cooking in sizzling oil brought new life into our kitchen. The smell of sage and poultry seasoning magically drifted into every corner of our house. I impatiently waited for the turkey to make it from oven to table, as Beauty had me start plating various dishes. “A watched pot never boils,” she reminded me, while I kept peeking in the oven.
When dinner was ready to be served, Beauty and I set everything out on a metal folding table in our hallway. The table overflowed with delicacies: olives with red pimiento, endive salad, and marinated lima beans with garlic were peppered among the side dishes. Mashed turnips, apple-cranberry stuffing, roasted red peppers, and sautéed yellow zucchini brought pops of color to the table. And at its center sat a tray of perfectly sliced moist turkey and a boat filled with beautiful gravy. Beauty served small tasting portions of each dish, and oohs, aahs, and “yums” were passed back and forth about the flavor of the food. My dad did not even seem to notice the lack of buttered mashed potatoes or sausage stuffing, filling his plate with more vegetables than I ever saw him eat. My sister, who had a small appetite, asked for seconds and thirds. Even my mom seemed to miraculously sit and eat.
For the grand finale, I served my pumpkin pie and Beauty poured her old-world-style coffee. My pie was not made with sugar, and Beauty made her coffee without a coffeepot. She simply used crushed eggs shells to hold the ground coffee on the bottom of the boiling saucepan. My pie was sweetened with only bananas and a touch of maple syrup.
Seeing my family happily dig into the pie and sip the coffee—and my grandmother toss the turkey carcass into a pot to make bone broth, which she would freeze in ice cube trays for later use—I smiled, knowing exactly what I was thankful for this year.
Pumpkin Pie
Yield: 8 servings
FOR THE CRUST:
1 cup honey graham cracker crumbs, finely processed to
a powder (from 7 to 8 21⁄2- x 47⁄8-inch crackers)
1⁄4 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
3 tablespoons brown sugar
1⁄8 teaspoon salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
FOR THE FILLING:
3⁄4 cup, plus 2 tablespoons nondairy milk of choice
3⁄4 cup pumpkin puree
1 large ripe banana
1⁄4 cup maple syrup
1 large egg, room temperature
1⁄2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1⁄2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Lightly grease a 9-inch pie dish and set aside. Make the graham cracker crust: In a small mixing bowl, mix the graham cracker crumbs, coconut flakes, sugar, and salt until combined. Add the butter and mix until the crust begins to clump together and resembles wet sand. Spread the crust out evenly in the pie dish and press it into the bottom and the sides. Bake the crust for 4 minutes, or until slightly toasted. Transfer to a wire cooling rack while preparing the pumpkin filling.
Position the baking rack in the middle and preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Combine the milk, pumpkin puree, banana, maple syrup, egg, vanilla extract, and cinnamon in a blender and mix on high speed until smooth.
Pour the pie filling into the crust. Bake the pie for 1 hour, or until the pie looks soft but set, with a mostly firm center. Transfer the pie to a cooling rack and let cool for 2 hours. Serve immediately or refrigerate until needed. The pie filling will firm up as it cools.
Note: The graham cracker crust should be the perfect consistency, but if it seems a little dry, add a touch more butter. If it feels a little wet, add a touch more graham cracker crumbs. Since there are no eggs in this crust, feel free to lick the fork.
Egg Coffee
Yield: 1 cup
1 egg
1 cup boiling water
11⁄2 tablespoons ground coffee