Trader Joanna and I watched as the perfectly pasteled Martha showed us how to make a turkey that came out evenly browned, moist and flavorful every time. Martha’s trick involves draping the salted, peppered and stuffed bird with a length of cheesecloth that had been plunged into a pot of hot butter and white wine. She then puts the turkey in the oven to roast, opening the door every 30 minutes to paint the cheesecloth with more butter and white wine. On TV, Martha’s turkey emerged from its cheesecloth sheath looking like the cover of a magazine. “That seems like a good recipe,” Trader Joanna said. “We should do it that way.” As everyone in my family has learned over the years, when Trader Joanna says “we,” she almost always means “you”—in this case, my mother. Luckily, Mango Mama is not the type to brine in advance. She bought some cheesecloth and followed Martha’s instructions, producing a bird that exceeded all our expectations.

This year, my mom made Martha’s turkey (second photo) at her Thanksgiving dinner in Cannon Beach, and my aunt, Auntie Pasti and I made it (top photo) for our east coast feast on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I convinced Auntie Pasti to order a heritage turkey from Robinson’s Prime Reserve in Louisville, Kentucky. They were having a 20% off sale on Gilt Groupe (my “gilt-y” pleasure), so I emailed her to see if she was interested. She went for it—all $130 of it. I covered the additional $30 shipping and handling fee that brought the 22 pound just-killed bird to her apartment on the Tuesday before turkey day. Mango Mama, on the other hand, secured her 20-plus pound Butterball for free. The Portland grocery chain, Fred Meyer had a deal where you got a free turkey by purchasing $200 worth of food.

Needless to say, Mango Mama and Auntie Pasti had already spoken on the phone and compared notes about their respective turkeys by the time Empanada Boy and I arrived on the Upper West Side Thursday morning. “I can’t believe I spent so much money,” Auntie Pasti said. Later when I talked to Mango Mama she said: “Free is a good price. I don’t mind a few chemicals in my turkey.” Two sisters on opposite coasts, so alike you can’t tell them apart on the phone, yet still so different.

In addition to preparing our turkey to the letter of Martha’s instructions, Auntie Pasti and I made a delicious green salad with snow peas, beans and lemon zest; a brussels sprout hash; buttery mashed potatoes and cubed sweet potatoes. And before I even arrived, Auntie Pasti made two kinds of cranberry sauce—one a tart relish and the other sweeter with cubes of pear mixed in—and two kinds of stuffing—one with currants and pine nuts and the other packed with smoky Spanish chorizo. Every 30 minutes, a timer went off, and we would drop what we were chopping to open the oven and baste with butter and white wine— she with a baster, and I with a brush.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, closely rivaled by Passover, because I can think of almost nothing I would rather do all day than be in the kitchen making and tasting delicious food and chatting with my mom my aunt, my sister or anyone else who has been put to work. In recent years, Auntie Pasti has done more of the work, and I have been responsible for my traditional task of making the desserts. This year, I made my desserts— a pear tart with Poire Williams glaze and an apple-cranberry pie— the night before and the always resourceful Empanada Boy figured out how to carry them on the subway the next morning so I could help with the bird. It was a treat to see the meal through from start to finish.

The rest of the relatives and guests arrived, and Corn-y Uncle poured us some pre-dinner Champagne. As we toasted to the host and hostess, I thought to myself: “Martha Stewart would be proud.” Indeed, the turkey emerged from the oven about a half hour later, looking perfectly burnished and moist. Cousin Ketchup, the family expert on poultry carving after watching a New York Times instructional video last year, set about his task. I snuck a taste of the dark meat, and I have to say, it was the best turkey I have ever tasted. As Auntie Pasti put it: “It had better be.”

As it turns out, Hudson is actually a pretty good dining town. We had been considering having our first meal there at Swoon Kitchenbar, a much-lauded locavore mecca that redesigns its menu daily based on what’s available in the Hudson Valley. I had successfully gotten a last-minute reservation but decided at the last minute that were were too poor to shell out for the $30 entrees. We also had our dog, Percy, who suffers from separation anxiety and would not have done well had we left him at the home of Vladimir Pudding, our friend and host in Hudson. This combination of factors led to the decision to stop in at the outdoor food cart for American Glory BBQ. The American-flag bedecked food truck, which looked like it had been designed by Harley Davidson, was set up in an empty grassy lot not far up the street from the bricks-and-mortar restaurant on Warren Street, Hudson’s main drag. I should have known better once I saw the empty picnic tables out front. (Vladimir Pudding later said he should have warned us about the place: not only is the food mediocre, but he’s convinced the owner is a Republican. Not a huge leap, based on the decor.)

Feeling unsated, we consoled ourselves with a cone from Lick, an artisanal ice cream shop, also on Warren Street. Empanada Boy ordered a cone of apricot-orange blossom ice cream, from which I took my requisite tax. The ice cream was of the thick, rich and creamy variety (none of this gelato-inspired business). With chunks of apricot and enough orangey aroma to revive the most barbecue-beleaguered palate, the flavor tasted exactly like it sounds—heady, exotic and delicious. Lick would make another appearance the next evening at the barbecue we had in Vladimir Pudding’s backyard. The grilled skirt steak tacos (my creation) were followed by ice cream sandwiches, which we assembled with Lick’s fantastic gingersnap ice cream and its chewy ginger cookies.

The next morning we braved the pouring rain for coffee. Vladimir Pudding’s French press was broken, and my fuse was already getting short by the time we made it to Strongtree Organic Coffee Roasters. As the name implies, Strongtree makes some excellent full-bodied roasts and brews them into powerful, flavorful cups of coffee. Their espresso machine was out of commission, so we all got mugs of American-style brew and sat outside on the bench in front to watch the rain come down. Coffee makes everything better. (I also liked the cappuccino and the vibe at Swallow the next day.) Our heads were finally clear enough to plan our next move. With the downpour, there would, alas, be no hiking until later that afternoon, so we opted for the next best thing: a big breakfast.

We knew we wanted bloody Marys, so a place without a liquor license just would not do. We headed over to Red Dot, a friendly and cozy cafe, also on Warren Street. The bloody Marys were sparsely garnished with one stalk of celery each. But pine as I might for pickles and olives, the drink itself was well made with a good thickness and just the right amount of horseradish. For food, I ordered the croque madame, the typical French bistro sandwich made with ham, Gruyere and bechamel. The feature that distinguishes this sandwich from its husband, the croque monsieur, is the egg on top, which is supposed to be sunnyside up. Which is why I was surprised when our server asked me how I would like my egg cooked. Um, sunnyside up, of course! When the dish arrived, I was a little disappointed to see that my egg looked more overeasy than sunnyside up. There was no bright yellow yolk beaming from the top of the sandwich ready to be dispersed with a swift puncture from the fork. I did find the yolk, but the disappointment continued in the bread (not good quality and not toasty enough) and the bechamel (undersalted and soggy). My companions ordered more successfully, particularly those that got the latkes, which were thin and crispy, just like I like them. EB ordered eggs benedict with latkes in place of the English muffin. It was a brilliant substitution, if you ask me. There was also a very successful dish with poached eggs and smoked salmon on top of latkes, something I might be eating for breakfast when Hanukkah rolls around.

Hudson had its hits and misses, but it is a fine place to eat and drink casually and revel in the simple, oh-so-American, pleasures of a quaint riverside town.

American Glory BBQ
342 Warren St.
Hudson, NY 12534
518.822.1234

Lick
253 Warren St.
Hudson, NY 12534
518.828.7254

Strongtree Organic Coffee Roasters
60 South Front St., at the Train Depot
Hudson, NY 12534
518.828.8778

Red Dot Bar & Restaurant
321 Warren St.
Hudson, NY 12534
518.828.3657

After walking in the hot sun along the ancient, high walls that surround the outside of the city, we ate lunch at a spot called Restaurante Tres Siglos. Salmorejo selected a robust wine from Ribera del Duero, and we ordered two thin tenderloin steaks. Before those came, we ate a mashed potato dish, infused with smoky pimentón (Spanish paprika) and topped with crunchy pieces of ham. We also had gambas al ajillo (shrimp in a garlic oil sauce) and a platter of sliced chorizo and lomo (pork loin). Of these non-steak dishes I liked the pork platter the best. The potato dish was heavy, and the bacon pieces were too hard. The shrimp were measly, flavorless, cocktail adornments, not like the gambas we would see later in Barcelona.

But that steak was by far the best part of the meal. It was juicy and full of the flavor of the Castillian countryside. I prefer my steak to have gristle and chew—more ribeye than filet mignon—and this one had all of those elements expressed in their full glory. I could have taken or left the fries that came along with it, but this was a nice piece of meat.

We left Ávila after lunch and continued on to El Escorial, the town that houses the palace built by Felipe II, who was the king of Spain from 1556 to 1598. In addition to the austere, but impressive palace, the grounds house a crypt where nearly all of the Spanish kings (and their wives) from Felipe onwards are entombed. Empty tombs ominously await the bodies of the parents of the current king, Juan Carlos. There is also a series of adjacent rooms filled with the coffins of innumerable princes, princesses and other royalty. Needless to say, we emerged from our tour of El Escorial burdened with the solemn weight of Spanish Catholic history.

Luckily, El Escorial is also known for its churros con chocolate. We went to a nearby café and ordered some. They were crusty on the outside but perfectly light and chewy on the inside, and the chocolate was almost as thick as syrup and very rich. Churros must be accompanied with chocolate that’s much thicker than the typical drinking variety because they must retain the chocolate like sauce after being dipped. Isla Flotante told me the secret is to buy chocolate powder with flour mixed in for thickening. Inferior varieties use gelatin, which should be avoided.

A couple days later, EB and I hopped on a bus to Toledo, the home of El Greco and the marizipan capital of the world. Culinarily speaking, Toledo is known for small game like conejo (rabbit) and perdiz (partridge). EB and I wanted to taste some partridge, so we stopped for lunch at a restaurant called Restaurante Ludeña, which we read had it on the fixed-price menu del día. As it turned out, the less expensive menu del dia offered cordoníz (quail), which is basically like a smaller cousin. I decided to start with gazpacho and then order the cordonices. EB started with paella and then got merluza a la plancha (grilled hake).

The gazpacho was refreshing, although I couldn’t help thinking about Mango Mama’s complaint that it just tastes like watery, mild salsa. (That’s one reason I prefer Salmorejo, the bread-thickened gazpacho of Cordoba, or the Southern Spanish gazpacho de almendras made with almonds instead of tomato.) The cordonices were succulent, cooked in a rich sauce made with rum, bacon and onions. In typical Spanish fashion, the dish came with French fries. These were somewhat disappointing compared to the luxurious richness of the dish. They also did little to cut the considerable saltiness of the cordonices.

EB’s paella was excellent, with plump prawns and gently cooked mussels. The rice was al dente and evenly cooked. It was a substantial serving, so when the merluza arrived, it was almost as though another meal was being served—and eaten—in quick succession. The fish was perfectly done, but blandly seasoned and fairly boring. The plate, complete with the ubiquitous French fries, looked a little too white for my taste. Some fresh green herbs could have made that fish pop visually and flavorwise.

For dessert we ordered flan and natillas, another creamy, eggy pudding, typical of Castilla-La Mancha. The desserts were fine, but they set us over the edge in terms of fullness. We basically rolled out of Ludeña and gradually managed to work off the lunch through some aggressive touring of the mind-blowingly ornate cathedral, the El Greco sites and the ancient synagogues. By the time we had finished all of this, we were finally starting to get a bit hungry again. It was time for our merienda, the pre-dinner sweet snack, a meal that only the Spaniards could have invented. Luckily, I knew exactly where to go.

As I mentioned before, Toledo is known for its marzipan. The best marzipan in Toledo may well be the Mazapanes Santa Rita made and sold by the nuns in the Real Monasterio de Santa Úrsula. I never much cared for marizpan until I stopped in and bought some from the nuns when I was last in Toledo with Daddy Salmon, Mango Mama and Flava Flav. This has a soft chew to it and a genuine, sweetly almondine flavor, unlike others I had tasted that reeked of almond extract. Because this order of nuns lives a very cloistered existence the process of buying the marzipan is noteworthy. We walked into a dimly lit tiled lobby and climbs a few stairs to a door. Inside is a small window, occupied by a metal lazy susan turntable with a little wooden door on the other side. Then we rang a bell and a nun opened the little wooden door to request our order: the largest box full, of course. We put the money in our side of the turnstile, and the nun spun it toward her. She then sent it spinning back to us with our box of marzipan inside.

We ate a few marzipan, which come in different traditional shapes, as we sat and watched the sun set over the hillside. The candy was just as good as I remembered it. I could have eaten many more pieces, but EB and I wanted them to last. We ate our last one about 10 days ago. As with the madeleine for Proust, eating them will always bring me back to that sunset with the steep slope from the old city of Toledo to the new, coated in toasty almond gold.

Restaurante Tres Siglos
Calle de los Comuneros de Castilla, 11
05001 Ávila, Spain
920 228 772

Restaurante Ludeña
Plaza de la Magdalena, 10
45001 Toledo, Spain
925 223 384

Mazapanes Santa Rita
Convento de Santa Úrsula
Calle de Santa Úrsula, 5
45002 Toledo, Spain
92 222 235

The restaurant is a favorite of Empanada Boy’s aunt Spanikopita and his uncle Iceberg, and for good reason. It’s warm, comfortable, makes delicious food and has reasonable prices. Located in the middle of town in Pawling, the front door opens into a bakery where delicious cookies and pastries are sold for take out or a quick bite. The main dining room has solid brick walls and equally solid antique wooden booths. The menu consists of well-made classics like omelets, French toast, fish and chips, lamb curry, grilled pork tenderloin, duck breast, calves liver, haddock and more.

EB and I have been there at least twice for dinner and twice for brunch. The first time we were there, we were chatting at the table when we heard a powerful and strangely familiar voice behind us. We glanced over at the nearby table and saw none other than James Earl Jones himself. He apparently lives in the area, and like many people, frequents Fine Foods. It’s a true neighborhood place, but it also happens to serve great food.

The last time we were there, EB’s cousin Vegemite was visiting from Australia with her husband and two young sons. We all piled into the big booth near one window. The kids ordered delicious banana nut pancakes and eggs and toast, while Spanikopita and Vegemite veered toward lunch with the salmon salad. Iceberg ordered what he always does: the Smokehouse omelet made with hickory smoked bacon, peppers, onions and cheddar cheese, served with hash browns and onions. EB went for the chorizo omelet with potatoes, and Vegemite’s husband Biscuit ordered another omelet. I got “Judge Malone’s Corned Beef Hash”—something I could never make at home— served it a skillet with fried eggs and toast.

While not quite at the level of O’Rourke’s, which serves my favorite corned beef hash in all the world, this was a crispy, fatty treat. I stabbed the egg and let the yolk run over the hash and sopped it all up with bread. Could there be any better meal to start a day? The omelets were all delicious and vibrant, and those pancakes were phenomenal. The little guy who ordered them loved them so much that he sat there long after the rest of us had stuffed ourselves silly to finish every last bite of the thick, fluffy short stack. Yes, this food is that good.

McKinney & Doyle Fine Foods Cafe
10 Charles Colman Blvd.
Pawling, NY 12564
845.855.3875

For December, I selected the Walnut Spice Cake with Lemon Glaze, originally featured in the December 1992 issue. The cake has everything going for it. It’s baked in a bundt pan (one of my favorite baking tools), has the lovely seasonal spice cake flavors of cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg and incorporates the savory toastedness of walnuts, along with the bright tang of lemon. It would be as good for breakfast as it was served ala mode at one of my family’s many sizeable post-Thanksgiving meals at our beach house in Cannon Beach, Oregon.

The recipe turned out as deliciously as expected, but the lemon glaze was a bit thinner than I’d hoped. Just for appearance, I might add more powdered sugar the next time I make it, although the flavor was there. The only somewhat technical element was the whipping of the egg whites to stiff peaks, which is more a matter of having the right tools (a hand mixer) than having talents. One additional tip that Mango Mama passed along for ensuring your cake comes out of the bundt pan: melt some butter and paint it on with a brush. That way, all the ridges get their fair share of grease.

The cake was all but devoured by the 20-plus people at our party. Mango Mama even added a candle, so everyone could sing a belated happy birthday to me. It was a fitting reminder of the kind of pleasure a successful Gourmet recipe can elicit. Here’s to 11 more months of Gourmet commemoration!

Walnut Spice Cake with Lemon Glaze
For cake
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1 1/2 teaspoons ground allspice
1 1/2 teaspoons freshly grated nutmeg
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 sticks (1 cup) unsalted butter, softened
1 cup sugar
3 large eggs, separated
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/4 cups sour cream
1 cup walnuts (3 ounces), toasted , cooled, and finely chopped

For glaze
1 cup confectioners sugar
4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Special equipment: a 12-cup bundt pan

Make cake:
Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 350°F. Butter bundt pan.

Sift together flour, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, baking soda, baking powder, and salt into a bowl. Beat together butter and sugar in another bowl with an electric mixer at medium-high speed until pale and fluffy, about minutes in a standing mixer or 4 with a handheld. Add yolks 1 at a time, beating well after each addition, then beat in vanilla. Reduce speed to low, then add flour mixture and sour cream alternately in batches, mixing well after each addition.

Beat egg whites in another bowl with cleaned beaters until they just hold stiff peaks, then fold whites and walnuts into batter gently but thoroughly.

Spoon batter into pan, smoothing top, and bake until a wooden pick or skewer comes out clean, 40 to 50 minutes. Cool cake in pan on a rack 10 minutes, then invert onto rack and cool completely.

Make glaze:
Whisk together confectioners sugar and lemon juice until smooth. Transfer cake to a plate, then drizzle glaze over cake and let stand until glaze is set, about 20 minutes.

See my other Gourmet, Unbound posts:
April 2010, Shrimp Scampi Pasta
March 2010, Chicken with Black-Pepper Maple Sauce
February 2010, Mexican Chocolate Ice Cream
January 2010, Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Garlic and Pancetta

Moby Dick’s is a large, rambling place with exposed wooden walls and seafaring knick-knacks decorating the walls around the menu behind the counter. After ordering, we climbed the stairs into the red-and-white-checked dining room and sat down at a sunny table. While we waited, we realized Moby Dick’s was a BYOB establishment. Aunti Pasti drove down the road a ways and bought a six-pack of beer, arriving back at the table at the moment that one of the Eastern European teenagers flown in to work for summer came in with our food.

Auntie Pasti and I ordered the classic lobster roll— a ton of lump tail and claw meat with a tiny bit of mayonnaise in a soft white hot-dog-type bun. (I’ve read that purists consider it sacrilege to add anything more to the meat than a touch of mayo. Scallions? No way!) The meat was tender and rich, with more retained moisture than lobsters I’ve had in the shell. Corn-y Uncle got a delightfully crispy-briny fried oyster sandwich in the same kind of bun. The bun seems unappealing at first, but as you eat one of these sandwiches, you realize that it is basically only there to create a proper pedestal for the proteins. Eat it in a lobster- or oyster-filled bite, or don’t bother eating it at all.

Never one to pass on the dish, EB got the fish and chips. I though this dish was disappointing: the fries were generic and somewhat limp and the fish could have been crispier. To me, the best fish and chips has the crackly exterior and a soft, flaky interior. The exterior of this was light, leaving me without that satisfying moment of breakthrough from the crust to the fish.

I can’t wait for the next time we get to go to Cape Cod. (That assumes Corn-y Uncle’s mother will invite us back, of course.) Then EB and I will know exactly which activities tradition dictates we spend our days doing. We’ll probably cook most of our meals back at the house in Eastham, but we’ll make a special trip to Wellfleet for lobster rolls at Moby Dick’s. In the meantime, I’ll be sure to remember the taste of that fresh seafood if the cold of winter starts getting me down.

Moby Dick’s Restaurant
3225 Route 6
Wellfleet, MA 02667
508.349.9795

The ever-thoughtful EB had also made us a dinner reservation for that night at the local Erie Restaurant. It was a quaint place, just down the road from our bed and breakfast, housed in a former train station hotel. The ceilings were hammered metal, and there were candles on every table. We were the last to arrive, but the chef, Ms. Loretta, was waiting for us. I ordered a whole lobster (for a ridiculously low price of $20), and EB succumbed to the delicious-sounding homemade lasagna. We started with a Hudson Valley Camembert, which turned out to be a little overwhelmed by the flaky pastry in which it was encased. The lasagna was fantastic, with a voluptuous, tangy tomato sauce and beautiful layers of pasta and ricotta. EB couldn’t finish it, though, because he had to help me eat my humongous lobster. The flesh was tasty, but a little overdone in some parts. Even if it had been perfect, I don’t think it could have replaced Dungeness crab as the most delicious crustacean in my mind. (I say it objectively, of course, not just because I am West-Coast bred.)

The best part of the meal came after we felt we could eat no more. EB was disappointed to learn that the restaurant was out of Ms. Loretta’s famed coconut cream pie, so we were planning to forgo dessert. But just after we had told our server as much, she came back out of the kitchen carrying a specially prepared wedding-esque cake. Behind her was Ms. Loretta, and both sang us “Happy Anniversary to You” as they brought the cake to our table. As we had been eating, Ms. Loretta had been baking us our own personal cake! And as it turned out, this was not just any cake. It had a delicious, moist interior with a beautiful crumbly texture and a delectable filling of raspberry preserves. Ladies and gentlemen, this is not the kind of service you can expect in New York City!

The next day, after a huge and filling breakfast, we went for a nine-mile hike in Sam’s Point Preserve, part of the Shawangunk Ridge. We ate our leftover lasagna for lunch, as we sat overlooking a stunning waterfall. On our way back that evening, we stopped in the hippie town of New Paltz for dinner. EB had done his research on the town’s top restaurants, and we had selected The Village Tea Room, a longtime local establishment whose online menu seemed to focus on high-quality, seasonal ingredients. We sat outside on the porch (until the mosquitoes drove us in) and ordered what turned out to be a stellar Riesling from the Finger Lakes region of New York. EB started with a boldly colorful cold beet soup, which had distinct flavors of dill and leeks.

EB’s main course was a Guinness Pie, which was only so-so. My main course, on the other hand, was a confit duck leg and thigh, which was super-tender on the inside and perfectly crispy on the outside. The meat came atop a bed of squash and alongside a savory, garlicky white bean stew. It was the best meal I had eaten in quite some time. The desserts at The Village Tea Room also looked delicious. EB got rice pudding, but I decided to pass. After all, we had a whole chunk of anniversary cake waiting for us back at the inn.

Pine Bush House Bed and Breakfast
215 Maple Ave.
Pine Bush, NY 12566
845.744.3641

Erie Restaurant
88 Depot St.
Pine Bush, NY 12566
845.744.9963

The Village Tea Room
10 Plattekill Ave.
New Paltz, NY 12561
845.255.3434

The Cookery is a classic roadside café with lacy curtains, hearty food made from scratch and plenty of regulars. It’s actually located just down the road from Eagle River in the town of Sugar Camp. Snowmobilers park outside and head in for a sandwich or a homestyle plate of food. The Cookery was closed when we tried to go there on our last visit, so EB was excited to get me to try it this time. We stomped in wearing our winter boots and sat down at a round table. Popover ordered a grilled cheese sandwich from the regular menu, but EB and Tofutti Cutie were tempted by the special of the day: liver and onions with a side of rye bread. I wanted something warm and filling. Nothing seemed to better fit the bill than a bowl of house-made chili.

I didn’t try Popover’s grilled cheese sandwich, but it looked like a fairly basic assemblage, involving toasted white sandwich bread, yellow cheddar cheese and tomatoes. A pickle spear came on the side.

The liver platters were large and opulently draped with caramelized onions and sizeable pieces of liver. The meat was a little leathery, but it was flavorful and not too difficult to eat (unless, like me, you can only eat a few bites of this rich, pungent organ before the queasiness sets in). The rye bread was of the inferior variety— visually appealing but lacking in any distinctive rye flavor. Coleslaw on the side balanced out the richness of the meat.

The chili was delicious and hit the spot. The flavors could have been more complex, but they were balanced with just the right tomatoey sweetness and kick of spice. My only disappointment was that there wasn’t cornbread to go with it. I ordered a side of bread, but slices of wheat sandwich bread were apparently the best the kitchen could come up with.

For dessert we shared a dried cherry crumble with a scoop of ice cream. The topping was made with oatmeal and could have benefited from something to hold the clumps together more effectively and from more spices, including salt. The dried cherries were nice, though, and the dish was definitely homemade.

Simple, homemade fare is the specialty at The Cookery. And while this may not seem too exciting, it may well be the only restaurant in the area that doesn’t devote most of its menu to fried food. Not that there’s anything wrong with fried food, of course, but sometimes clean, basic flavors provide a welcome change.

The Cookery
6694 Hwy. 17 North
Sugar Camp, WI 54501
715.272.1616

The Blazer Pub is housed in a quaint old white colonial with reddish shutters. The interior has dark wood paneling and is decorated with random antiques, mostly connected to equestrian activities, sports and Irish themes. The restaurant is named after the Galway Blazers, a fox-hunting club in Western Ireland. Tables are covered with red cloths, and the menu is filled with pub specialties like sandwiches and chowder. Burgers are the main show. Iceberg, Spanakopita and I ordered the regular burger, which only comes with pickles for toppings. We specially requested grilled onions, but even lettuce and tomato would have meant another extra charge. EB ordered the Blazer Burger, a more elaborate concoction, which came with cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and grilled onions. The burgers were thick and almost spherical, making for a very high sandwich. We all ordered them medium-rare, but were disappointed when they arrived medium to well-done. The meat was still flavorful, but it was missing the essential juiciness we had been expecting. Iceberg assured us that this was not the norm and that the cooking sometimes suffers on a busy Saturday night. Our server gently scolded us later for not sending them back, but we confessed to being too hungry to wait.

Sides to go along with burgers must also be ordered separately. We got a small order of the Blazer’s massive hand-cut fries. Needless to say, the small was more than enough to serve the four of us. These were a little thick for my taste, but they had a good crispy exterior and a soft, warm interior. EB wanted to try another of the restaurant’s specialties— the Blazer Onion. This is a whole onion’s worth of fried onion rings. He couldn’t find enough support at the table and was warned against attempting to eat a whole one himself. Hopefully, he and I can go back to the Blazer to try them sometime soon. We’ll try to go on a weeknight to avoid the crowds and the burger casualties. I have a feeling the Blazer’s burgers can get a lot better than the ones we tried.

The Blazer Pub
Route 22
Purdys, NY 10578
914.277.4424

The bird looks big in the above photo, but once Daddy Salmon had plucked its feathers it shrunk down to a sinuous 10 lbs. Daddy Salmon got up early on Thanksgiving day to brine the turkey in garlic, salt and a variety of herbs. After about eight hours of brining, I pulled it out and placed it in the roasting pan. The wild turkey didn’t get nice and browned like its supermarket cousins during the 2-3/4 hours of roasting. Each time I checked in on it, I was surprised to see the taught, greyish-brownish skin looking just as alien as ever. When I finally pulled it out, I noticed a purple-colored area on the top of the breast. This likely came from the blood vessels broken by the pierce of Daddy Salmon’s arrow.

This photo of the wild turkey waiting to be carved illustrates where the arrow hit. The meat was distributed to guests separately from the farm-raised turkeys to those interested in trying their free-ranging relative. The white meat turned out to be very tender, but it was far milder than the familiar store-bought birds. Daddy Salmon found whole acorns in its gullet, so we can only assume that this is part of what gave the meat its flavor. The dark meat was tough and very muscular, more like red meat than poultry. It was also difficult to get much dark meat off the bone. Daddy Salmon reminded us that there was less meat and more muscle on the wings and the thighs because wild turkeys actually fly.

In the end, it was great to get the chance to try a turkey that was much more like one the Pilgrims might have eaten. While it might not have had the plump, richness of the turkeys we’re used to, it was tasty and different. It’s not every day you get to try a food you’ve never tasted before without leaving the comfort of your own home, state or country. This opportunity alone was more than enough to be thankful for.