With the Bee Gee’s hit “Stayin’ Alive” pulsing deep in the background on your 8 track player, you slowly stuff yourself into those slick white polyester tuxedo pants that have been laying neatly folded in your drawer since last year. A shimmy here, a dab of Vaseline there, a tug on the pliers and, ohh yeah, you’re in. A little snug, but the ladies like that. Mom must have washed the damned things. That zipper worked a few years ago. Oh well. Man like you grooves on the easy access.

It’s New Years Eve, and a young wolf like yourself is going on the prowl.  Time to impress those doe eyed cuties enraptured by your James Bond-like tux, black tie, razor stubble and jacked up Pinto.  It’s time to hit the clubs.

“Hi. I saw you get out of that old ladies car in front of the club. Want a flute of some great Brut?” the first sleek minx asks as you lean against the bar, your eyes lidded seductively, head rhythmically nodding to the beat. She notices the befuddled look on your face only seconds before you sputter, “I didn’t know it was that kind of club. Thanks anyway,” and watches as you dash away, leaving a perplexed hottie wondering what the hell you were talking about.

Maybe next year, after a little lesson addressing your club night champagne faux pas, you can look her in the eye and jokingly suggest “Not this evening. I am in the mood for a taste of Cava. You?” in your best Barry White baritone.

So without further ado and freshly into the New Year, here is a brief look at champagne.

Champagne comes in these main types:

Brut: driest of the champagnes and a standard offering on the market. Seen as the best.
Extra-dry: slightly less dry than brut.
Sec: a sweeter variety, up to 4% sugar.
Demi-sec: the sweetest of the champagnes with up to 8% sugar.

Champagne is either called vintage or non-vintage. The difference between the two is the usage of only one year’s grape growth in vintage along with at least three years aging, where non-vintage is a blend and the aging time varies. Varieties of champagne include rose’, a blend of white and red; blanc de blanc, strictly Chardonnay or white grapes and blanc de noirs, made from darker skinned grapes such as pinot noir and pinot meunier.

In the world of champagne, only those produced in the French region of Champagne may be called Champagne. In other regions, the names vary. There is sparkling wine, typically from the US; Cava, from Spain; Sekt, from Germany; Asti Spumante, from Italy and Cap Classique, from South Africa.

It is produced using the Methode Champenoise, a technique using second fermentation. Wine is fermented in a steel tank for 2-3 weeks and then sits for up to five weeks after. At this point, the vintner adds yeast and sugar, caps the bottle and allows this second fermentation to go for up to 3 years.

By this time, sediment has usually formed and needs to be disgorged, a process that uses a slow spinning motion to bring the bottle to a vertical position, causing the sediment to fall to down into the neck. The neck is frozen, the sediment pushed out and a small amount of champagne is added to replace the loss. It is corked and sent out to liquor stores and bars around the world so studs like you can “get your bubbly on”.

When you finally find a gal who actually digs your Friends DVD collection and the posters of Farrah still clinging to your wall with cracking, amber bands of old tape, it may be time to take this new found knowledge and put it to use with a little bubbly and some snacks that go with well with it.

In stead of plagiarizing the well choreographed thug gangsta look that MTV twits like Puffy and Jay-Z promote with wild parties featuring barely clothed ladies wrestling in pools of French champagnes like Dom and Cristal, pimp up some sweet domestic sparkling like an Iron Horse Cuvee (California), Chateau Frank Blanc de Noirs, 2000 (NY), Handley Brut Rose’ 2003 (California) and a tray of cheeses like fresh chevre, or goats cheese; mild cheddars, preferably young and mild; brie, served at room temperature and Colby, a mild cheese from Wisconsin.

Wow her at first sip with your Bond-esque “Excellent. 45 degrees, just where it should be”, making sure that crusty meat thermometer you stole from Mom stays out of the picture. Toss out those cheap plastic champagne flutes your pocketed from last year’s New Year’s Eve bash at Grandma’s bingo hall and pick up some real glass flutes, those long stemmed, thin bowled vessels that hold in the nose and effervescency of your champagne. Do it right.

And the next time some hottie comes up with an offer of a flute of Brut, straighten your food-stained bow tie, suck in your spare tire and work your love mojo with “Perhaps a domestic vintage? Indeed!” Go get ‘em, Clooney!

Happy New Year.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorials Staff

The tree stands festively lit in the corner, piles of wrapping paper and freshly emptied boxes lay scattered beneath. The table is cleared of dishes; that fine roast goose you claim to have shot after peppering the skies with buckshot is no more than a few strands of errant feather and bone left over, and the cheery holiday tidal wave known as Christmas Day is ebbing smoothly into the evening.

It took a while and some very nimble verbal acrobatics after Aunt Edie found the grocery store receipt clearly stating the price of your “freshly” killed goose, but that was earlier in the day and now you sit, slouched in your threadbare easy chair, red velvet smoking jacket two sizes too small, confident in the belief your family once again sees you as the great hunter/provider, and not, as Auntie called you earlier, Ebenezer Stooge.

What more can the Master of his Domain need at this moment? A fine, hand wrapped Cuban cigar, tendrils of exotic smoke curling around that mouse pelt you call a moustache? A dram of fine single malt served neat, poured with care from those small airline bottles of scotch you pocketed on that flight to L.A. last year?

Or maybe its time to press the grown up button on your personal remote control and insist on a snifter of port, that fine fortified wine that goes swimmingly well after gorging yourself all day on rich goose, potatoes and string beans.

How about it, Sparky? Shall we join hands with the ghost of alcohols past and wander the misty halls of history to find out more about these “spirits”? Put down your after dinner shot of Jagermeister and let’s go!

Originating in Douro Valley, Portugal, by the English in search of a non-French wine they could drink during one of their many conflicts with the French, port, as it is called, came from the need to keep wines from souring on long sea voyages.  Brandy was introduced to the wines, which allowed a more forgiving and stable wine with the temperature changes and climate deviations the ships encountered on their voyages.

Today, there are strict rules governing port making. Only 48 varieties are allowed into a port. They are aged for a short time in oak, blended with other vintages for consistency if need be in a process known as the solera system, fortified and allowed to age long term in bottles. The “Qunita’s”, or port houses, decide which are to be the vintage years. Only fortified wines from this region are allowed to be called ports, much like champagne from the region of the same name in France.

There are different styles of port and each demands its own method of storage. Standard ports, including Late Bottled Vintage, are meant to be drank quickly–but easy, Dean Martin, we don’t mean swigged in one gulp. They will maintain their flavor for a few weeks after opening and should be stored upright so the cork has no contact with the port.

Finer ports, such as ruby, have a shelf life of about a month after opening and tawny, about 4 months. These are meant to be aged in the bottle for long periods, stored in their sides and drank within 24 hours after opening. Lucky you.

In ascending order, the qualities of port are as follows:
–white, made with white grapes and either sweet or dry
–ruby, blended but not aged
–tawny, aged in oak for longer periods of time, often years. Richer, more nuanced flavors. The “10 year” or “20 year” on the labels is the average age of the vintages used during the blending.

There are also the Late Bottled Vintages, made primarily for restaurants for a longer shelf life. They are also filtered to remove the sediment that is typical with these wines. Vintage is for the connoisseur. Only the best years are given the title. These are often sold young, made of a single years harvest and bottled with the expectation that you will age it for another 10-30 years, with the average peak at about 20.

The classic image of port is served in a small, half full wine glass held delicately by the stem with 2 fingers while donning a luxurious red smoking jacket in a large, old library full of musty leather-bound first edition books while the butler deftly slices a sliver of fine Stilton cheese and a thickly mutton chop mustachioed gentleman pontificates on his country’s role in some dastardly foreign affair. Not these days, guv’nor.

While you can grow those mutton chops and dazzle the ladies with your “worldy” new look, there is no need for the pomp that port has held in the past.

Port now sits where wine has for years, well entrenched in the arena of pairings and match ups with flavors and foods. There are port tastings that specifically pair cheeses such as Stilton, Cabrales and Valdeon from Spain and other blue cheeses that mellow in the presence of rich ports. Cheddars, domestic and foreign, also mate well with ports, the nutty, berry flavors of the port mingling with the sharpness of fine cheddar.

Chocolate is another vehicle for port. The richness of chocolate is slightly cut with the alcohol of the port and enhanced by the smoky tongue the port leaves behind.

So, back to the living room, Ebenezer. The ghost of alcohol past has finished up the presentation and is scrambling to get away from the raving lunatics that you call family. With a parting “Good Luck to you, pal” shouted over its shoulder, it is off to another household, another clueless swiller of Ripple and another lesson in civility.

Merry Christmas to you all.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff

The letter probably went something along these lines:

“Dear Mrs. So-n-so,

Your darling child has been given 3 days detention for inappropriate use of ginger bread. He made an unnecessary appendage on the gingerbread figures we are baking in home-economics class for the Christmas season. They were promptly removed and the cookies, all 50 of them, destroyed. Please take this up with him immediately.

–Ms. Crowsfeat”

And I am sure that wasn’t the last incident involving this iconic treat. A few hard charged cocktails at your last Christmas blowout and all sorts of appendages appeared on the gingerbread figures.  After getting your buzz on, that wild run down the street shouting, “Here is Ron Gingerbread Jeremy” more than likely torqued a few neighbors. Even the burly desk sergeant wasn’t tremendously amused when you appeared in front of him for a public lewdness charge still waving your gingerbread man.

And wasn’t it fun making gingerbread slums and gingerbread houses of ill repute?  Gingerbread pimps and ho’s? Even a tricked out gingerbread low-rider, tilted on its side like it had those hydraulics you dream of for your Pinto? Sure was, Snoop.

Yep. Maturity never reared its ugly head in your life. But as you sat there, tightly gripping the table so it would stop spinning and biting hard into your cheek to snap some sobriety into your numb and twisted brain, did you ever wonder about just where that ginger bread tradition came from? That sweet, spicy cookie you shaped so majestically into many a wondrous and impressive appendage?  Like that “Dolly Parton” version?

Well, you genius of pastry porn, let’s pull up a bar stool and take a gander into the history of gingerbread.

The cookie and cake have been around for centuries. In Medieval times, gingebras, the French term for it, was used to describe both thick cakes and thin crispy cookies cut into human and animal shapes for celebrations.

Returning Crusaders brought back recipes for it from the Middle East and it quickly became common fare at festivals celebrating harvests and spring.

The English, in typical fashion, changed the name to “fairings”, which were eaten at Easter and for autumn festivals. Shakespeare mentioned it in Love’s Labours Lost. There is even a tradition of single maidens eating a gingerbread man shaped like, well, a man, in hopes of finding a husband. Bet they would have loved your gingerbread men, huh, Johnny Holmes?

The pastry has had its fair share of success through history but Germany still holds supreme on gingerbread in both tradition and folklore. Guilds were formed of gingerbread chefs. Local festivals celebrated the cookie and its spawn. The Brothers Grimm used a gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel, that fairytale of two children abandoned by their parents who stumble upon a house of candy and gingerbread.

In the US, gingerbread is typically seen during Christmas. Houses are built of the pastry, cookies are made and it is generally one of the more prevalent desserts or treats doled out during the holiday season.

Like many cookies or pastries, each country has had a hand in forming a traditional recipe for gingerbread.  Scandinavia has a version that is thin and wafer-like.  In the US, molasses is used for a darker, richer cookie. In Germany, some recipes call for candied ginger to be used. In Poland, piernik, is a dark and spicy version.

In the following recipe we will use 3 types of ginger: crystallized, fresh and powdered. They are best served with milk, tea or, if you can slip it past the guards at the Clinic, a hot toddy. They can be stored for a week or so if kept wrapped tight or in a sealable bag or plastic container.

So give it a run, Stallion. After your court ordered dry out, maybe now the people you hang with now will find those three legged gingerbread men funny.

1 stick salted butter, soft
1/2 cup dark brown sugar (packed)
2 Tbsp. fresh ginger, peeled and finely chopped or pulsed in food processor
1 tsp. vanilla
1 Tbsp. ground ginger, preferable freshly purchased
1 1/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 tsp. baking soda
4 pieces crystallized ginger, chopped into small pieces
2 lemons, juiced and zested
1 cup water
¾ cup powdered sugar

Cream together the butter, sugar and fresh ginger until smooth. Add all vanilla. Mix powdered and crystallized ginger, flour, baking soda and salt. Add remaining dry ingredients into butter mixture and gently mix. Form dough into brick about 2″ square, cover in plastic wrap and chill 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350 F. Cut brick into ¼ inch squares. With a lightly floured rolling pin, roll out to half original thickness. Use cutter to make shapes. Bake until golden–10 minutes or so. Remove and cool completely.

Whisk in powdered sugar with water in a bowl until becomes a spreadable paste. Finish with lemon juice and zest.  Use a brush to brush over cookies as glaze.

Makes about 30 1.5 to 2 inch cookies or 20, depending on your “additions”.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff

Like Superman, there was one potent element that could bring me to my knees. Brussell sprouts.

I remember my first encounter with those green stink bombs like it was yesterday. I was returning home from school when I discovered my mother was boiling a pot of those evil leafy orbs.

As I slid the sliding glass doors of my childhood home, I was expecting to smell one of my mom’s usual amazing home cooked meals . . . homemade lasagna, chicken casserole or maybe she was whipping up our favorite chicken and rice balls.

Instead, I was confronted by an odor that assaulted my nasal passages, charged down the back of my throat and churned the contents of my stomach.  I literally felt weak and needed to leave the kitchen filled with a fetid steam streaming out of the stainless steel pot.

For those of you who haven’t smelled boiling Brussels sprouts, close your eyes and imagine leisurely afternoon stroll through your town’s sewage water recycling plant.

I wondered what could be so appealing about this putrid smelling vegetable. I remember my mother dismissing my reaction saying they tasted better than they smell.  What other food can you say, just pinch your nose and it really tastes great.  And I have a bridge in Brooklyn for sale.

I remember seeing her eat Brussels sprouts by the bowl full.  It was the one time my mother would be silent at the table, completely consumed by her bowl of sprouts, in a Zen-like trance.

Fast forward to recent years, as a corporate chef for a national organic supermarket chain, I found myself confronting my vegetable nemesis each December. It seems there are many insane people, like my mother, who like to celebrate the holidays with a side of roasted Brussels sprouts.

So here I was, charged with the task of training people how to cook these reeking seasonal delectables, reminiscent of sweaty socks that have been left in a gym locker for months. I also had to train the serving staff about the nutritional benefits for their inquiring customers.

Pitching Brussels sprouts was like asking Superman to nominate Lex Luther for Nobel Peace Prize.  There I was in front of my students, trying to pump up the benefits of Brussels sprouts.

So in their favor, Brussels sprouts are nutritional powerhouses. Sprouts are “through the roof” packed with Vitamins K and C as well as folate.

They contain cancer fighting sulphur phytonutrients that helps your body’s defense system fight against many diseases, especially cancer.

When chewed or chopped, a compound called Sulphorane is released and triggers your liver to produce cancer-clearing enzymes.  So don’t think you can just hold your nose and swallow these vegetables whole. Yes, you have to chew them to get the added benefit.

And like the name suggests, they do originate from Brussels. Growing with clumps of twenty to thirty sprouts on each stalk, growers are now found all over America and Europe.

Something strange started to happen as I continued to travel the country, training new cooks how to prepare Brussels sprouts. I actually started to like them.

After each training session, bit by bit, I started to become immune to the smell of boiling Brussels sprouts. In fact, by the end of Brussels sprout season, which generally runs from October to February, I started to miss them.

This year, I actually found myself making my own big bowl of Brussels sprouts.  But unlike the over-cooked versions my mother made, I par-boil them to retain their bright green cheer and roast them in butter and toss them with toasted salted pecans for good measure.

This version is sweet as candy, but lord, the smell could drop an ox.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Toasted Pecans
1 pound of fresh Brussels sprouts
½ stick of butter, melted
Pinch of kosher salt
Fresh Ground Pepper
½ pound pecans, chopped
¼ cup olive oil

Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. Melt a quarter stick of butter and toss in a bowl with the half-pound of pecans.  Add a pinch of kosher salt and toss to evenly coat the pecans.

Spread the pecans evenly on a cookie sheet and toast on the middle rack of the oven for about ten or fifteen minutes. Remove the pecans from the oven and place on a dry paper towel to cool.

Turn the heat up 400 degrees in your oven. Start to boil a pot of water. While the water is beginning to boil, trim the tough stems from the sprouts and remove any yellow or brown outer leaves.

Cut the sprouts in half lengthwise and place in the boiling water. Boil for seven minutes. Place in a cold water ice bath to stop the cooking.

Place the Brussels sprouts in a bowl with the olive oil and the rest of the butter. Spread onto a cookie sheet and roast for fifteen minutes. Take out of oven and toss with pecans right before serving.

–Shelly Connors, Red Editorial Staff

Ahh. The holidays are upon us. Chain retailers have drenched their isles with Christmas paraphernalia, many since the first leaves changed color in August. Washed up artists are clinging to some shred of hope that the badly rehashed Christmas classics they have re-recorded will escape words like “disaster” and “pathetic” in the reviews. Toys that haven’t seen the light of day all year are now endlessly paraded on your television screen.

Yup. Jolly Old Saint Nick is soon to be clamoring down your chimney.

Given any thought to gifts, Moneybags? Any sense of guilt still linger over that “heirloom” snowman ornament you gifted Mom with last Christmas out of the 200 popsicle sticks left from your last frozen liquor pop party the week prior?

Or the “thoughtful” card entitling Dad to “One month of lawn mowing” by you, even though he passes his days out to pasture in an assisted living community hitched up to a ventilator and a heart monitor?

Probably not. You drank that guilt away right before you plowed through the pile of gifts your parents left under the tree for you using the last few dollars they had scrimped up to save for mom’s new leak-proof colostomy bag.

But don’t despair. Along with a brief history lesson, you will be able to redeem yourself this year with a solid gift to your folks and friends.  One that has been around for centuries, has garnered a bad name in the gift category, like you, and can be used for many things. I am talking, of course, about the fruitcake.

That dense brick of dried fruit, nuts and spices has a legacy almost as rich as its flavor. History shows the fruitcake being given to both Crusaders and Roman soldiers as part of their food rations before long marches and battles.  Utilizing dried fruits, honey, spices and nuts native to the Middle East, fruitcakes in some form or another were a dietary staple throughout the region. The cake’s ability to stay edible for long periods of time made it perfect for traveling caravans of tribes in the area.

With expanding trade between the Middle East and Europe, the fruitcake washed upon the shores of Europe with a flourish. The cakes were made to honor the nut harvest and eaten the next year to promote a good harvest.

In the 18th century, the fruit cake, called plum cake for the heavy handed used of plums, was banned in much of Europe for its “sinful” richness. Apparently your aunt never got the message and persists in sending them from her Bavarian castle to your family. The ban was later relaxed but laws were implemented to regulate the use of fruitcake. Ohhh those crazy cakers!

The fruitcake also inspired a tradition in England where unmarried wedding guests would place a slice of fruitcake under their pillows to promote dreams of the person they would marry. A whole slab of fruitcake couldn’t knock out those dreams of greasy chicken wings and beer in your noggin, Stud. The single life awaits.

As with many foods, the influx of immigrants added different ingredients to the fruitcake. Caribbean immigrants added local spices, German immigrants tossed in varying fruits, the English tally ho’ed a few plums and still today there is no definitive answer of what a fruitcake should be. And in that muddled spirit of confusion, a recipe for a simple fruit cake will follow.

Serve it with tea, milk or a snifter of fine port. Bake it, chill it and marvel at the looks of derision as you gift that tasty brick to all your closest friends. Be wily and place a small computer chip in the center, then giggle like the skirt wearing schoolgirl your pals think you are as you get re-gifted a few Christmases later with the very same cake. But above all, at least try it. Anything that has been around this long deserves a shot.

1.5 cup each chopped dried peaches, pears, pineapple
1 cup golden raisins
1 large Golden Delicious apple, peeled, cored, chopped
1 cup dark rum
3/4 cup orange juice
2-1/2 cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1.5 cup walnuts
1 cup toasted almonds
12 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 cup sugar
5 large eggs
2/3 cup heavy (or whipping) cream
1/2 cup honey

In a large bowl, combine dried fruits, apple and 1-1/4 cups of the bourbon. Heat orange juice in saucepan over low heat until warm. Pour over the fruits and let stand at room temperature, tossing frequently, until all liquid has been absorbed. Refrigerate over night.

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Butter a 10-cup Bundt pan. Dust pan with flour, shaking off excess.
Sift 1 cup of flour with cloves, nutmeg, salt and baking soda into small bowl. Set aside.

Add the remaining 1-1/2 cups flour and the toasted almonds to the fruits, and toss well. Set aside.

With electric mixer, beat the butter and sugar in separate large mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Add eggs one a time, beating well. Fold batter into the fruit mixture, mixing well.

Scrape mix into Bundt pan. Flatten the top. Bake about 1 hour 20 minutes or until skewer comes out clean after inserting. Cool in the pan for 20 minutes, allow further cooling on rack.

Mix the honey and remaining 1/2 cup rum in small saucepan, and heat, stirring until the honey is dissolved, about 2 minutes. Brush 1/2 of the hot glaze over the top and sides of the cake. Gently flip cake over, and brush on the remaining glaze. Allow cake to cool thoroughly. Wrap in plastic and allow a few days to settle.

Then ship, slice or fortify foxhole with your own fruitcake.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff

By now the last few scraps of meat have been chiseled off the carcass, the once rich, juicy brown wings lay desiccated under the carnage remaining in your refrigerator and you have silently thanked the inventor of stretchable waistband trousers almost as many times as you jammed your oversized fork into the pumpkin pie.

Thanksgiving is over.

With no thought to the history lurking behind any of the bounty that lay before your gaping maw, you have once again shown your friends and family that it is physically possible to expand the human stomach beyond its typical confines in the abdomen.

But at any time during your feeding frenzy, did you wonder where or how things like stuffing and cranberry sauce came about? Nah, didn’t think so. But that’s OK. As you recover, slung across your threadbare cheap couch, gravy stains splattered across your t-shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting, you, Jabba the Gut, will get a tad of history to fill up your mind.

Sit back, tuck your gut into those spandex miracles you call pants and listen up.

Amongst the first mentions of stuffing was from a cookbook by a Roman gourmet in the 2nd century BC, where recipes for stuffing made from vegetables, herbs, nuts, wheat and chopped up offal (brains, liver) that were used to fill in the cavities of such delicacies as chicken, pig and dormouse.

The evolution continued through the ages. France added herbs and goose liver to enrich the stuffing, the English changed the name to dressing and added renderings from the roasting pans and eventually the dish made its way to the USA during the British occupation.

It found its prominence as a Thanksgiving side well into the 19th century. It is not known if the first Thanksgiving made use of the side, but it gained popularity as immigrants flocked to the US with their own versions of stuffing.

Duck liver, still an expensive item in the 1800 and 1900’s, was soon replaced by forcemeat, or sausage, which utilized scraps and added different flavors. Herbs native to the US became mainstays and the popularity grew.

In typical American fashion, turducken, a turkey that is stuffed with a duck stuffed with a small hen that just may be stuffed with Hoffa’s remains, is another type of stuffing, though extreme.

However, it wasn’t until 1972 when Stove Top Stuffing, those odd little rock hard nuggets of “stuffing” in a box, were stocked on store shelves that it became a huge part of Thanksgiving Americana. Created by a home economist, Stove Top stuffing, with just a hit of hot water and some love, becomes the moon rock turned perennial Thanksgiving side that everyone has partaken in.

Now, to make your mommy happy by having something healthy along with your gravy and turkey on the side, cranberry sauce, still militantly conforming to the shape of the can despite your best efforts to crush it with your fork, most likely reared its red head during your decadent food fest.

Originally called “craneberry” for its drooping long leaves that vaguely resemble a crane, cranberries were introduced to American cuisine around the time of the pilgrims. The Indians were fond of them as a preservative as chemicals found in the berry kept meat from spoiling. The strong flavor led to their being canned and preserved, which uses some sugar, rendering a sweet yet tart jelly that has become a part of the American Thanksgiving table.

General Ulysses S Grant, during the Civil War, ordered cranberry sauce to be served to his troops, making its availability widespread and also boosting its popularity.

So, there you have it. A few bits of information that will only take up space in your otherwise largely underused head and not in that soon to burst gut. But, if you find you still have a hankering to stuff yourself like that scrawny bird you found at the last minute, below is a recipe for a dried apricot and sausage stuffing. Good luck, Slim. Your waist band needs it.

2.5 LB cornbread, slightly stale
8oz spicy Italian sausage, removed from casing
1 medium white onion, medium diced
3 stalk celery, small diced
1 medium carrot, peeled and small diced
8 oz dried apricots
3 cups chicken stock
6 oz toasted pine nuts
2 tbsp dried thyme
2 tbsp chopped fresh rosemary
3 tbsp butter
Salt and pepper to taste

In a large bowl, place the corn bread after cubing it into 1 inch squares. In a sauté pan, cook the sausage, onion, celery and carrot until all are soft and just starting to brown. Add in the apricots. Add in the chicken stock and bring to a simmer until the apricots are soft. Remove all the solids and continue to simmer the stock, reducing it by ¼. Add the herbs to the stock.

In the bowl add the solids to the cornbread, stirring gently to mix it all evenly. Slowly add the stock to the cornbread mix, stirring continuously. When the mix is damp and starting to bind, season with salt and pepper and mix in the pine nuts and butter. You may not need all of the stock, just enough to bind the mixture.

Place the mix into the bird and into a 350 degree oven. Cook the bird until done. Alternately, you can bake the stuffing separately in a baking pan at 350 degrees as well. Just add more liquid and keep covered until 15 minutes prior to removing. Remove cover and allow to brown.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff

Paula Wolfert, who is considered an expert on Mediterranean cooking, describes herself as a clay pot junkie.  It’s easy to see why.  Wolfert, often credited with introducing the foods of the Middle East to America and whose numerous cookbooks have garnered awards, has a collection of over 100 clay cooking pots, many hanging on the wall of her large kitchen in Sonoma, California.  She’s also recently written a cookbook, Mediterranean Clay Pot Cooking: Traditional and Modern Recipes to Savor and Share (Wiley 2009, $34.95) and she has one clay pot, a tripiere, that is used solely for cooking tripe.

Not that tripe recipes abound in her cookbook.  Indeed, the book is filled with many tantalizing offerings such as Catalonian Chicken Sautéed with Red Peppers, Tomatoes and Black Olives, Warm Green Olives with White Wine, Garlic and Hot Red Pepper and Greek Shrimp with Tomatoes and Feta Cheese.  Red talked to Wolfert as she was whipping up a French daube, or stew, in of course, a clay pot.

So how did this addiction start?

I was 19 when I bought my first clay pot.  It was shortly after I started taking cooking lessons from Dione Lucas. She had sent me to a French restaurant supply store on Sixth Avenue in lower Manhattan and it was there that I saw an odd-looking pot-bellied, earthenware vessel that had a tiny covered opening. The sales clerk told me it was used to cook tripe.  I had no idea what tripe was back then but I loved the shape of the pot and so I bought it.

Do you still have it?

Yes, it survived countless moves.  You know I lived 17 years abroad in the Mediterranean and seven years in Morocco and it made it through all those moves as well as my living on the East and West coasts.

It sounds like you got your money’s worth from it.

It produces the most rich, satisfying beef stews.

What makes cooking in a clay pot so special?

Clay allows soft cooking, it doesn’t burn anything and it lets the flavors infiltrate into the dish because the food is simmering more gently.  It’s also a great way to cook underutilized meats; the types of inexpensive cuts that people don’t usually know what to do with.  Because it tenderizes the food, you can use those meats in clay pot cooking and bring out their best taste.

Do you have a favorite pot?

A tagine I bought in the early 70s in the souks of Marrakech.  I’ve only cooked lamb tagines in it over the years and it is imbued with the scents and flavors of the numerous Moroccan spices I use. This patina gives a very subtle under-taste to every dish every time I cook in it.  Though I also really like this Chinese sand pot I bought for nine dollars.  I guess I like them all.

Paula Wolfert’s classic cookbook Couscous and Other Good Food from Morocco is still in print more than three decades after she wrote it.  A vagabond who had her three children in France and then raised them in Morocco, Wolfert now makes her home on the West Coast but she remains fascinated by the cookery of the Middle East and Mediterranean and the traditional ways of using clay pots for slow cooking food to bring out its wonderful flavors.  Red talked to Wolfert about her latest cookbook, Mediterranean Clay Pot Cooking: Traditional and Modern Recipes to Savor and Share (Wiley 2009, $34.95).

You know, when I first heard about your book–and I have a couple of your other cookbooks that I love–I thought when I first read the title it would be about those clay pot cookers that everyone was giving away one Christmas for cooking chickens.  

You’re thinking of the Romertopf clay bakers.  They’re good.  I have so many different kinds–Moroccan tagines, Provencal daubieres, Chinese sand pots, Spanish cazuelas, Italian bean pots, Turkish guvecs and even ceramic colanders including one I use to steam couscous. There is not a home chef in Spain would make their arroz (rice) in a cazuela, a French homemaker always makes daubs (stew) in her daubiere and any Northern Italian woman will make her risottos in a coccio.  These pots tie me to traditions, to the deep-rooted ways of cooking.  I’ve been collecting and cooking in clay pots for more than 50 years, I was going to call my book “The Confessions of a Clay Pot Junkie.”

Why didn’t you?

This really started off as a memoir, I’ve had a pretty interesting life, or so my publisher told me. But I just couldn’t write about me, I’m not that type of person.  I studied other food memoirs but I just didn’t know how to do it.  So went back to my publishers and said I’m going to have to totally redo this as a straight cookbook.

How do people reading this start getting into clay pot cooking?

In my book, I whittle it down to five pots that you can do most of the recipes in.  Most of the pots are stove pots.  Most people think of clay pots as being pots you use in the oven, but with many clay pots you do bottom up cooking by putting them on the stove.

How does it compare to a slow cooker?

It’s not like crockpot cooking at all.  With clay pot cooking there’s a caramelization that adds layers of flavor.

What are some easy recipes to start off with for people reading your book?

The pumpkin soup with Roquefort–it’s easy and uses a $9 Chinese sand pot that you can find in Chinatown.  The potato gratin is another one.  But there are a lot of easy recipes in the book.  I was just on Martha Stewart’s show and she fell in love with the Moroccan Fish Tagine with Tomatoes, Olives and Preserved Lemons on page 54.  She actually ate it on her show.  The book is diverse enough that there is something there for everyone.

And if I was going to go out and buy just one clay pot, which one should I get?

The cazuela is the work horse of clay pots.  But make it the 10-inch cazuela, not the 8-inch, that won’t be big enough.  Be sure to soak the clay pots in water overnight.  But you won’t be able to buy just one, I promise you that.

For more information, visit www.paula-wolfert.com

–Interview by Jane Ammeson, Red Editorial Staff

There are many smells that one can associate with specific memories or events: the sharp smell of pine needles invokes memories of rich green pine forests; burning wood brings forth thoughts and memories of fall and winter; the sour smell of last night’s Chinese food that you heaved onto the floor of the bathroom after that fifth of Jagermeister trying to impress the new lovely across the hall.

And then there is cinnamon, a smell that calls forth memories of holiday dinners; fireplaces and snowy nights; atomic fireballs lodged deep in your throat; and almost inevitably, Mom’s apple pie.

The feisty dried bark of the laurel tree that has long been a star in cooking and scented candles had its start in somewhat more of a morbid usage.  Egyptians used it in embalming their dead, appreciating the heady aroma it gave off while masking the rank odors of the freshly deceased. Romans burned it to keep the same foul stench away at funerals. Kinda corrupts Mom’s fresh baked apple pie a bit.

But it was found to have other uses as well.  Moses apparently used it in his anointing oils and early Greek doctors found it held curative powers for digestive issues as well as colds and flu. Its value in medicinal usage soon sparked battles over land possession in Ceylon, where it originated, and trade wars between Dutch, Portuguese and English merchants erupted.

Explorers with the blessings of their respective monarchies took off in search of fertile grounds and countries where cinnamon could be found and exported back to their home countries.

With all of the trade issues, farmers soon found ways to grow cinnamon on their own continents, lowering the value but stabilizing the market for it. The tree soon became prevalent in countries far from Ceylon, from Vietnam to much of Europe.

The actual production of cinnamon is not a simple task, hence the price even today. The first growth of the C. Cassia tree, or laurel, is chopped down after only two years of growth. Then, the small sprouts of tree that rise from the cutting are stripped of their outer bark, which is dried and produced into cinnamon.

From there, it is mixed into many spice seasonings from numerous cuisines, most famously being an integral part of Chinese 5 spice. It is also used prominently in Caribbean cooking in jerk and barbeque marinades, as well as a vast array of desserts and pies.
Cinnamon can be found in two typical forms: slivers of bark, also known as quills, and ground. Quills can be stored for years with no loss of flavor. However, ground loses its potency much faster.

Aside from its culinary usage, its benefits include both anti-clotting and anti-microbial properties, colon and heart health and increased brain power.  Science has also found its use diminishes effects of diabetes, promotes a higher level of a “well being” feeling, much like anti-depressants or vicodan. Maybe that bottle of Cinnamon Schnapps you boosted from Dad’s liquor cabinet may do you some good after all.

While the sarcastic “me” thought, albeit briefly, about giving a recipe using cinnamon the way Egyptians used for making the “after-life” smell all purdy-like, I went with something more benign and apropos for this holiday season: cinnamon ice cream. Everybody has an apple pie recipe and what could go better than cinnamon ice cream with it?

Cinnamon Ice Cream
2 cups regular half-and-half
2 cups heavy cream
1 vanilla bean, cut lengthwise
1 cinnamon stick, whole
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon, preferable fairly fresh
10 whole egg yolks
3/4 cups white sugar

Directions
In a heavy bottomed saucepan on medium heat, heat the half-and-half, cream, vanilla, cinnamon stick and ground cinnamon, whisking the mix occasionally to make sure the mixture doesn’t stick to the pan’s bottom. When the cream mixture reaches a fast simmer (at no point should it boil) remove from heat and let set for 20 minutes, allowing the flavors to infuse.

Whisk the egg yolks and the sugar together.  SLOWLY pour half the cream mix into it while whisking the egg yolk mixture. Then pour the egg-cream mixture back into the saucepan containing the rest of the cream mixture. Heat up slowly over medium heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon. It should get to approximately 180 degrees. At no point should it be allowed to simmer or boil.  If you don’t have a thermometer, by dipping a wooden spoon into the mixture you can see that it coats the back of it evenly and will allow you to swipe your finger down it and leave a clear line, not runny. When it is ready, quickly remove it from the heat and set it aside.

Meanwhile, in a deep metal bowl, put handfuls of ice cubes into the bottom and add cold water to cover the ice. Rest a smaller metal bowl in the ice water and pour the cream mixture through a fine strainer to remove the vanilla bean pieces and cinnamon sticks. If so desired, scrape the seed from the vanilla bean and return to the mix. Place mix into the smaller bowl. Chill 3 to 4 hours, and then proceed according to the directions of your ice cream maker.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff

It has been called an ungainly and unlikely aviator, a squall of feathers and it squawks as it bursts from the ground when startled. It is emblazoned proudly on that little bottle you keep in your work cubicle, buried under the piles of never filed TPS reports. It was suggested as the national emblem by Benjamin Franklin but was passed over by the eagle.

Drum (stick) roll please: it is the wild turkey.

Native to the US, the turkey has held prominence both on the dining table and in Native American culture. Settlers from Europe found the birds abundant across the continent due to Native Americans seeing it as food only in the direst of circumstances and a bird fit only for women and children to hunt.

They also held them in high regards for spiritual purposes, specifically the feathers, which were used in tribal ceremonies and seen as symbols of wisdom and as a medium for contact with the spirit world, much like your communing with the Wild Turkey spirits in that flask hidden hastily under your desk.

In typical fashion, the new settlers cast aside any reverence for the gobblers held by the Indians and hunted the wild turkey to near extinction, finding them roasted to be a lot more spiritually satisfying than did the Indians. And much like the buffalo, the turkey had to be protected and was removed from any legal hunting.

Taking the cue from the Pilgrims and their first Thanksgiving, turkey became the centerpiece for the Thanksgiving holiday, made official by Abraham Lincoln after serious lobbying by a magazine editor who wanted a day of thanks for the American people to celebrate.

With its newfound prominence, the once wild turkey was now being domesticated and bred for the overwhelming demand as part of the celebratory holiday dinner. Gobbler eggs, slightly larger and browner than chicken eggs, made their way to the breakfast table. Feathers, specifically the soft downy under feathers, were found to work well for insulating clothing and, wildly enough, were dyed yellow later on in the 20th century and used to cloak Sesame Stree’ts Big Bird.

Along with its use as a main course, turkey, with its low fat content and mild flavor, has now flapped its way into everything from turkey sausages to hot turkey wings. There is spaghetti with turkey meat sauce, turkey pastrami, smoked and brined turkey and an incredible array of turkey products, all lower in fat and as versatile as chicken.

While most of these products utilize bred turkeys for a milder flavor, the wild turkey is just as adaptable. The real difference between the farm and free turkey is a lower fat content and slightly stronger flavor in the free. Cooks typically add small amounts of fat to prevent drying out when cooking wild turkey. Bacon does the trick well.

Aside from the tastiness of turkey, the bird itself has some unique characteristics. Sleeping in trees, it is a wily and extremely cautious game bird. It spooks easily, making it a tough catch for hunters.  They travel in flocks, either taking flight at up to 55 mph or running surprisingly quickly at 25 mph when startled.

Turkeys also share a trait with humans: they can have heart attacks. Not from cramming chocolate Ho-Ho’s or Ding Dongs in their caws after a dinner of fried steak and bacon fat gravy, but from stress. They have been seen dropping dead during air force bombing practice after loud explosions.  If you have the guts it can be a great way to pick up a bird for that big Thanksgiving dinner. Just mind the shrapnel while dodging the incoming ordinance.

With all of this fun fact filled babble, the real deal with a turkey, wild or dragged home from the supermarket, is cooking the bird. Purists will roast, thrill seekers will deep fry and folks in the warmer climes may barbecue.  Some may smoke, others will brine. Stuffed or unstuffed, there are tons of ways to cook a turkey.

We will take a look at one simple way using brine to mellow some of the slight gaminess and a moderate roasting temperature for a moist gobbler that you can boast about after your fourth Wild Turkey and another retelling of the hellish experience you claim to have been through out in the 5 feet of blinding snow shooting the damned bird.

Nice job, Davey Crockett!

Brine for a 14 lb bird:
6 quarts water
1 C. kosher salt
3/4 C. brown sugar
1 tbsp chopped garlic
3 tbsp cracked black pepper
3 tsp red pepper flakes

Seasoning:
1/2 C. orange juice
1 C. butter, melted
2 drops liquid smoke
1/2 C light brown sugar
1/2 tsp cracked pepper
1 tsp kosher salt
4-6 slices thick cut smoked bacon

Basting Sauce:
1/4 C. butter, melted
1 C. dark rum

Instructions: Mix brine ingredients. In a large, clean bucket (or any clean, non-reactive container you have), immerse turkey in brining mixture for 18-24 hours. Drain and dry thoroughly. Allow it to dry completely. Rub outside and under skin as well as inside of turkey with orange juice.

If stuffing the turkey, stuff it at this time.

Mix butter, pepper, sugar, liquid smoke and salt, rub mixture on skin and into cavity of turkey. Place bacon slices over breast meat. Place the turkey breast side up in roasting pan. Mix melted butter and rum. Bake in 325 degree oven about 3 to 3-3/4 hours (more if turkey is stuffed), basting occasionally with butter and rum mixture. Turkey is ready when legs and joints move loosely and internal temperature reads 160 degrees F.

Thicken the drippings and the braising liquid with flour for a quick pan gravy.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff

For some, it is the sweet, rich aroma followed by a dainty sip that quells the addiction. For others, it is the after shock to their system that accomplishes the task with the jack hammer pounding of their heart, the slick sweaty palms and the newly heightened consciousness that pries open the eyelids and widens the pupils.

It is a morning beverage, a perfect accompaniment to any dessert or a wildly diluted beverage that has been corrupted with frothy, non-skim mocha, cocoa choco-latte flavorings and served by elitist snobs parading around with titles like chief barista or bean sommelier.  Its is java, coffee, morning joe or any other moniker that has been stationed on the broad shoulders of this beverage.

Long held as a staple in American cuisine, coffee has gained a prominence that few other beverages have even been able to achieve. From what it is served in, such as the iconic Greek Key patterned, “We Are Happy To Serve You” blue and white cups to the chains of coffee slingers such as Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks, coffee has gone from the swill your parents’ crappy coffee machine fed into those chipped mugs to something that now has “body”, “depth”, “hints” and any one of a thousand descriptive words that used to be reserved for the province of fine wines.

Early history showed Africa as being the origins of coffee, specifically Ethiopia, where small bunches of red berries were found to have stimulating effects on those who ate them. Brewing the dried beans was elevated to an art form in Yemen and points in the Arab peninsula, where coffee became a drink used by Muslim religious leaders to keep their worshippers awake.

As its popularity grew alongside the spread of Islam, coffee made it to Europe, where it blossomed in popularity. Among the first purveyors of the bean were the Dutch, who started the first coffee plantation on the island of Java. Now you know where the term “java” came from.

Its spread continued and the bean went island hopping around the Caribbean, with plants becoming so valuable that they were frequently stolen.

From Martinique the bean reached Central and South America, where Juan Valdez and his burro yanking cronies would make millions selling second growth, low to mid level quality coffee to Americans in need of a morning shock to the system.

In the area of Central and South America, the large producers, Brazil being first with 28-30% of the world market, and Columbia clinging on to a distant 2nd, account for export dollars that are only second to oil. It seems that the little bean, what the Turks refer to as “black as hell, strong as death and sweet as love,” is a real mover and shaker on the world stage as well as in your pounding heart.

Aside from the cup or four of morning sweetness, coffee is used with regularity in many desserts and foods. It is found in “cowboy” red eye gravy, where it is added in a pan that reserved the drippings of a well browned slice of ham as well as in tiramisu, that rich Italian dessert that uses lady fingers, espresso, mascarpone, cinnamon, shaved chocolate and whip cream.

With its rich history and lofty status, the little drink that banishes your finest hangovers and gets you through those late five martini lunches and back to the office, albeit staggering, will long remain the preferred delivery vehicle of caffeine and its jolting effects for years to come.

What follows is a quick recipe for tiramisu, the decadently rich Italian dessert that can either be light and rich if whipped and done right, or as dense as a sugary brick:

Ladyfingers
8 ounces Mascarpone cheese
1 ½ cups whipping cream
2 large eggs
2/3 cup sugar and, kept separated, 1/4 cup
1 envelope unflavored gelatin
6 tablespoons Kahlua
1/2 teaspoon Vanilla
Unsweetened cocoa powder
Sweetened whipped cream
Shaved semi sweet chocolate for decorating

Directions:

Layer one level of ladyfingers on bottom of medium glass baking pan.  In a mixer, on high speed, whip mascarpone cheese with heavy cream until mixture falls in a thick ribbon, about 1 minute; set aside in refrigerator.

In separate bowl with mixer on high, beat eggs until fluffy with stiff peak.  In pot over high heat, combine the 2/3 cup sugar with 1/4 cup water; boil.  Cook until sugar fully dissolves.  Gradually beat the boiling sugar syrup into beaten eggs.

Continue beating until slightly cooled, about 3-4 minutes. Transfer to large bowl; set aside in refrigerator.

In small bowl, combine 3 tablespoons of warm water with gelatin; let stand.  In a small pot over high heat, combine 1/2 cup water with remaining sugar; bring to a boil.  Cook until sugar dissolves, 3-4 minutes.  Remove from heat; stir in Kahlua, vanilla and reserved gelatin.

Fold 3/4 of the liqueur mixture into the egg mixture; fold in cheese mixture. Drizzle some liqueur mixture over the ladyfingers.  Use ½ of whipped mix to cover first layer, add another layer of ladyfingers and repeat mixture layer. Do so until last layer is all of the mixture.

Garnish each with sprinkling of cocoa, whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Chill and serve.

–Tim Connors, Red Editorial Staff