The concept of side dishes is sort of an outdated one, left over from a time when the meat took center stage and the satellite vegetables were only supporting players. And though Thanksgiving is allegedly all about the turkey, we know that the side dishes are what's most exciting about the over-hyped meal. Right? If your traditional sides are starting to seem lackluster, or still belong to the Dark Ages of marshmallow fluff and canned fried onions, perhaps you'll let me tempt you with these simple but rather spectacular yams. As I mentioned earlier, they have snuck into our Thanksgiving rotation the past few years and I've heard no complaints. For one thing, they contain crispy bits of pancetta. For another, they are glazed with good olive oil and dark maple syrup and goosed with a nice kick of chile. And, yes, you can make them ahead of time.
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In some situations, preparation is everything. Well, maybe not everything, but it can make the difference between an occasion that is relaxing and fun and one that is borderline hysteria. Yes, I'm talking about Thanksgiving, which is less than 3 weeks away. My sister-in-law and I got on the phone earlier in the week to plan our menu. Every year we do our best to inject a bit of newness into the proceedings. Some years we succeed more than others. It's now part of our tradition to make two turkeys—one roasted and one deep-fried. This way, we are not challenged for the all-important leftovers.

Since we're going to have a king's ransom's worth of hot peanut oil on hand, I though I would take advantage of it to make David Kinch's drool-worthy herb beignets to amuse our bouches. I've been reading about them for a couple of years now, and finally have the recipe from his newly published Manresa cookbook. Don't roll your eyes at me. I'll also be making some easy standards and—new this year—a ginger pumpkin cheesecake. More highlights follow...
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The redbud tree, a beautiful native species, is the first to offer its blush of pink blossoms in the early spring and it holds onto its large, heart-shaped leaves right up until the killing frost. On that very day, they fall slowly to the ground like great green tears. It is a sign that winter is upon us, like the wolf at the door.

There were not a great many garden posts this summer, so you'll have to take my word for it that it was a banner year. I harvested enough mint, chamomile, lemon verbena and anise hyssop to make many tins of my own "Garden Variety" tea. And we are fully stocked with frozen tomato sauce and zucchini. Remnants of its glory remain: the crisp dried globes of hydrangea, blackened peony leaves, a few wild grasses still standing tall. They bring to mind the concept of wabi-sabi, an aesthetic that derives from Buddhist teachings, centered on the acceptance of imperfection and impermanence. I learned about it years ago, from this book a friend gave me, and it resonated deeply right away. I have always loved the patina of age—on leather, on wood, on bronze, on human faces.
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I have a daily meditation practice. Me. She of the get-up-and-go mornings. I rise in the dark (hotly anticipating the end of daylight savings time) and sit on a yoga blanket on the chilly floor of my office, neck wrapped in a scarf to ward off evil drafts, legs folded like a pretzel, hands in my lap, eyes closed. And there I sit for the better part of an hour, trying to empty my mind of thoughts or at least to avoid following the relentless train of them that wants to threaten this early peace. It's not easy but occasionally, as I focus on the rise and fall of my breath, the past recedes entirely and so does the future. Then I am left with the moment, which is inevitably free of...everything.

And yet. More often than not, the second I close my eyes and begin, an enormous wave of grief rises from deep inside, as if from some bottomless well of sorrow. It is not attached to thought but more like an involuntary spasm. Tears stream down from my closed lids. I sit with it. Keep my breath steady and calm. Because that is what we are learning to do in this MBSR course. To abandon thought, to relinquish judgment, simply to observe. It passes but when I am done meditating my mind often returns to this grief that dwells within. Will it follow me forever? I picture it like a vine that has grown over the bronchi in my lungs, like the Virginia Creeper that twines around the trees upstate. They coexist, but sometimes it looks like a contest to survive.

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There are few things more magical than a quince. With a little kitchen alchemy you can transform this forbiddingly astringent and fuzzy fruit into something silken and sublime. The tip-off is the fragrance. When ripe, a quince will lose any hint of green, turn golden yellow and emit the most extraordinary aroma, like a candied combination of guava, pear and vanilla. I've heard that, left to ripen on the tree until late fall, they can actually become sweet enough to eat out of hand, but I have never encountered such a specimen. So I've always cooked them, generally poaching or roasting them in sweet preparations, or braising them with savory meats. If you've never tried a quince, now is the moment to look for them at your local farmers market. You'll have to look hard, though. Even at New York City's Union Square market, I found only one vendor with quinces. I wrote about this beguiling fruit here, way back in the very early days of the blog, and then again here, where I included recipes for making quince paste and for Alice Waters' mouth-watering quince and lamb tagine. This week I found a recipe for a hot lamb and quince salad from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall—he of the River Cottage and the exceedingly long name—and it really struck my fancy. Maybe it will strike yours, too.
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