It's time to talk turkey. Even the most experienced cooks can get a little flustered when it come to roasting such a large creature. Confusion starts with what kind of bird to buy and proceeds through whether or not to brine, to stuff or not, what temp, how long to rest, etc. It's all in pursuit of that deep brown, lacquered skin and meat that is not hideously dry. Some say the sole purpose of gravy is to restore moisture to that breast. There really is no definitive technique for roasting a turkey, although most professional chefs do recommend you cook it until the breast is done, and then cut off the legs and thighs to finish roasting separately while the breast rests. In a neat twist on that, this recipe has you brine the bird whole, then break it down and roast the legs and wings on top of the stuffing. Food for thought.

But most people simply can't abandon the Norman Rockwell image of that intact turkey perched on the carving board in all its golden glory. And for those of you who wish to hew to tradition (my dining companions included), I've gathered a few recipes for success. I've rarely actually been in charge of a turkey, depending as I do on the kindness of others for my Thanksgiving dinner. But some years ago I did make Martha's version with the breast draped in wine-&-butter-soaked cheesecloth, and I recall it being quite delicious. I didn't brine it first—I'm actually not sure that I've ever eaten a Thanksgiving turkey that's been brined! Not everyone is prepared to take that extra step, but I understand it makes an enormous difference. I love to eat the dark meat—and to gob mayonnaise and cranberry sauce on a leftover turkey sandwich—so dryness is not my particular bugaboo, but it looks like we're going the brining route this year.
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This seductive soup is pronounced "fuh," like the word for fire in French. I had wanted to post a gorgeous "pho"-to of a big, steaming bowl of it, but we ate the entire pot before I got the chance. So instead, here's one of a woman in the market in Saigon scarfing down this wonderful national dish. Pho is traditionally eaten for breakfast in Vietnam, but it goes down like a charm for lunch and dinner, too. It's great stuff for cold weather eating, but that doesn't prevent South East Asians from having it in the raging heat. A rich but clear beef broth, infused with star anise, clove, cinnamon and ginger, it is traditionally served with slices of raw sirloin, shallots, bean sprouts, cilantro, Thai basil, mint, lots of slippery, chewy rice noodles, a squeeze of lime and maybe some chile. It's not so complicated; mostly, it just takes time. I love how you char ginger and onions directly over the flame of your burner; it imparts just a hint of smokiness that is very reminiscent of outdoor cooking in Asia. As with all stocks, you make this ahead so you can skim off the fat, and it's quite a healthful and nourishing dish because of the good nutrition from bones. Of course, I urge you to make this with meat from a happy cow, please. For its sake, and for yours.
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Clearly, this was a banner year for winter squash. We planted a single plant and in return reaped this one mini Blue Hubbard in the foreground, above. But at Riverbrook Farm, they've been harvesting them by the barrel. In the back is a Cinderella pumpkin, a beautiful French heirloom also known as Rouge Vif d'Etampes. It first became available in the U.S. in 1883. The bumpy one at left is called Marina di Chioggia, another heirloom, this one with roots in the Italian coastal town for which it's named. The rich sweet flesh is deep yellow-orange and especially prized for making gnocchi. (Stay tuned later this week!) The other greyish one is an Australian variety—can't remember what it's called. They had at least a dozen varieties at the farm and I was a bit overwhelmed by the choices. Resting on top is the lovely striped Delicata. I would imagine it got its name from its thinner skin, or possibly from the fine-textured golden flesh that has a sweet, nutty flavor. I roasted mine and stirred chunks of it, along with flecks of smoked ham and fresh sage, into a risotto made with brown carnaroli rice.
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Squash and gourds have arrived! I'm planning to really load up when I visit the farm next weekend as Alice has so many gorgeous heirloom varieties. For now I just grabbed a green kabocha and a gorgeous brilliant orange mini Hubbard. Hubbards are my favorite variety, and we actually managed to produce a blue one ourselves in this year's garden. They have a wonderfully sweet and rather dry flesh that roasts up beautifully. Last fall, I invented this very easy and delicious way to stuff any whole squash; I find that roundish ones work best. Small ones are ideal for one or two people, or you could do a great big one for a dinner party. The presentation is lovely and rather dramatic. I use whatever vegetables I have on hand, and it's an ideal way to use up leftovers, because rice, stale bread, bits of ham—anything, really (dried fruit, seeds, tofu)—can go in there. A little cheese is always nice, so now that G is back on dairy (sad to report that 2 months without it, plus a whole slew of tinctures and Chinese herbs, did nothing for his chronic gut pain) I mixed in some fresh mozzarella from our local dairy. This is a very cozy and hearty dish, economical and full of nutrition.

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The tomatoes just keep on coming. Every morning, G goes out to the garden to poke around, and inevitably returns with a handful of cherry tomatoes, some kale, maybe a squash, and lately the big yellow beefhearts. This week I made an Indian dal with lentil-flour flatbreads and a tomato chutney spiced with curry leaves and black mustard seeds. Tomorrow, I'm planning to serve icy cold bloody marys made with fresh tomato juice and spiked with celery bitters and horseradish. What do you make when you have a surplus of tomatoes? It's been raining for about 24 hours straight at this point, so a pot of soup is really a no-brainer. I think this creamy, dairy-free version is just what the doctor ordered. 
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A tomato by any other name...My friend Nina told me that she dubbed my delectable Spicy Tomato Jam (which I can't recommend highly enough as a way to use some of the many tomatoes flooding your farmers market at this very moment) Love Apple Jam and gave jars of it away as the favor at her wedding. Genius! Tomatoes were probably given this lightly erotic moniker due to their alleged aphrodisiac qualities. We all know how lusty those Italians are, right? At any rate, if you're not making jam with your love apples, you're undoubtedly dabbling in sauce. ("Gravy," if you're Italian-American, or have watched too many Sopranos episodes.) We have several divine varieties of heirloom tomatoes that G brings in by the armload every day and I've been making batches of sauce and freezing them—in glass jars, in ziploc bags—to squirrel away for the winter months. Can you just imagine eating spaghetti with sauce made from your own tomatoes in the middle of January?
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The fruits of one's own garden just seem to taste sweeter. Our first patty pan squash, Japanese eggplants and scallions went on the grill, along with red carrots and sweet onions from the farm. With a radicchio salad in a creamy dressing, that was all we needed for dinner the other night. I made a dipping sauce for the vegetables with an earthy red miso and it truly was perfection. A grill can really change the way you eat, especially if you live in LA or some other temperate climate. As irresistible as that charred flavor can be, I want you to be aware that too much blackened food is not good for you. Burning food produces a group of substances (polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons) that are associated with cancer, cardiovascular toxicity and immune system suppression, among other adverse effects. So avoid extreme charring of your food, and don't eat from the grill every day. Moderation really is the key. (Except when it comes to exercise, of course.) But don't despair! You can use you grill to cook in a number of ways that don't involve charring but still infuse your food with that delicious smoky flavor. Low and slow, as in our pulled pork for instance, or indirect cooking, which really is the best way to do chicken or other foods that tend to burn quickly.
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Not as in Lima, Peru, as in Mexican lime. I had a reader request for Yucatecan sopa de lima, the Mexican version of Jewish penicillin, and I was happy to oblige, in part because I had a big jar of freshly made chicken stock in my fridge. The timing didn't really work out for photos as I only know how to make them look good using natural light. So you'll have to make do with a couple that show the difference between the small, seed-filled Mexican limes (not unlike key limes) and the more ubiquitous Persian limes. Either one works for this soup, and you can even use lemon. I ended up using both. This recipe was not something I grew up eating. My mother's cooking was much more influenced by her mother's New Mexico roots. And although I have eaten this soup in Mérida, I consulted a number of sources to get it right, including Rick Bayless, the Chicago-based chef (and Obama favorite) whose recipes tend to be impeccably researched and very authentic. I can't really say this is his recipe; I changed it too much. His stock calls for pork bones, and for a few other ingredients I didn't have on hand. But in the end, I wound up with a delicious, light but satisfying soup redolent of cinnamon and cumin, with a bit of chile heat, a pleasingly tart finish and a fabulous garnish of crispy tortilla strips. It's great in hot weather and cold, and if you have stock on hand, you can cook up a pot in about an hour.
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We made fried chicken this weekend but we were too busy to take any pictures of it, so all I can offer you is this shot of my nephew who said it was the best dinner he'd ever had. That's some endorsement. The recipe came from Edna Lewis and Scott Peacock. If you don't know about these two cooks—a delightfully odd couple—let me just give you a little background. Edna, who passed away in 2006 at the age of 89, was the granddaughter of a former slave who had helped found Freetown, a Virginia farming community. She grew up on the fresh food at hand, then moved to New York City where she cooked for and rubbed shoulders with artists, musicians, writers and Communists. She had an elegant style and a gift for simple, classic flavors. Late in life, Edna encountered Scott Peacock, a gay man half her age, a kindred spirit and chef whom she mentored and befriended. In fact, the two wound up sharing an apartment, and Scott cared for her until her death. (A situation that was evidently problematic for her family.) They collaborated on a cookbook, The Gift of Southern Cooking, that is full of wonderful traditional American Southern recipes, including the one I used for fried chicken.
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We all experience that moment of truth when the dinner hour rolls around, nothing has been planned and it's just you and the fridge in a Mexican standoff. These days, the problem is often that there's so much in my fridge I can hardly maneuver around the jars of whey and pickles and stock; the mounds of just-picked kale and lettuce; the stockpiles of lemons and radishes. This particular evening, I dove in and emerged with a pound of shrimp, a jar of red curry paste and some wild lime leaves. There were snow peas, pea greens and shelling peas from the garden, and with that and a can of coconut milk, a curry seemed possible.
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