The trick to tear-free slicing? A very sharp knife and good skills. Shallots are a bit less pungent than their humbler relative, but the value of a good sharp knife cannot be overrated when it comes to virtually any repetitive cutting task. I never tire of using shallots in my cooking. They create a deep, slightly sweet flavor base and become soft and velvety much quicker than onions. They're also delicious raw, adding a mild bite to salad dressings and slaws. A quick soak in ice water first diminshes their intensity somewhat. But perhaps my favorite way to eat them—fried—is inspired by Southeast Asian cuisine, where the shallot runs rampant. They make an addictively crunchy topping to everything from rice and noodles to soups and salads. What you may not know is that you can fry up a mass of them and, once cooled, store them in a sealed glass jar, where they will remain crisp for quite a while.
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Thanksgiving is two weeks away and this is no time to bury your head in the sand and pretend like it's going to sort itself out. I'm a big control freak advocate of advance planning and you know deep down it really does help prevent all those 11th-hour meltdowns and kitchen hissy-fits, not to mention mediocre meals. Just give in to your inner Martha (the ultimate Higher Power) and get organized as hell. It's all about making lists, my friends! Devise your menu; compile your recipes; pull together your shopping list (checking the pantry to make sure you have those items you're "sure" are there but haven't actually seen in a year) and then make a schedule—yes, a schedule—so you'll remember to start brining the turkey days in advance, and so you can prepare everything possible ahead of time (stock, pie crust, etc). It's a highly tactical operation.

Before you move on to the rest of this post, please check out the photo, above. It's from last Thanksgiving. I've been hoarding it all year so you could see how our turkey turned out. Not bad, eh? Of course I've cropped it so you can't really make out where all the bits of skin stuck to the side of the way-too-small aluminum pan and tore off, but still. Read on to find out how not to have that happen...
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Scared you, didn't I? You thought this was going to be about some weird condiment made with offal. This chutney is definitely assertive in its own right, but it is strictly vegetarian. It is, however, from the original nose-to-tail chef, Fergus Henderson of St. John in London. I've never met Fergus, nor have I eaten in any of his restaurants, but I love the man. His seminal cookbook, Nose to Tail Eating: A Kind of British Cooking, is a window into his wonderfully warm, witty and ultimately quite sensible approach to food and life. (Did I mention he has Parkinsons?) You've never seen a less fussy cookbook. He doesn't get all bothered about quantities or times, but rather helps you to be an intuitive cook. Some choice phrases: "Do not be afraid of cooking, as your ingredients will know and misbehave." (As though an onion was a young horse feeling its oats!) Eating aoli "should be an emotional experience." And, with regard to this chutney, "There is nothing finer, after having a good stock up your sleeve, than having a reserve of chutney." I believe we've conquered the stock thing, and so are ready to proceed to this very British, quite rustic and highly addictive chutney.
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