Whipped rutabaga is a fluffy, creamy side dish that will make your Thanksgiving sparkle – especially when paired with crisped shallots.
Poor rutabaga. They didn’t really do it any favors when they were naming it, did they? I mean, it’s not like the word just rolls off the tongue. Rutabaga. It sounds weird. Ru-ta-ba-ga.
The thing is though, what it lacks in grammatical elegance, it more than makes up for in flavor and texture. I think it’s criminally underused and if you’ve never tried it, you’re in for a treat. (Note: it’s also sometimes called swede or yellow turnips, depending on where you live).
The rosemary cocktail doesn’t come any more Hallowe’eny than this: “Rosemary, Baby!” – a little sweet, a little bitter, with just enough herbal and citrus flavor to balance it out. Oh, and it’s blood red. Good for individual cocktails or a party punch!
It should come as a shock to absolutely no one (who either knows me or has glanced at this blog) that I like cocktails. Whenever I go to a new restaurant, the first thing I check out is the cocktail list. And whenever we throw a party, we try to have at least one cool cocktail on offer as an option to beer and wine. Fun, right? But you know what’s not fun? Spending your entire party behind a bar, mixing individual cocktails for 30 people.
That, my lovelies, is why God invented the punch bowl.
Nerd Alert: Here is a short, mostly-accurate history of the term “punch”. Punches date back to the 1600s, when British sailors required something to drink that wouldn’t spoil in the tropical heat of India and Indonesia. (Unlike us modern dummies, British sailors were entitled to ten pints of beer a day. Yes, entitled). A true punch will always be a balance of five flavors (some kind of citrus, a sweetener, a base spirit, a weak portion like juice or wine and a seasoning portion, like herbs or spices). It’s meant to be less potent than a standard cocktail, allowing party-goers to gather around the bowl and socialize. Here endeth the lesson.
Rosemary, Baby!
Since neither Matt nor I planned to dress as a bartender for Halloween, we decided to go the punch route. After many, many minutes of research, we settled on this recipe from Prime Meats. Now I know what you’re thinking and, no, we didn’t choose it just because we love that restaurant and used to go there all the time when we lived two blocks away. And we didn’t chose it simply due to its perfect Hallowe’en name, Rosemary, Baby!, an homage to one of my favorite horror films. We chose it because it sounded delicious. And it was. Delicious, that is.
This recipe combines my three favorite things. It’s fast, it’s cheap and it’s delicious. And easy. I know that’s four but I don’t have time for semantics. I’m in a rush here! (I’m not really, but one of the best things about this recipe is that, other than mixing the sauce ingredients together and throwing in the chicken, there’s really not much else to do. That’s why it’s perfect for a weeknight dinner). Bung it in the oven, throw on some rice and by the time you’ve opened a bottle of wine and cycled through your Netflix options, dinner is ready.
We put together two different versions of salsa verde with some tomatillos, avocadoes, garlic and spices, and pretended to be into sports just to hang this article on a game theme! Hint: we are not into sports.
I’ve always envied people that were really into watching sports. I would love to care about something (other than nerdy television shows) enough to paint my face, don a kooky costume and brave the cold, just to prove my commitment and loyalty. To feel the agony of defeat in the hopes of, one day, just maybe, getting to experience the glory of ultimate victory.
But nope. Just don’t give a toss. Matt doesn’t follow sports either (with the exception of the occasional World Cup match, of course).
This is a rough approximation of Matt and me watching the news when the sports headlines come on.
SPORTSCASTER [Very excited]: AND THE STEELERS SCORED AN AMAZING SEVENTEEN AND FIFTY-SIX AND A HALF YARD PASSES LESS THAN SIX MINUTES APART IN THE FOURTH QUARTER! UNBELIEVABLE!!!!!
MATT [Pops a chip in his mouth]: What is this? Are they playing shove ha’penny?
Roasted beet salad is all about the beets, baby. But you also need spicy greens, creamy ripe cheese and a balanced salad dressing. We show you how.
We all know there are vegetables that many, many people despise. (A Brussels sprout looks around the room nervously and begins to back away. Soon to be followed by a turnip. And then a beet. The beet grabs a stick of celery from a nearby Bloody Mary as it exits.) But the thing is, I’m pretty sure that most people just think they hate these vegetables. And the aversion they experience is not because these maligned veggies are actually gross*, but because they’ve most likely had them prepared incorrectly.
*Except for celery which actually is gross and no amount of jiggery pokery will change that.
Take Brussels sprouts, for example (always at the very top of the “hated vegetable” list). Many people boil them until they are a thoroughly revolting shade of gray and the texture of a moldy sponge. They also think that a little pat of butter will camouflage the criminally sulfurous smell. Then they wonder why there is a child-shaped hole in the wall and little Timmy has run off to join the circus. BUT, take those same sprouts, coat them well in olive oil, salt and pepper and roast them in a very hot oven and they’ll come out as crisp as french fries and just as addictive. And little Timmy can stay in school and become a doctor, or a film editor or some other, equally respectable occupation.
If you’re anything like me, you start the week with grand plans (and a long list) of all the things you’re going to get accomplished. Paint the porch. Just in time for Halloween! Work on the novel. Duh, I’ll just wake up an hour earlier! Train the dog to stop losing her mind every time the UPS truck is within a seven block radius. Easy as cake! Oooooh, maybe I’ll make a cake.
Then inevitably, usually by about Thursday, I realize that not only have I managed to fail in getting those things done, but I also didn’t use that chard I bought and the dog is now convinced that the clean laundry basket is her new bed because the un-folded clothes have been in there so long.
Arya in her laundry basket
That’s about when remember that even when I’m too busy to care whether my socks match, I can still make something really satisfying for dinner. It doesn’t have to be a big production (especially if you’re not stopping every five minutes to take pictures).
