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BY ALYSSA WORK

In print | Published December 2, 2004

“Thanksgiving,” I was informed the other day, “is the only pure holiday left.” In at least one sense, this is true. A day set aside for giving thanks — to your local turkey farmer, to God, to your personal chef, or to no one in particular — is a pretty noble idea. Thanksgiving is not a holiday that inspires the frantic shopping (that’s for the day after) and feverish anticipation of other holidays. Odds are, this Thanksgiving dinner was a whole lot like the last, plus or minus one slightly insane uncle or one pecan pie. That’s part of its beauty.

But if you look at the holiday in a semi-biblical light, the day of thanks fails the purity test. After all, behind the façade of family togetherness and grateful contemplation, Thanksgiving is about one thing: stuffing yourself to that ever-so-tenuous point between perfect satisfaction and who-made-those-biscuits-so-heavy pain. All of the feverish overindulgence that isn’t released in the form of credit card maximization is channeled into a one-night-only feasting extravaganza that would make any follower of the Middle Path (all things in moderation, eh?) cringe.

And that’s what we call gluttony, otherwise known as deadly sin number six and often followed by deadly sin number seven: sloth. It’s a wonder all of us who dared to reach for that second slice of pumpkin pie are still standing, unscathed by divine wrath.

So I’m going to risk salvation all over again and attempt to bring a bit of gluttonous delight back to Swarthmore’s little Garden of Eden. Thanksgiving dinner at our house, in terms of food, is traditional, tweaked a bit.

There’s turkey, of course, albeit cooked on its side (“Roman style,” my dad dubbed it) and flipped over every 40 minutes. The purpose of this, my mother assured me, is not to allow the bird one last measure of comfort before it is devoured but to “keep the moisture in for a more tender breast.”

Whatever it is, the reclining pose worked. At least Rajhendra, our Nepalese dinner guest, who had never tasted turkey before, kept reaching for more and declaring it “wonderful.”

The beans at the table are more than boring old haricots verts — they’re “Tropical Green Beans,” according to the yellowing newspaper clipping with the recipe on it. Vinegar, hearts of palm, and sun-dried tomatoes set those palm trees swaying in my mind against the November chill. The sweet potatoes bear a hint of the tropical as well. Sweetened with brown sugar and flavored with orange juice and diced pineapples, they’ve been a staple at the Thanksgiving table for years.

But a turkey is not a turkey if that chest cavity ain’t full to the brim. And our stuffing, too, is somewhat eclectic. “The Joy of Cooking” calls it “Miles Standish stuffing,” although Standish’s Puritan sensibilities probably would have led him to call this concoction a deadly sin in itself. Mozzarella cheese, sausage, pepperoni … it’s like a pizza inside a turkey, without the weirdness of an actual pizza inside a turkey.

Miles Standish stuffing could, in fact, be quickly and easily prepared with smuggled dining hall ingredients in any dorm oven, with a few minor alterations in the recipe (omitting for example the turkey gizzards, a difficult item to steal from Sharples). All you really need to do is the following.

Toast half a loaf of generic white bread and slather it with butter.

Cut the bread into half-inch cubes and toss with pepper, 2 tsp thyme, 1 tsp sage, and 2 tsp rosemary.

Heat 4 tbsp butter in a skillet, then add and cook half a cup of onions and celery slices.

Add the bread cubes and cook and toss until well, combined, then add half a pound of breakfast sausage, 3 oz. mozzarella cheese, and 2 oz. spicy pepperoni.

If needed, moisten with chicken broth.

Voilà! Enough Miles Standish stuffing (five cups) to satisfy the most sinful Thanksgiving appetites. And who says you actually need to stuff anything with it? This is good enough to be served straight out of a bowl, on a sandwich, whatever.

Happy Turkey Day, whenever you want it.

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