Cranberry Sauce

Cranberries have a place at the Thanksgiving table because they symbolize autumn, and because they are native to the north American continent. These wild berries, called sassamanesh by Native peoples, were an integral ingredient in pemmicanana, a mix of nuts, berries and dried venison on which they depended during lean times. Sassamanesh were also medicinally and as a dye. Other Native names included ibimi and atoqua. The American term "cranberry" is actually "crane berry," so named because to early German and Dutch settlers the flower of this plant resembled the head and bill of a crane.

As a native food used by Native peoples, cranberry history is tied to American history. The cranberry harvest symbolizes plenitude, as flooded bogs stretch for acres in every direction in garnet lakes awaiting harvest. Cranberries are popularly supposed to have been served at the first Thanksgiving, along with wild turkey, wild rice and squash. Cranberry sauce was served to Union troops during the Civil War. The familiar canned version was first produced commercially in 1912 by the Cape Cod Cranberry Company -- now known as Ocean Spray.

No offense to the canned sauce of thousands of tables, but cranberry sauce is easy to make -- in fact, doing so is one of the easiest tasks of the Thanksgiving feast. If you're so inspired, here is a fail-safe recipe for whole berry cranberry sauce. This version can be home canned -- imagine opening it on a snowy winter weekend, to accompany roasted fowl or beef. The gemlike color and distinctive bite will recall that busy, fulfilling time when you gathered with family and friends for this important holiday set aside for that most important of rituals: gratitude.

Cranberry Sauce

Don't skip the step of sorting through the cranberries; it only takes a couple of minutes and the result is fresher and brighter sauce. This recipe can be doubled -- consider doing so if you're feeding a large crowd. Don't forget to set some aside some for home canning or freezing.

One bag fresh cranberries

One navel orange, preferably organic

1 cup white sugar

1 cup water

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1. Clean the orange. If organic, it should not be coated with produce wax and will just require rinsing under cold water. If not organic, rinse well under warm water or use a commercial produce cleaner (available in the market in the fruit aisle). Set cleaned orange aside on a paper towel to dry.

2. Cut open the bag and empty the cranberries into a bowl. Set a colander beside the bowl. Pick through the cranberries, moving the good ones into the colander. Each berry should feel hard; don't worry about color as some pink or white cranberries are acceptable as long as most are deep garnet. Discard any that have gone soft, along with any residual leaves or stems if any. With practice, you will be able to do this very quickly, by touch.

3. Rinse the cranberries and set aside to drain.

4. Combine the water and sugar in a large non-reactive pan. Set over medium-high heat and bring to boil, whisking to dissolve sugar.

5. While the water is coming to the boil, remove the zest from the orange onto a small plate or a piece of waxed paper. A microplane zester works well. Alternatively, use a small, sharp paring knife to remove just the orange part of the skin in strips. Line the strips up and cut lengthwise into tiny ribbons. Cut across the tiny ribbons to form dice.

6. When the water is at full boil, add the spices and the orange zest. Whisk to combine.

7. Add the cranberries to the boiling water. Stir with a silicone spatula or wooden spoon.

8. Reduce heat to medium. Allow to boil uncovered, until the berries begin to burst and sauce thickens, approximately 10 minutes.

9. If canning, fill clean, sterilized jars with sauce and process as directed by manufacturer. If serving, transfer sauce to a cranberry mold or serving bowl; cover with plastic wrap and chill until serving time.

Wines for Thanksgiving

Among oenophiles, two of the most popular topics for discussion are wine pairings for asparagus and for turkey. This is because these two flavors dare the palate, and therefore the resourcefulness of the sommelier, with their complexities. Asparagus may or may not be on your Thanksgiving table (if so, I like Jay McInerney's pairing suggestion), but with Thanksgiving approaching, I thought I'd share some suggestions for wines to pair with turkey.

Conventional wisdom pairs turkey with sauvignon blanc, whose citrusy character ideally attains minerality in a balance which does not conflict with the rich flavors of turkey. Some sauvignon blancs are too light-headed for this task, but an assertive pour works very nicely. Try New Zealand's Babich Marlborough, an eminently drinkable and easily available sauvignon blanc with a high, fruity top and a strong mineral streak down the middle. California's Beckman Santa Ynez attains a lovely balance of rich, ripe fruit and dusky mineral; think of a gold-tipped cigarette swathed in a peach fuzz wrapper.

It has a bad reputation in many circles, but chardonnay is not a dirty word. This grape has been mishandled in its day, being bulk-produced for jug wines that were over-soaked and over-oaked. In the right vintner's hands, chardonnay is a revelation, as sultry as the sunsets which it evokes. Although sleeker chardonnays have been a recent trend, most are known for being full-bodied, a characteristic that marries well to the bounty of Thanksgiving table. Try Ridge Santa Cruz Estate, a buxom chardonnay perfumed with florals and spice, which is given just enough oak to emphasize its curves. Reasonably priced Franciscan Napa Valley is a direct hit of the buttery apple flavor you expect from chardonnay, set apart by a toasty top note that you should.

In my experience, scoffers are silenced upon their first sip of a good rose. Done right, rose is the coquette of wines, and how could you not want one of those at your party? Like all flirts, rose is as moody as it is teasing, so pair carefully, looking for a rose whose characteristic fruity bloom compliments some serious bodywork. Mas de Gourgonnier les Baux de Provence opens with notes of white tea and roses, before evidencing almost all the flavors in the berry patch. It it sounds too delicate, just wait for the backflip of fern and wet rocks that is the perfect riverside setting for game fowl. Domaine Ott Clair de Noir in the well-known urn-shaped bottle is an icon of rose, with clean, berry-scented flavors that agree with almost any palate, making this the classic introduction to the world of rose.

Because Thanksgiving is a meal of complex and sometimes competing tastes, white blends work well. Many drinkers disagree with me, but I find Conundrum agreeable in context. True, the five grapes used to blend this California table wine scuffle like siblings, but the multi-textured result, heavy on fruit and hazelnut, is well suited for a bounteous table. The show-stopping Bonny Doon vineyard's Le Cigare Blanc is a spritely balancing act of tropical flavors, cream and fresh straw. It's somehow gruff and sleek at once, and that it pairs nicely with poultry and green vegetables is part of a surprise that is, I think, built into the experience.

Finally, like any guest who wants to attend, reds should have a seat at the Thanksgiving table. Versatile, welcoming pinot noir is the common pairing; for it, I always evangelize the wonderfully drinkable Castle Rock. La Crema is reasonably priced and widely available, offering a light bouquet that opens to a gemlike flavor of cherries touched with cinnamon. Both of these California pinot pours cost under twenty dollars a bottle, making them great choices if your task on Thanksgiving Day is to bring the wine.

Pumpkin Cheesecake

Like penne alla vodka, pumpkin cheesecake is a food whose exact history is difficult to pin down. Newspaper food section clippings from the early 1970's reference "pumpkin cheese pie," noting that it's like a cheesecake, and "sherried pumpkin cheesecake," indicating that, like fondue and wine spritzers, this dish came of age during the hip aesthetic of the swinging seventies. One reliable source I found indicated that the recipe first appeared in the venerable Better Homes and Gardens in 1971.

When- and wherever it originated, pumpkin cheesecake is a welcome visitor to the autumn dessert table. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin cookies or pumpkin pie are all beloved expressions of the season's favorite food, but a pumpkin cheesecake is an honest-to-goodness dessert, complex and decadent, and just a touch snooty. That said, it's easy to find an indifferent pumpkin cheesecake - in which the crust is mushy because sweet-natured graham crackers don't have the wherewithall to heft a pumpkin filling on their delicate shoulders, or that filling is glorified pie custard, evidencing no real reason for the cream cheese to have been included at all.

This version uses crushed gingersnaps to form a crunchy, caramelized crust that forms the perfect shell for the rich flavors of the lightly, but not overwhelmingly, spiced cheesecake filling. (A friend of mine -- one of the most talented chefs whose food I've ever been privileged to eat -- suggests using a combination of gingersnaps and chocolate graham crackers for the crust). Serve your pumpkin cheesecake after a wonderful autumn meal, with a full-bodied autumn coffee.

Pumpkin Cheesecake

If possible, make your gingersnaps yourself or buy them from a bakery. Remember that a cheesecake must be removed from the oven before it has completed cooking, or else at it cools the top will crack. Oven temperatures vary so start checking at 35 minutes: look for an area somewhat larger than the circumference of a quarter in the center of the cheesecake to be slightly jiggly when you shake the pan.

For the crust
1-1/2 cups crushed gingersnaps
3 tablespoons sugar
4 tablespoons unsalted butter

For the cheesecake
2 8-ounce bricks cream cheese
3/4 cup sugar
1-1/4 cups canned pumpkin puree
3 large eggs
1/2 cup heavy cream
1-1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

For the top
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 tablespoon brown sugar

1. Early in the day, place cream cheese into a large mixing bowl to soften. Place brown sugar and 1/4 teaspoon cloves into a small bowl and use a fork to mash together; set aside.
2. When ready to bake, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9-inch springform pan.
3. Mix sugar into crushed gingersnaps. Melt butter and pour in a thin stream into gingersnap mixtures, stirring constantly until mixture comes together.
4. Pat the crust onto the bottom and up the side of the springform pan. It is okay if the crust doesn't reach the top.
5. Place pan into oven and bake until crust is just set, approximately 4 minutes. Remove pan from oven and set aside.
6. Add sugar to the softened cream cheese and mix until sugar is incorporated and mixture is creamy.
7. Add pumpkin, vanilla, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and cloves to cheese mixture; mix until all ingredients are incorporated.
8. Add eggs and mix until smooth.
9. Add cream in a thin stream, mixing just until smooth.
10. Gently spoon filling into crust. Sprinkle top with brown sugar-clove mixture.
11. Bake until just barely set. Check cheesecake beginning at 35 minutes and at five-minute intervals thereafter. Remove cheesecake from oven when an area somewhat larger than the size of a quarter is jiggly when pan is shaken.
12. Cool on a wire rack for 15 minutes.
13. After 15 minutes, loosen sides of springform pan (cake should have pulled away from sides) and remove. Continue cooling, undisturbed, for 30 minutes. Chill until ready to serve.

Weeknight Dinner: Pork Tenderloin with Apples, Thyme and Rosemary

According to the unsurpassable wisdom of Fannie Farmer, "nearly every part of the pig is edible and delicious." While we respect those who for reasons of diet or belief don't eat pork, for those of us who do, it develops into a practice, and often a philosophy, of its own. To some, pork is the smoky hocks with which they flavor their beans and their greens, or the bacon they will find almost any excuse to include in almost any dish. A Southern sloppy top wouldn't be the same without pulled pork lounging underneath the cole slaw. Pork is a standard of Chinese take-out, whether mu shu, sweet and sour or lo mein. Any child of the mid-century American suburbs remembers pork chop night, where chops were crusty from a dusting of seasoned flour and a quick sear in hot oil, or creamy from a bath of milk and thyme and slow roast in a hot oven. And then there are those (you know who you are) to whom pork is all of the above, plus a bowl of knuckles swimming in broth, or trotters tossed with bitter greens, or even a suckling, wrapped in hay and cooked in a pit.

The finest cut of the pig is the tenderloin. It's aptly named: because of its location anatomically (deep inside the loin), it develops little if any sinew, and this in turn makes it tender. Like all deep cuts, the tenderloin can be costly, but as an occasional indulgence it costs no more than a good steak.

Here is a recipe for a weeknight roasted tenderloin, perfect for the lengthening shadows of an autumn evening. A quick sear in olive oil creates a crust which works with an oven braise of white wine to create a tender, richly flavorful main dish. Astringent rosemary and lush thyme assert themselves in a swift reduction of the pan juices, counterpointed by sweet sauteed apples. Serve with an autumn salad of blue cheese and arugula, and -- what the hell, you worked hard today -- a glass of chilled white wine.

Pork Loin with Apples, Thyme and Rosemary

Pork tenderloins usually weigh 6 - 8 ounces; this recipe uses two to create four servings. The recipe can be halved; the cooking time should remain the same. For safety's sake, a meat thermometer inserted into the meat should read 160 degrees before serving -- don't worry about the high temperature; the braise will keep the meat moist.

Two pork tenderloins, 6- 8 ounces each, one pound total

3/4 cup dry white wine

Several stems fresh rosemary

Several stems fresh thyme

Salt (Greek sea salt works well)

Freshly ground black pepper

2 - 3 sweet apples, such as fuji, honeycrisp or jonagold

1 tablespoon butter

Extra virgin olive oil

1. Remove the tenderloins from their protective packaging and rinse in cool water. Pat dry and set aside on a clean surface to rest.

2. Place the herbs on the bottom of a roasting pan big enough to hold both tenderloins.

3. Heat the oven to 425 degrees.

4. Place a non-stick skillet over medium-high heat. Add a three count of extra virgin olive oil to the skillet.

5. Once the oil beings to shimmer, place a dry tenderloin in the oil. Season with several grindings of fresh black pepper. Sear, using tongs to turn the tenderloin until all sides are darkened.

6. Place the seared tenderloin on the bed of herbs and repeat step four with the second tenderloin. Place the second seared tenderloin on the bed of herbs. Season with salt and a few more grindings of pepper.

7. Carefully pour wine into the roasting pan.

8. Cover roasting pan tightly with a layer of aluminum foil, creasing the foil tightly around the rim of the pan. Don't skip this step; use the foil even the pan has a lid. Place pan into oven.

9. While the roast starts cooking slice the apples into quarters from stem end to base end. Cut each quarter into halves; cut a half moon in the center of each eighth to remove the seeds and their core.

10. Place the apples in the fat left over in the skillet. Use a rubber spatula to gently turn the apples to coat completely with the fat. Leave on the stovetop but don't turn on the heat.

11. After forty minutes, remove the pan from the oven. Carefully open the foil on the side of the pan pan farthest from you, keeping your hands and face out of the way of the escaping steam. Once the steam has subsided, check each tenderloin with a meat thermometer; each should reach an internal temperature 160 degrees. If they haven't, reseal the foil and return to the oven, checking again in ten minutes.

12. Once the tenderloins reach an internal temperature of 160 degrees, remove the foil from the pan. Place the tenderloins on a clean cutting surface and tent with the foil. Let rest for ten minutes.

13. Add the butter to the apples in the skillet. Turn heat to medium high and saute, stirring occasionally until tender, approximately five minutes. Once ready, transfer the apples to the serving platter.

14. Pour the juices from the bottom of the roasting pan through a sieve into the skillet. Heat on high, stirring with the rubber spatula, until pan juices have reduced; about two minutes. Pour reduction into a serving bowl.

15. Carve the tenderloin into slices and arrange on the platter with the sauteed apples. Season lightly with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Serve with the reduced pan juices.

From the Vault: Retro Halloween Candy

Is there anyone -- except, perhaps, dentists -- who doesn't love candy? As I have written before, there was a time when candymaking was an expected part of every homekeeper's repertoire. My grandmother made candy every autumn. I remember watching her cut long ropes of caramel into bite-sized pieces for wrapping in individual squares of waxed paper. She always left some caramel in the bottom of the pot for swirling onto apples from the tree by the tool shed. She cut long flat sheets of honey taffy into wide rectangles to wrap in a special paper made just for this sticky delicacy. Her coconut stacks were three colors high: chocolatey brown, vanilla white, and Halloween orange (when she made the same candy at far-off Easter, the orange was replaced by banana yellow). Probably because it was the kind she made, I like chewy candy, with the sole exception of the hot cinnamon disks that for some reason are challenging to find in the city.

In our household, candyphilia is evidenced by the pail of it that appears in our living room every Labor Day and stays straight through until New Year's resolution time, and the vintage candy ads that adorn the walls of our dining area. Inspired by these bites of sweetness -- not to mention my love of all things Halloween -- last year I wrote a piece for Slashfood about retro Halloween candy. Here it is.

Hot Spiced Cider

What speaks more eloquently of the pleasures of autumn than the harvest? From the city, cars of"leafers" fill weekend interstates headed for farm country, where open fields beckon for the gathering of pumpkins from beds of five-pointed leaves and mischievous tendrils. If no one's looking, a pile of bronze leaves begs to be jumped on. A stop at the farm stand yields the last of the summer corn to be frozen for Thanksgiving, bushels of apples for filling fruit bowls and pie crusts, and a heart-warming, spicy sip of hot cider.

We think of cider as an American treat, and in some ways it is. During the early European settlement of the colonies, grain seeds brought from Europe did not take as well to harsh New England conditions as did apple seeds that also made the voyage. "Cider apples" were harvested expressly for fermentation, yielding a beverage not unlike the cider we now associate with pubs.

That cider was similar to the much older drink of Europe. When the invading Romans reached England in 55 B.C.E., they found locals enjoying a cider-like (Ciderish? Ciderly?) beverage made from apples. They took the drink and its process back to the Mediterranean, where it found its place at table along with their drink made from fermented pears. The Basque prepared a drink by fermenting apples with honey. Greek historians refer to a similar beverage as "sikera" and there is also reference in the Hebrew to "shekar."

In the Ninth Century, Charlemagne decreed that "sidre des pommes" always be available at his table. During the Medieval period, cider making had become an important industry, led by monasteries, whose wares were so valuable they were used as currency. By the mid-seventeenth century -- just in time for the pilgrims to transport cider apple seeds on their ships -- cider making was so common that most farms had a grove of trees just for that purpose, and their own press.

Modern American cider is sweet cider, meaning it is rescued very early during processing from fermentation. (Alcoholic cider, of course, is hard cider). Sweet cider should exhibit the essence of the apples (special varieties divided into two categories: bittersharp and bittersweet) used to make it. Whether you buy your cider from a local stand or at the grocer's, the standards are the same: it should give off a sharp, sweet fragrance of apples, and that corresponding flavor should follow -- undiluted after a few moments on the tongue, and unaltered whether tasted warm or cold.

Some purists maintain that sweet cider needs no assistance, and they have a point. But hot spiced cider is a wonderful autumn treat, so here's a recipe for a quick, easy, and spirit-warming hot spiced cider, just right for sipping after an afternoon of raking leaves, from a thermos during the big game, or fireside on a chilly night.

HOT SPICED CIDER

In order not to detract from the distillation of apple that should be the centerpiece of a cider drink, this recipe does not include any additional flavor essences -- such as the citrus zest sometimes included -- other than spice. Do not be seduced by the charming cinnamon sticks you see in the spice aisle; unless marked otherwise (and priced accordingly) they are cassia, a relative of the cinnamon plant that does not yield its oils very easily. Use ground cinnamon; also cassia, but much more fragrant.

2-1/4 cups apple cider
3/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon whole cloves
Several gratings of fresh nutmeg or 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 star anise
4 juniper berries

1. Combine spices in a square of cheesecloth; use kitchen twine to tie into a sachet. Alternatively, combine spices in a clean mesh tea ball.

2. For every two cups of hot cider, measure 2-1/4 cups of cider into a nonreactive saucepan.

3. Add the sachet/tea ball. It is okay if the ground spices escape into the liquid.

4. Heat until the spices give off their fragrance. Serve immediately.

From the Vault: Bat Houses

Now that the home computer is up and running, I'm writing and queueing posts again. Those will start to go live this week. Thanks to everyone who's been so encouraging about wanting to read more.

Meanwhile, here's a post that seems most appropriate for this time of year: a piece from last summer about bats, their importance to our ecology, and what you can do to help these dear -- and, yes, slightly scary -- creatures. I wonder what we of the bat persuasion should call ourselves? Batters? Batty?

After this piece originally appeared, I heard from a number of people who pledged their support -- either ongoing, or anew -- to these important links in our shared ecological system. One of my favorites was from a friend of mine who keeps a lovely urban rooftop garden that includes a bat house. So here's a shout-out to Jason -- and an invitation to share some pictures!