My friends Molly and Phil have a faux-Thanksgiving every year at their home in Houston. About a dozen of us gather for this potluck affair the weekend before that wonderful Thursday, and each of us brings a dish or two, perhaps more than that, depending on how inspired we feel. I’ve never hosted on Thanksgiving day, so it’s nice to feel like I can take part in the best meal of the year—even if it comes a few days early.

What I love about Thanksgiving is that even if the guest list changes and the potluck dishes are a little different, a variation on the same flavors always comes out: the salty taste of stock and celery in stuffing; the rich taste of gravy over turkey and smooth creamy potatoes; the tart, sweet bites of cranberry chutney coupled with some version of roasted, creamed or spiced vegetable.

Since the bird gets done on Molly’s end, us guests have the opportunity to focus on the side dishes that make the table so colorful. I make the same thing every year: cranberry chutney, jalapeño cornbread and creamed spinach. I love how a smear of tangy chutney can cut the richness of the meal, perking it up a bit, too. I love the taste of cheddar cheese baked into bread, and I think I’ll keep these spicy cornbread muffins even when we move away from Texas. Finally, creamed spinach is my ultimate favorite. I would eat that for breakfast, lunch and dinner if I could. The taste of caramelized onions deep inside and the slight hint of nutmeg in cream sauce make this dish totally unforgettable.

The chutney recipe comes from a family tradition, passed down from my Grandmother’s kitchen. She found it in one of those Pillsbury advertisements, an entire little booklet of recipes dedicated to promoting the brand. The little palimpsest is nearly 50 years old, covered with splashes and encrusted crumbs spanning the decades. (Watch me make this for Christmas, too…) The cornbread was a more recent discovery for me, and I’ve made several batches since coming to Houston. I love the combination of sweet, crispy corn meal with sharp cheddar and a little bit of jalapeño kick. The recipe I used this year (from my last ever Gourmet) calls for real corn kernels, which lent a welcome texture to the golden bread.

And finally, my favorite, creamed spinach. This recipe comes from none other than the goddess of easy, elegant recipes, Ina Garten. I’m sure there are some foodies out there who assume that because her recipes are so straightforward, they’re not heavy on the culinary clout. Well I’m here to tell you that this is absolute malarkey, and that anybody who doesn’t have her books is missing out. I’ve never had a bum recipe from the Barefoot Contessa—which is more than I can say about virtually any other source out there. This creamed spinach recipe—actually a spinach gratin—comes from her book Parties, and is a no-fail crowd pleaser.

So that, friends, would be my contribution if you invited me over for a communally cooked Thanksgiving meal. I love the stuffing, the potatoes, the turkey and all that, but this trio of dishes is my idea of sides at their most complimentary. All told, whipping these up can be done in less than 2 hours, leaving you plenty of time to bake a pie… or roast a turkey… or, depending on your responsibilities, take a pre-dinner nap.

Cranberry Chutney

½ c apricot preserves
½ c firmly packed brown sugar
¼ tsp cinnamon
¼ tsp ginger
¼ tsp cloves
12 oz bag of fresh cranberries (thawed if frozen)
2 medium pears, peeled and cubed
1 medium apple, peeled and cubed
½ c raisins
½ c coarsely chopped, toasted walnuts

Combine the preserves, sugar and spices in a medium saucepan.

Bring mixture to a boil and cook until sugar dissolves, stirring occasionally.

Add cranberries, pear, apple and raisins and cook over medium hear for 25 minutes, or until mixture is thick and cranberries have all popped. (Stir occasionally.)

Take chutney off the heat and stir in walnuts. Cool slightly and store in glass jars, up to 3 weeks.

Cheddar and Jalapeño Corn Muffins

Nonstick cooking spray
5 T unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2 c cornmeal—preferably stone ground
1 t salt
1 t baking powder
½ t baking soda
¾ c corn (thawed if frozen)
1 ¼ c well-shaken buttermilk
1 large egg
1 ¾ c grated, sharp Cheddar, plus ¼ c for garnish
1 jalapeño, finely chopped, with seeds

Preheat oven to 425 degrees, with rack in the middle. Coat muffin cups with spray.

Whisk together cornmeal, salt, baking powder and baking soda in a large bowl.

Whisk together corn, jalapeño, buttermilk, egg and melted butter in another bowl, then stir into flour mixture until just combined. Add 1 ¾ c cheese.

Divide batter among muffin cups and sprinkle with remaining cheese. Bake until puffed and golden, about 20 minutes.

Creamed Spinach (or Spinach Gratin)

4 T unsalted butter
4 c chopped, yellow onion (2 large)
¼ c flour
¼ t grated nutmeg
1 c heavy cream
2 c whole milk
3 lb frozen spinach, defrosted and chopped (5 10oz bags)
1 c freshly grated Parmesan cheese (for simple creamed spinach, only ½ c is needed)
1 T kosher salt
½ t freshly ground black pepper
½ c grated Gruyere cheese (for gratin only)

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.
(Only if making gratin—you will not need the stove for creamed spinach.)

Melt butter in a heavy bottomed sauté pan over medium heat. Add onions and sauté until translucent, about 15 minutes.

Add the flour and nutmeg and stir constantly for another 2 minutes.

Add cream and milk and cook until thickened, about 10 minutes.

Extract as much liquid as possible from the spinach (I do this by cutting a hole in the side of the package and squeezing it over the sink) and add spinach to the sauce.

Add ½ c of the Parmesan cheese and mix well, seasoning with salt and pepper.

To make gratin: Transfer spinach to a baking dish and sprinkle the remaining ½ cup Parmesan and the Gruyere on top. Bake for 20 minutes until hot and bubbly.

No matter how beautiful—or how well their flavor stands up to their wan, grocery store brethren—these early tomato specimens don’t thrill me the way a sun-ripened fruit might. But that’s ok, because the weather here has still been dipping at night, and I’m not yet averse to turning on the oven and coaxing a little sweetness out of my preemptive tomatoes. In a few months, when the season is at its peak, I’ll eat nearly everything raw. But for now, roasted tomatoes with a dash of sugar are a total pleasure, especially if you gussy them up a bit, say with some basil, peppers and a dash of cream.

I’m also highly inclined towards soup in the evenings. It is the epitome of comfort to slowly spoon your dinner—savoring each bite by necessity. I wish I were capable of eating slower in general, in which case food would probably satisfy me more quickly. Alas, I am not. Instead, I play tricks on myself, like roasting and pureeing and making things boil in order that I might enjoy them for a slightly longer period. It doesn’t always work: right now, I have a burnt tongue, for example.

But what is better, a blistered mouth or the stomach ache I’m guaranteed through July and August, when I go about devouring quarts of gazpacho? I think it’s a symptom of having been to prep school, where dinner lasted fifteen minutes and I spent four years rushing to get my marinara and penne  down in time for study hall. There are some things I savor: wine, chocolate, cheese (whatever wine, chocolate and cheese I consumed in high school was undoubtedly of low quality). For some reason, I spend the warmer months of my adult life rushing at the tomato—perhaps because they come and go, apparently abundant, and then notably absent for so long. Well, my cup runneth over with spring and I really do need to take a deep breath and give thanks for modern technology: God bless the hoop house and all its advances.

This soup put to use a few other things, lurking locally: some fennel from the garden, and basil, too. I also have lots of onions on hand, and loads of roasted red peppers, a jarred recollection of August 2009. The recipe is a rendition of one I read in my favorite vegetarian food blog, 101 cookbooks, although I’m not shy about swirling in a bit of cream at the end. Roasted tomatoes and cream… who needs strawberries?

Roasted Tomato Soup with Basil and Bell Peppers

2-3 pounds of tomatoes, any kind, cored and halved or quartered, depending on size
1 c roasted red peppers
(alternatively, you can roast two raw peppers alongside your tomatoes)

1 fennel bulb, sliced
3 medium yellow onions, quartered
1 head of garlic, generously coated in olive oil
3 cups of stock—vegetable or chicken
1 c basil, torn plus 1 T chiffonade for garnish
2 t turbinado sugar
2 T olive oil
1 t balsamic vinegar
Heavy cream for garnish
s & p

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Heat oven to 375.

In a large bowl, coat tomatoes and sliced fennel with olive oil.

Spread evenly across two baking sheets, placing the tomatoes on one sheet and the onions, fennel and garlic on another.

Sprinkle with salt and roast about 20 minutes, or until vegetables begin to soften.

Drizzle balsamic vinegar and sugar across tomatoes and rotate both pans.

Cook an additional 25 minutes, or until caramelized.

While vegetables cool somewhat, bring broth to a simmer and cover.

When garlic cloves are cool enough to handle, squeeze them from their skins.

Place ingredients in a blender and puree until smooth, working in small batches to prevent heat-related injuries.

Just before serving, reheat blended soup and garnish with cream and basil.

Alternatively, allow to cool completely and serve chilled.

Still, those mornings happened in Connecticut, far north of here. Here, it rarely snows at all—though last winter there was a fifteen-minute flurry that caused as many accidents during its fleeting lifespan. And even though not an inch stuck to the wet ground, the Houston Independent School District was quick to shut its doors this year, remembering, I suppose, the many car crashes that ensued during the city’s last dusting.

Or maybe the educational honchos did it because they felt like every kid deserves at least one snow day in his or her lifetime. Did a very benevolent superintendent wake up and think to himself, “This day, December 4, might be my only chance to give these kids a shot at snow angels?” Or maybe he wanted to give all his exhausted teachers a chance to put their feet up with some hot, buttered rum. These were the things I thought about as I stared at my reflection against the backdrop of a neighbor’s white, speckled rooftop.

The house was full this weekend, which always makes things feel festive, no matter what the weather. But these last few days, with friends and flurries all around us, things really felt special. The kind of special that makes you want to eat gingerbread and homemade whipped cream.

A few of our favorite people came by on Saturday night for an evening of champagne; spicy shrimp and chorizo soup; a caramelized onion crostata; a lively game of charades and finally gingerbread, dusted with sugar and piled high with whipped cream. All of that eating, drinking and playing exhausted us enough to spread communally onto couches and overstuffed chairs and fall asleep—like the naked lethargarians in the Phantom Tollbooth. I always identify with those little creatures after a big meal. Needless to say, I woke up this morning feeling very full of the holiday spirit indeed.

And though the guests have departed, a few slices of maple gingerbread remain, along with quite a cloud of whipped cream. A gal can never feel sad with a fridge full of the holidays.

Maple Gingerbread

Adapted from The Joy of Cooking

With all ingredients at room temperature, preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Grease and flour a 9-inch square baking pan.

2 ¼ c all-purpose flour
1 ½ tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground ginger
1 tsp ground cinnamon
½ tsp salt

1 c hot water
½ c light molasses
½ c local honey
½ c maple syrup

½ c (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
1 large egg
½ c sugar
3 tbs chopped, crystallized ginger tossed lightly in flour (optional)

Whisk together the flour, soda, ginger, cinnamon and salt.

In a separate, small bowl, whisk together the water, molasses, honey and maple syrup

In the bowl of a stand mixer (or not if it’s snowed so much that the power’s gone out) blend together the butter, egg and sugar.

Add the wet and dry ingredients, alternating between each and mixing thoroughly with each addition.

Before pouring batter to pan, stir in crystallized ginger.

Bake approximately 1 hour, serve with homemade whipped cream and a bit of confectioner’s sugar.

Whipped Cream

1 pint of heavy cream
½ c confectioner’s sugar

Here you will want to use some electrical assistance—hopefully your lights are back on.
Pour cream into the bowl of a hand or stand mixture and beat until it fluffs, adding sugar after the cream takes form.

Add as much or as little sugar as you like, depending on the demands of your sweet tooth.

I love their ridges, their fuzz, their changing gradations of pink and yellow. I love the leaves that spring from their tops—they look so biblical. They’re more beautiful in person than any still life, though I can see why they’ve inspired great art through the ages. We should all be so lucky to be as pretty as a peach.

And even though a peach devoured raw and dribbling is as good as summertime gets, I decided to practice some self restraint for once and see how they would look in a dessert. I deliberated for a couple of days, letting them ripen further in a brown paper bag. When I finally pulled them out, their sides were so soft I actually treated them like sparrows in my palm.

I wanted something that would showcase their shape. Buckles and pies are lovely to taste, but fruit ends up something of a juicy mass beneath their crusts and crumbs. I wanted more for my peaches. They needed great presentation: a subtle platform for their astonishing color and shape. And then I came upon it—the Clafoutis, a French dish traditionally done with cherries.

The Clafoutis is an almost flan-like dessert and it’s easy to see why pert, tart cherries would complement its silky richness. That said, the ultra ripe peach wedges were hardly cloying. I would even consider making this with a layer of caramelized pears or apples and serving it after brunch. It’s sweet, but the texture is light enough to enjoy during daylight hours.

When I first started researching the Clafoutis, I was slightly confused. Recipes call for pouring batter over fruit arranged in the bottom of a baking pan. I wondered if every Clafoutis recipe author had forgotten to mention that the dish had to be flipped before serving, like an upside-down cake.

Fortunately, a life lesson applied: when everyone else is WRONG, there’s probably something going on with me. So I took a leap of faith and trusted that my beautiful babies would be properly showcased like the cherries pictured in traditional Clafoutis preparations.

And indeed, like all shining stars, they rose to the occasion—literally. As soon as I mixed the liquid custard I understood: the batter worked its way under every slice, lifting the pattern to the top of the pan, where the fruit floated in pink and gold glory. Everything about a peach is beautiful, but when a spiral of slices hover over a custard, they can take your breath away.

These peaches came courtesy of Lightsey Farm in Mexia, TX. I used a recipe from The Joy of Cooking as my base, but changed some rather significant details. When I do a fall Clafoutis with apples, I will do it exactly the same way.

Peach Clafoutis

4-6 peaches (enough to cover the bottom of a 9” round cake pan)
4 eggs
¾ c granulated sugar
1 c half and half
¾ c all purpose flour
1 tbsp amaretto
1.5 tsp vanilla extract
Pinch of salt
Confectioner’s sugar for dusting
Vanilla ice cream for serving

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Preheat oven to 375.

Arrange peaches in the bottom of a 9” cake pan.

Beat eggs and sugar until frothy about 2 minutes.

Stir in half and half, Amaretto and vanilla.

Add flour and salt and blend until smooth.

Carefully pour batter over peaches and bake for 10 minutes.

Reduce heat to 350 and bake another 30-35 minutes until Clafoutis puffs and edges are golden brown—a toothpick inserted in the middle should come out clean.

Cool slightly before serving (with Vanilla ice cream) and dust with confectioner’s sugar.