Sweat was flowing down my back, and I was still catching my breath after running on the treadmill. My husband, returning to the gym room with the weekly grocery ads, turned to me and grumbled, "There’s no special on turkeys this year." "Huh?" was my articulate response. I looked and indeed, there was barely a nary a mention of the holiday bird. I shrugged and said, "So?" He eyed me somewhat blandly and said, "Thanksgiving is next week." I gaped at him. I stuttered. I vehemently denied. And then I realized I was speaking with the family’s resident encyclopedia of doom, and I thought, ‘He must be right.’

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Occasionally, my mother served us "pigs in a blanket" for dinner—and no, I’m not speaking of pastry wrapped hot dogs or sausages! In our household, "pigs in a blanket" always meant meat rolled in whole cabbage leaves and simmered in a tomato-based sauce. I can’t imagine where Mom picked up the reference, since the term (when referring to cabbage rolls) originates from Slavic-influenced regions like Pennsylvania.

Regardless of what they’re called, cabbage rolls exist across Europe, parts of Asia, and parts of the U.S. which are heavily influenced by Eastern European immigrants. There are many variations on the recipe depending on the region of origin. Sometimes cabbage rolls are cooked in tomato juice. In other recipes, you’ll see a sour cream sauce. Occasionally, people use pickled cabbage leaves to wrap the meat or add citric acid salt (sour salt). Cabbage rolls may even be distantly related to meat-stuffed versions of the dolma wrapped in grape leaves. In summary, this dish is a ubiquitous classic of rustic country-fare and (in my opinion) one of the ultimate comfort foods of Fall.

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My husband has a sweet tooth. Rather than fill him up with candy, I usually bake healthier quick breads for him to snack on while he’s at work. I don’t usually post the recipes or pictures for these breads, as I don’t really consider most quick breads worthy of an article. Can you imagine writing down all the possible toppings for a pizza? It’s analogous, in my mind. There are so many variations on quick bread. Practically everybody and everybody’s grandmother’s second cousin removed has a recipe for pumpkin bread or banana bread. Everybody swears by their own rendition. Honestly! Making bad quick bread is a challenge, and compared to yeast breads, they’re nothing. So why the fuss?

Despite that argument, recent disappointments have forced me to reconsider my position on not posting quick bread recipes. I speak, of course, of the damned lemon-poppy seed bread and (likewise) other citrus breads.

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In a previous article, I delivered a fairly thorough overview of stocks and outlined a recipe for fish stock. I dislike repeating myself, but for the sake of clarity, let’s start with what we know (or should know). There are three basic types of stock: white, brown, and fumet. Fish stock belongs to the first category, and is thus fairly simple to make; there’s some chopping and a fairly short simmer time, but no extra work is involved. Brown stock, the subject of today’s article, requires a little more preparation and a lot more time. I won’t pretend to be an expert in this arena. I’m still working out the kinks in this recipe, and there are a few practical matters to address in the future. But if you’re looking for an inroads into the topic, read on.

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In the short lull between the end of October and mid November, I like to have a break from the kitchen to recoup. That means no eight hour kitchen days for at least one week. So I threw together a chimichurri in 10 minutes, marinaded thinly sliced steak overnight, and spent 15 minutes pulling together a plate of fried sweet onions and bell peppers, seared mushrooms with truffle oil, and steak finished on the cast iron griddle. Super easy.

There’s really no single recipe for chimichurri. It can be done with red wine vinegar or white wine vinegar, cilantro or no cilantro, lemon juice or lime juice, olive oil or vegetable oil, etc. Typically there are red pepper flakes, but even that can be substituted out for another spicy ingredient.

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The first week of November is here, and recent tradition dictates the preparation of a Thanksgiving menu. I’ve done this early planning for several years now, mainly because I enjoy leisurely browsing books, magazines, and recipes online while brainstorming for a special menu; also, I hate, hate, hate being rushed into a huge holiday meal without scheduling everything beforehand. (Here I bow to my OCD habits.) What’s there to schedule, you ask? Well if I need three kinds of stock, a scenario which is not at all far-fetched, I’m not going to prepare the stocks all at once or even in the same week. First, that’s kind of a big grocery expense stacked into an already big holiday order. Second, cooking should be spread out and executed without rushing. Obviously if you’re a sous chef in a restaurant, that doesn’t apply and clearly you’re asking for punishment and stress. But at home, cooking should be a process savored and time should allow for attention to detail.

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My thoughts were drawn to my grandmother the other day. I never knew her very well beyond the self-interested childhood sphere of age eight, when she died quite unexpectedly just after her 50th anniversary. But there was one fact I could grip with stark clarity: she was the wife of a missionary. She married my grandfather fairly young and traveled with him extensively, going so far as to raise her own children in another country thousands of miles away from her friends (and possibly any family, not that I understood her to have any happy connections). It was baffling to me for many years. I was a progressive liberal and a budding feminist with a strong streak of individualism. What could possibly motivate a woman to up, marry, travel hell-knows-where at the whim of a man who is now practically the epitome of far-right religious Midwest values, and then have three children? And how could this person possibly be related to me? It seemed impossible that we shared the same genes.

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In an ideal world, I’d test all of Reinhart’s recipes before the end of the year. This goal is looking less and less likely, but I’m not really disappointed. With patience and repetition, I’ve gained insight into the "feel" of various doughs—very important because each type of bread has different qualities prior to baking. The better you get at identifying and aiming for these characteristics, the better your final product. Within the next several months or so, I anticipate quantitatively adjusting Reinhart’s formulas to my own specifications; I’ll post the results when I’m comfortable with their accuracy. NB: Remember most of these adjustments are specific to the environmental conditions of my location: temperature, humidity, etc.

Meanwhile, I am making progress through the book. After pizza crusts, I decided to turn my attention to the sweeter bread varieties in preparation for the holidays. By Christmas, I will probably have added Hutzelbrot, Stollen, Brioche, and/or Boston Brown Bread. This past week, however, I took a crack at Reinhart’s Graham Cracker formula. I ran two trials and a third is scheduled next week. Here are the results thus far:

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Having obtained a fabulous baking stone from Fibrament in August, I’ve subjected the stone to a rigorous baking schedule—boules, batards, and sandwich loaves at least twice a week. I was quite pleased with the performance, but as of last weekend the final test had yet to be performed: pizza. Years prior, I’d experimented with several hand-made whole wheat pizza crusts on cheap sheet metal; the results were o.k., but nothing worth preserving in the annals of Jenn kitchen-history. However, this time ‘round I was armed not only with the proper equipment, but also a baker’s formula from Peter Reinhart. The stage set, Fall arrived just in time to crank my oven up to 525°F.

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The theme this week was Spanish cuisine and flavors. (More on why in the next article.) I needed an all-meat dish to accompany the other main, so I bumbled around on the internet until I ran across "albondigas"—or meatballs. The snafu: the online recipes were all over the map. Many of the meatballs were basted in a tomato sauce, but some were in wine-vegetable broths. Beef, pork, veal, bacon, and chicken were all candidates for the actual meat content. One of them called for Parmesan cheese, and that’s where I just drew the line. Parmesan cheese? As in the Parmigiano Reggiano of Italy?! Why would Spain, with all its lovely and wonderful cheeses, use Parmesan in what is considered a classic dish of Spain? I dove for the nearest bookstore. Save me from the hordes of sameness! I was not going to be conned into some American rendition of spaghetti and meatballs (minus the spaghetti), no matter what the internet said.

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