When your birthday is three days before Christmas and you grow up in the United States, there is very little you can do to separate the day from the ever-eclipsing holiday mayhem.  There is the inevitable dual gifting you’ve heard about, I’m sure, coupled with an incessant round of holiday parties that tend to fall on your birthday itself, negating any possibility of a romantic birthday dinner sans red and green cheer.  I’ve always been ok with this though, preferring to look at it as merely a challenge to make my party the party of the season- the one people still feel the hungover effects of come Christmas morning.  When I was in my more “free-spirited” phase, the parties would be laced with glow sticks and body paints with all manner of eclectic music punctuating the reverberating cacophony.  The problem with those parties lie in the fact that no one would really remember anything about them either during or afterward, much less the fact that it was my birthday.  Now that I’ve got a burgeoning reputation as a social maven to uphold, a bit more organization and thought goes into planning each fete, and this year was no exception.

I went with a Mad Men theme, if you haven’t seen the show you ought to.  It’s set in the early 1960’s and filled with a cast of advertising execs on Madison Avenue and their wives/mistresses.  I chose the period for the attire and cuisine, thinking it would be easy and fun to transport ourselves into that world. I didn’t bargain on the fact that everyone would really get into the attitude as well, which is what made it a resounding success.  As many of you remember and some of you can imagine, a major focus is on the cocktails- drinking on the job from morning ‘til night is de rigueur a la Mad Men.  I so wanted to find a seven or eight year old to bartend, since kids back then would frequently mix drinks for their parents, but I couldn’t get anyone to volunteer their child, despite the major résumé-building potential!  Instead my dear husband Jonas transformed himself into a downright dandy bartender adopting the persona of a confident boss mixing up a bourbon concoction for a coworker before a “meeting.” 

I wanted my food and drink to match what likely would have been served back in the day so I went the class and sophistication route (ha ha) with homemade cheese balls, bonbons, rumaki, Swedish meatballs, a Roquefort molded salad mousse, deviled duck eggs, and Waldorf salad. 

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One post and two recipes- I must really be getting into the holiday spirit of giving, folks!  It all went down like this:  right about this time every year I get so steeped in festive cookies, eggnog, holiday muzak and mall madness that I simply need a break from it all lest I should find myself menacingly brandishing a meat cleaver at the next poor soul who steps into my kitchen. 

 At this moment, I begin to dream of the greatest Christmas I ever had, spent sunning myself on a Mauritian beach far far away from the hullabaloo of snow-drenched streets and plastic manger scenes.  At the first inkling of burnout I head to the laptop and search out last-minute fares to somewhere, anywhere but here to escape to for the holidays, knowing full well that I will spend it here, because I’ve already decked the halls, wrapped the gifts, and planned the menu for the big day.  I start to reason with myself, Linda, you hate to travel during the holidays, plus Bentley is too young to appreciate Caiphirina’s on the beach and mama in a bikini anyway. 

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Dungeness crab cakes on pea sprouts with lemongrass kaffir sake beurre blanc

When daddy’s away, mama will play, you’d better believe it!  Jonas high-tailed it to Japan for work last week and left Bentley and I to our own devices.  The first thing I taught Bentley to do was jump on the bed. Every self-respecting 16 month old should know how to do that, right?  The next order of business on my list of infidelities? Cram in as much slithery slippery savory sexy seafood as possible over the week (and do so while watching all the chick flicks I need to catch up on since the last time he left town).  Jonas isn’t big into our fair friends from the sea with the exception of Ahi tuna, so it’s not easy to get my daily quota. 

edamame starter

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There is something so romantic about tea-smoked duck.  Every time I hear those words I mentally transport myself to an ancient dynasty replete with silk robes, ornately carved furniture, and decadent feasts.  Tea-smoked duck originated in the Sichuan provence in China.  While I do not hail from Sichuan (or China) I think I must have in a former life, as it is a place that frequently inhabits my dreams. 

I have a hare-brained theory as to why tea-smoked duck originated in Sichuan.  Geographically speaking, Sichuan province is situated in a bowl, with the Himalayas to the west, the Quinling Range to the north, and the hilly Yunnan province to the south.  As such, the province is prone to fog.  It befits the region that one of their most internationally notorious dishes is produced from the creeping fog of smoking tea leaves, no? 

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In an effort to raise consciousness regarding the origin of the revered food that regularly graces our bountiful table, I decided to trace much of my Thanksgiving feast back to its natural state.  The quest detailed herein focuses on the journey of the turkeys with supporting star mentions going out to spectacular sides as well; Tom Tom couldn’t have done it alone.  Tom Tom is the celebrity-inspired collective name for both of our Thanksgiving turkeys.  Since they’re on the smaller side we needed two, and can you really think of a better name for the two preening Toms we hand-selected from a local organic farm? If so, leave it in the “comments” section of this post :) 

The story of Tom Tom starts with Craigslist- that’s where everyone goes to find a free-range, organically fed Thanksgiving turkey *caveat- still alive, right? I put out a few feelers to the more reputable ads that listed turkeys for sale, hoping someone would let me come out and be a part of the process.  Plenty of folks were willing to let me take a live one home, but after the great October chicken massacre on my in-city back deck, I was really hoping to do the deed at the farm.  Logistics aside, I also felt that the birds would be less distressed if we removed them from the world surrounded by nature, rather than after a jarring car ride back to an urban flat.  After a bit of nudging, I found a farm called ER Properties who said we could come on out to aid in their processing at 11 am November 23^rd. That is T-minus 3 days to Turkey day.  With my big brining and drying plans, I thought it was cutting it a bit close, but that was the option I was left with, so I set the date. 

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It’s quite a stretch to go from turning up your snout at swinery and slathering dry cure on a pork belly, let me tell you.  Why the sudden change of heart? It wasn’t so sudden, really, kind of like conquering the final frontier, which for me happened to be pork.  I slipped out of lifelong vegetarianism a few years back, but always viewed the swine side of life as a jiggly pink world I wasn’t much interested in until recently.  I made a personal commitment not to be so squeamish about foods I perceived that I “didn’t like” in order to expand my culinary horizons.  When I get a notion in my head I tend to go after it with the tenacity of a pit viper, much to the annoyance of those around me who have had the great pleasure to accompany me on a 12 hour shopping marathon, for instance.  Once I embraced pork I had an awful lot of catching up to do, from pulled pork to tenderloins, prosciutto to pancetta.

The apparent holy grail of pork is bacon, and Jonas couldn’t have been happier that I was finally eating it, hence cooking it for him.  I’m not sure his happiness transferred fully the day I walked through the door with a 6 lb slab of pork belly, but when I told him of the projected bacon yield, he forgot all about the smelly raw belly and what compromised refrigerator space it would bring.  I lathered it up good and dirty with a mixture inspired by Michael Ruhlman in his inimitable book Charcuterie, but with some noticeable Linda-isms thrown in for flair.

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