Thanksgiving Just Keeps on Giving

 fig. a:  apple-picker

Canadian Thanksgiving 2013 began with our annual apple-picking excursion to Covey Hill.  There, we picked a couple of buckets of apples (Empires, Northern Spys, Russets, and Spartans, mainly), bought a couple of baskets more,

 fig. b:  apples

and picked up some Flemish Beauty pears, as well.

 fig. c:  pears

The sun was bright, the leaves were vibrant, and it was downright warm (felt more like peach-picking weather than apple-picking weather), and we got a chance to get all caught up with our good friend M. Safian.  And on the drive back we started thinking about all the possibilities we now possessed in the back of our car:  apple pie, baked pears, apple strudel, pear chutney, corn bread stuffing, squash soup, and so on.

The next day, when we actually got around to making our Thanksgiving meal, it was quite the spread.  Not surprisingly, both apples and pears played an important part.

The menu:

smoked Cajun andouille appetizer

sweet potato & peanut soup (with apple cider) 

roasted turkey
corn bread stuffing (with apples & pears)
roasted romanesco cauliflower
roasted Brussels sprouts
roasted carrots
mashed potatoes (with turnips and parsnips)
cranberry sauce
Georgian plum sauce 

mixed greens salad (with apples & pears) 

cheese plate (with pears) 

apple pie
pumpkin pie

Our turkey this year was a huge hit--it was also just plain huge.  When Michelle heard through the grapevine that Société Orignal was offering turkeys raised by the one-and-only M. Bertrand, she put through an order for a "small turkey" immediately.  The turkey that she received was beautiful, and unbelievably fresh (it had just been slaughtered two days before), but it was also almost 20 pounds (!)--the very largest we'd ever made, and not exactly the ideal size for our preferred high-temperature turkey method.  Nevertheless, we soldiered on.  And by now Michelle's got this approach down to such a science that the results were truly phenomenal.  Two tricks of the trade:

1.  Salt your bird generously, inside and out, at least one day in advance, and preferably two. 

2.  When you bring your bird to room temperature before roasting it, cover the bird's breast with ice packs to keep it cool.  Remove the ice packs right before roasting.  Doing so will ensure that the breast meat does not get overcooked, but instead will turn out juicy and succulent (already, even without this fix, we found that the high-temperature method produced the juiciest birds we'd ever encountered, but if you're roasting a larger bird, like we were, this step is essential).

Our cranberries were pretty special, too.  They came from Société Orignal, as well, and they were dry-picked, not wet-harvested.  Neither of us had ever tasted a cranberry sauce with a deeper flavour.

Our stuffing was also rather deluxe.  I've been trying to convince Michelle of the merits of corn bread stuffing for years, but she's always remained steadfastly loyal to stuffing made with white bread or sourdough.  This year amounted to a breakthrough, though.  Michelle officially declared this year's model to be her very favourite of all-time.*

AEB Corn Bread Stuffing 

1 extra-large 3x batch of corn bread
onion
celery
red sweet peppers
parsley
sage
roasted hazelnuts
2 chopped apples
2 chopped pears
bourbon
salt & freshly ground black pepper
butter 

Preheat oven to 425º F. 

Sauté the onion in butter until translucent.  Add the celery and red peppers and continue sautéing until softened.  Add the corn bread, the herbs, the nuts, and the fruit and mix gently but thoroughly (preferably with your hands, once you've allowed the onion mixture to cool slightly).  Adjust the seasoning with salt & pepper.  Spritz liberally with bourbon.  Pour a generous amount of melted butter over top and mix again.  The stuffing should be just slightly moistened by the combination of bourbon and butter.   

Place in a buttered baking dish and bake for 30 minutes covered in foil, and 15 minutes uncovered.

Anyway, we thoroughly enjoyed our meal, everyone ate heartily, and we had so much left over that we sent our guests home with doggy bags--and still we had copious leftovers.  The ultimate prize, however, was that massive turkey carcass.  It still had a fair bit of meat left on it, and it had been roasted to perfection--in other words, it had all the makings of a beautiful batch of turkey broth.  So I cut it up into portions, put them in bags, and froze them.

And the next week, when all the other leftovers had disappeared days ago, and my taste for turkey was coming back to me, I got to work on my new (since last year) favourite post-Thanksgiving ritual:  making turkey gumbo.

Thing is, because making turkey gumbo is "my new... favourite post-Thanksgiving ritual," I was already thinking about the gumbo before we'd even roasted our bird.  And because I knew I wanted to make my turkey gumbo with real Cajun andouille (a spicy, smoked Louisiana classic), and I was pretty sure locating real Cajun andouille would be a little difficult 'round these parts, I made my own.  Then, because I was smoking anyways, I decided to smoke some additional turkey legs, just for the hell of it (and in case my turkey gumbo needed to be bumped up a little).  So on Thanksgiving Sunday, while Michelle had the turkey in the oven, I had the smoker smokin' away--which is how we ended up serving freshly smoked andouille as an appetizer.

How, exactly, do you make Cajun-style andouille?  Well, I based my batch on a recipe from Bruce "America's Premier Sausage Maker" Aidells:

Cajun-style Andouille 

3 tbsp sweet Hungarian paprika
2 tbsp minced garlic
2 tbsp kosher salt
2 tbsp sugar
1 tbsp freshly ground black pepper
2 tsp ground cayenne pepper
1 tsp crushed red pepper flakes
1/2 tsp dried thyme
1/4 tsp ground mace
1 tsp curing salts (optional--for cold-smoking only)
5 lbs pork butt, fat and lean separated, and cut into 2" chunks
1/2 cup water
wide hog casings 

Mix all the spices and herbs in a small bowl.  Separate the meat and the fat into two bowls, and rub each thoroughly with the spice mixture.  Cover and refrigerate overnight. 

Grind the lean meat in a meat grinder using a 3/8 inch plate.  Grind the fat using a 1/4-inch plate.  Mix the meat and fat together in a large bowl, add the cold water, and knead and squeeze until the water is absorbed and the spices are thoroughly blended. 

Stuff the mixture into wide hog casings, and shape into medium-sized links. 

If you are hot smoking, dry for at least two hours in a cool place, then hot smoke at about 225º F, turning every 30 minutes, until an instant-read thermometer inserted in the end of a sausage shows 155º to 160º F.  This should take about 1 1/2-2 hours.

If you are cold smoking, you'll have to add the curing salts during the first step, and carefully follow instructions on how to cold smoke.  Aidells recommends an extra-long cold-smoking period for Cajun andouille:  "at least 12 hours" (!). 

Hot-smoked andouille sausages are ready to eat as soon as they've been smoked.  Cold-smoked sausages are not--they must be fully cooked first.

[recipe from Bruce Aidell's Complete Sausage Book]

 figs. d & e:  andouille:  before & after

While you're at it, might as well smoke a few turkey legs, right?  Just brine them for at least a few hours, and preferably overnight, then hot smoke them alongside your sausages, making sure to mist them with apple juice every 30 minutes or so.  Smoke until the juices run clear when you slice down to the bone, about 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

The results?  The skin turned out a little rubbery, but the meat was dreamy:  incredibly juicy and wonderfully smoky.  I just peeled the skin off and sliced the meat as thinly as possible before serving.  And I made sure to keep some for my gumbo.

 fig. f:  smoked turkey

AEB Turkey & Sausage Gumbo 

for the broth: 

1 turkey carcass (recuperate as much quality meat from this carcass as possible, and put aside for the gumbo)
onions
carrots
potatoes
celery
garlic
2 bay leaves
12 peppercorns
salt to taste 

Make yourself a rich turkey broth by adding all the ingredients above to a large stock pot, covering with water, bringing the pot to a boil, and simmering for at least a few hours.  Make sure to skim the fat thoroughly.  Turkey broth might be my absolute favourite, and this method ought to produce much more than the 4-5 cups of stock you need for the gumbo.  Freeze it and save it for another worthy occasion. 

for the gumbo: 

recuperated turkey meat from the carcass 

recuperated meat from home-smoked turkey pieces (optional, but highly recommended)    

bones from home-smoke turkey pieces (again, optional, but highly recommended)  

4 smoked Cajun andouille sausages (highly recommended), or some other quality smoked sausage (like a kielbasa, for instance), cut into 1/4" "coins"

1 batch Cajun roux (made with 1/2 cup vegetable oil and 1/2 cup AP flour [you can find complete instructions on making a true Cajun roux here])
1 large onion, diced
3-4 stalks of celery, diced
2-3 sweet red peppers
1 green pepper (preferably something flavourful, like an Italian fryer or a cubanelle)
4-5 cups rich turkey broth
2 bunches scallions, white & green parts, washed & chopped
1 small bunch fresh parsley, chopped
4-6 fresh sage leaves, julienned
kosher salt & freshly ground black pepper
1 tbsp gumbo filé 

As John Thorne would say, "First, you make your roux."  When your true Cajun roux is as deep and dark as you like it, add your chopped onions, turn the heat back up to medium or medium-low, and sauté until soft.  Add the celery and peppers and sauté for a few minutes more.   

Slowly add the broth and stir or whisk it in carefully, so that your roux doesn't separate. 

Add the bones from the smoked turkey pieces (if using), the scallions, parsley, and sage and bring to a boil, then turn down the heat and simmer your gumbo gently for about 1 1/2 hours, or until it shimmers.  Afterwards, if it needs to be skimmed of excess fat, do so.   

Add your turkey meat and your andouille.  Stir in the gumbo filé and simmer gently for another 30 minutes.  Adjust the seasoning, if need be. 

Serve over or alongside steamed white rice, with some cold beers, and have a bottle or two of hot sauce on hand for anyone who wants to bump up the spice quotient a bit higher.

Note:  Of course,  you don't absolutely need a leftover turkey carcass to make this gumbo, nor do you need to make your own smoked andouille.  You could easily make something that's nearly as tasty with fresh turkey or chicken pieces, some store-bought smoked sausage, and some chicken or poultry stock.  But making full use of your leftover Thanksgiving turkey and its carcass is pretty satisfying, and few dishes make it shine like a turkey & sausage gumbo.

[recipe inspired by one that appeared in the November 2011 issue of Garden & Gun, and that came from Justin Devillier of New Orleans' La Petite Grocery]

And when I'd eaten turkey & sausage gumbo for two days (and loved every minute of it), I made leftovers with my leftovers:  Cajun-style hot turkey sandwiches.  Mmm-hmm.  Laissez bon temps rouler!

AEB Cajun-style Hot Turkey Sandwiches 

leftover Turkey & Sausage gumbo, with lots of sauce
1 or more slices of white bread (preferably a homemade sourdough) 

Heat up your leftover gumbo.  Place a slice of white bread on a plate.  When the gumbo has been heated through, pour it over the slice of bread, making sure the entire slice is covered in sauce.  Serve immediately, preferably with boiled and buttered peas and mashed potatoes.

Talk about a harvest!  This year's Canadian Thanksgiving just keeps giving and giving...  Can't wait for American Thanksgiving!

aj

* Of course, I'm pretty sure she does that pretty much every time we make stuffing of any kind.  We're both huge fans of the genre.

Louisiana Cajun Special No.1: Gumbo

Cajun Country
Originally uploaded by michelle1975.

Jambalay’, crawfish pie, filé gumbo… Son of a gun, we’ll have big fun on the bayou—Hank Williams

My Dad and I have a tradition of making seafood stews (cioppino, chowders, etc.) together that dates back a couple of decades now. From the time he pulled into town this time around we were dead-set on making gumbo. I wasn’t entirely sure why at the time, but once we drew up some plans I started to read up on gumbo (The Joy of Cooking, The Gourmet Cookbook, Saveur Cooks Authentic American, etc., etc.), and the more I read, the more I got fired-up. The point of no return, though, came when I finally got to the sections on Louisiana in John Thorne’s Serious Pig. Thorne devotes a rambling, nearly 100-page section of his book to Louisiana’s cuisine and the diasporic cultures that gave birth to it. In fact, he feels so strongly about this section that he titles it “THERE,” completing the grouping of “HERE,” his opening section on his home state of Maine, and “EVERYWHERE,” his closing section on food miscellany, that he uses to organize Serious Pig. A pull-quote on the back cover of the book has Leo Lerman of Gourmet commenting that, “John Thorne is simply the best writer about food in the country,” and Thorne’s chapters that make up “THERE” are an ideal introduction to just what a fine writer he truly is. Rarely have I come across someone who writes with such passion, honesty, insight, and understanding about a cuisine and its significance to the larger culture that encompasses it, and all this from a man who, at the time that he was writing (1996), claimed that he’d only spent a grand total of 30-odd days in Louisiana, and hadn’t actually set foot in Bayou Country in about a decade (!). My own very modest "Bayou Odyssey" began back when I was 13. That summer we drove across Louisiana as part of a Houston-Ft. Lauderdale road trip and it was the first time I had any exposure to Cajun culture of any sort. The landscape, the nondescript bayou diners that unexpectedly served amazing Cajun boudin, and especially the city of New Orleans--its architecture, its food (jambalaya, po' boy and muffuletta sandwiches, and a wonderfully spicy gumbo), and its incredible mélange of cultures--left quite an impression. Years later I returned to Louisiana and New Orleans on another road trip--this time rolling solo and making my approach from the north, from Memphis and northern Mississippi along Hwy. 61. I couldn't believe how beautiful the scenery was--exotic vines and flowers and birds everywhere you looked--as I crossed into Louisiana and headed towards Baton Rouge, and hours later when I finally arrived in New Orleans it felt like a homecoming of sorts...

As far as I’m concerned, the real attraction of gumbo has nothing to do with the showcase ingredients—the chicken, or seafood, or sausage, or okra, or what have you—it’s all about the roux. I’m attracted by cuisines that make the most of the simplest ingredients, and few cuisines have transformed such a practice into an underlying philosophy with such zest as the Cajuns. As Thorne explains:

Gumbo is the queen of Cajun cuisine, and the heart of gumbo is roux. This is a very touching and revealing thing. It means that the dearest thing to a Cajun cook—more than any other thing, more than crawfish or blue crab or oysters or shrimp or even rice—is a simple amalgam of flour and fat. The two are gently cooked until the raw taste of the flour is gone and the starch is broken down enough to absorb liquid without lumping. It is the first—and easiest—lesson in French sauce making.

Of course, there are some differences. The French make their roux most often with butter and sometimes with the flavorful fat skimmed out of a marmite. The Cajuns prefer lard for flavor or—more recently—vegetable oil for economy. They also claim the French don’t cook roux the way they do, to a burnished mahogany… but, of course, long, careful cooking has always been the way to make a good brown sauce.

What the French don’t do, however, is care as much about their roux as Cajuns do. So few French cooks possess any of the sense that Cajuns have of what a roux can be made to do, or of its fine gradations of texture, odor, and color, running from creamy pale to the smoky-flavored near-coal black (but not burned) roux that Paul Prudhomme claims is essential to perfect gumbo.

Even so—a whole cuisine based on brown sauce! A cuisine in miniature maybe, but still a cuisine…

Maybe my attraction to roux has something to do with the French-Canadian blood in me, because as Thorne explains, Gumbo is the product Acadian influences (roux, lard), African influences (its name, okra), West Indian influences (hot peppers), and Native American influences (gumbo filé, made from sassafras leaves). I love how slow-cooking things over a low heat can bring about transformations that border on the sublime. That’s why I love making things like French Onion Soup; and that’s why I love making a dark Cajun-style roux, letting that whole range of complex flavors (smoky and nutty, among other things) come to full fruition.

Early on, we’d decided that this gumbo of ours was going to be a seafood gumbo, one with shrimp, crab, and either oysters or clams. The problem with this is that Cajun seafood gumbo—like cioppino, clam chowder, bouillabaisse, and any one of a number of other seafood stews—was based on the premise that this seafood was cheap and plentiful (as apparently it still is in Cajun Country), as well as fresh. Following your standard seafood gumbo recipe in a city like Montreal can be cost-prohibitive, to say the least, which is why it’s important to remember that no self-respecting Cajun cook would actually follow a recipe in the first place and that gumbo is a dish that’s meant to be different every time, a dish that’s supposed to highlight the cook’s inventiveness, his or her ability to capitalize on what’s fresh and readily at hand. As Thorne describes things, this is a quality acquired from the very environment in which the Cajuns live, where the landscape, at once lush and forbidding, “has taught them to take nothing for granted, and they are always seeing familiar things freshly anew. A gumbo made one way today will not be made that way tomorrow, because a neighbor has come by with a basket of crabs, or because there is some chaurice to use or a chicken to kill, or simply because the cook is practicing an entirely different spell.” With this lesson in mind, we adapted our seafood gumbo recipe to keep it from getting astronomical in cost, and on day 2 we added some spicy homemade sausages that had been given to us by a friend to the gumbo to give it a different twist, as well as to stretch it out a bit further.

Another consideration had to do with whether or not to add okra to our gumbo. Personally, I really like okra, but the problem with okra is that it’s exceedingly hard to get good okra and I steadfastly refuse to cook with frozen okra. Most everyone who knows anything about gumbo knows that the name is derived from an African (Bantu, actually) word for okra. What many people don’t realize, though, is that the dish gumbo was apparently named after the consistency this dish gets from the addition of either okra or some other green vegetable with similar thickening properties. Many Acadians made a stop in the colony of Saint-Domingue—in many cases, in order to help construct the fortifications that would prove insufficient to stave off the slave revolt that turned Saint-Domingue into Haiti—and there they developed a taste for okra, and other greens of African origin, and hot peppers. When they finally got to la Belle Louisiane they found that okra was harder to come by in the Bayou, but that gumbo filé, a compound made of dried sassafras leaves gleaned from the local Choctaw Indians, gave the stew a very similar finish. Since that time Cajun gumbo has tended to contain okra, gumbo filé, or a combination of the two. That being the case, we opted for the gumbo filé-based version.

The last two considerations had to do with accompaniments. Like French Canada (until recently, in any case), French Louisiana is a beer-drinking culture. Not only is beer a near-essential part of enjoying eating a good gumbo, it’s also a nice way to enjoy preparing a gumbo. In fact, some die-hards make it a part of the very recipe, insisting that the length of time needed to make a proper Cajun roux has more to do with the length of time it takes one to drink 2 beers than it does with any set number of minutes. And secondly, good Cajun food deserves a good soundtrack. I’m not one of those types who’s Draconian about listening to the correct, culture-specific music with my dinners (“El Condor Pasa” with a Peruvian-style ceviche, for instance), but I do think it’s important to accompany your gumbo meal with music that swings, music you can dance to. Cajun culture is not a culture of “dinner music” after all. Myself, I’m pretty fond of old-time Cajun, so I like to listen to things like “Hee Haw Breakdown” by Nolan Cormier & The L.A. Aces, or “Hippy-Ti-Yo” by Joe Bonsall & The Orange Playboys.

"gumbos, etouffés, anything"
Originally uploaded by michelle1975.

Finally, it goes without saying that the effects of Katrina (and the gross mishandling of the emergency response to Katrina) were very much present as we prepared for this meal. And as I read the following passage in Serious Pig, the following words took on a whole new poignancy:

The only string attached to [the bounty that defines the bayou] is that none of it is guaranteed. For this is both a vulnerable and an injured land. It is most palpably vulnerable to weather, especially the hurricanes that sweep across it with terrifying violence and destruction, reshaping the very terrain. Cajuns tend to date their history in terms of hurricanes, rather than in terms of presidents or world events. Hurricanes have far more effect on their lives.

This meal was dedicated to the victims of the Katrina disaster.

Without any further ado...

Seafood Gumbo

3/4 cup vegetable oil
3/4 cup flour
1 medium yellow onion, peeled and finely chopped
1 green bell pepper
2 ribs celery
6 cups hot fish stock
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp cayenne pepper (or 1/4 tsp cayenne pepper + 1 fresh chili pepper, minced)
1 lb medium shrimp
12 pasta clams
1 lb lump crabmeat
1 scallion
1 tbsp finely chopped fresh parsley leaves
1 tbsp gumbo filé powder

white rice, freshly cooked

Make a mahogany-brown roux over low heat. Thorne offers the following advice in order to get it just so:

Heat the [oil or lard] in a heavy cooking pot or a large cast-iron skillet. When the fat is hot, add the flour all at once, stirring or whisking quickly to combine it with the fat, smoothing out any persistent lumps with the back of a wooden spoon. Lower the flame and cook, stirring or whisking constantly. The roux will bubble and cast off a fine white foam and, after about 15 minutes, begin to caramelize. It takes about 45 minutes to reach a rich butterscotch color and almost an hour to turn deep mahogany—and become true Cajun roux.

It’s important not to hurry the process and to be careful that the stirring or whisking turns over the entire mixture. If any small black flecks appear, the roux is ruined. That batch must be discarded and the process repeated with new ingredients. (If not, the roux, even if the burned bits are removed, will retain a bitter, scorched taste.)

When the roux has just the right color, texture, and flavor, increase the heat to medium and add the onions, bell peppers, and celery to the roux. Cook until the vegetables become soft, about 15 minutes.

Add the stock to the roux and vegetable mixture in a thin, steady stream, making sure to stir constantly. Be sure not to add the stock too quickly or at too low of a temperature or the roux might separate on you. Add the salt and the cayenne and bring to a simmer, stirring frequently. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for 1 hour.

Add the clams and cook until the clams have opened, about 2-3 minutes. Add the shrimp and crab and cook for another 3-5 minutes. Add the gumbo filé, stir, and let sit for 5 minutes. Stir in the scallions and the parsley and serve with cooked rice, bread, salad, and an assortment of hot sauces.

Feel free to improvise in whatever way you see fit, keeping in mind that the essentials here are the Cajun roux, the “holy trinity” of onion/celery/bell pepper, and the gumbo filé.

Serves 6-8 very generously.

[adapted from a recipe in Saveur Cooks Authentic American]

Seafood Gumbo
Originally uploaded by michelle1975.

Laissez bon temps roulez!

aj

Note: Given the New French roots of Cajun cuisine it’s a little surprising that there isn’t more of a Cajun connection here in Montreal. For the most part, Montreal seemed to have missed out on the Cajun fever that swept across other parts of North America in the ‘80s and ‘90s (although I do remember a cute little place on Duluth East called Le Bijou that had a pretty decent repertoire of Cajun, Mexican, and Brazilian dishes back in the day). Gumbo filé and other Cajun spice blends aren’t the easiest thing to find in Montreal, but you can find them in some supermarkets and at some of your better épiceries. We found ours at Gourmet Laurier on Laurier West.