A word to Thanksgiving food snobs: This might be a good time for you to stop reading and head to a gourmet market to purchase some indispensable holiday ingredients, like foi gras, truffle oil, saffron, or perhaps a tin of French escargot.
Today I step out of my culinary closet to celebrate traditional American holiday recipes that are openly mocked by true food snobs as gauche, tacky, low-class, or even white trash. Today, I unapologetically give a standing ovation to such classic American dishes as my most-loved candied yam casserole that features canned yams, brown sugar, orange juice and tiny marshmallows. Yes, it is a dessert disguised as a side dish. What of it?
I’m not done. I’m talking about Cheese Whiz in a can, squirted onto Ritz crackers. I’m talking about that delectable, pale, gloppy green-bean casserole that contains canned French-cut (fancy!) green beans, cream of mushroom soup and canned fried onion rings, a delicacy even for a non-green-bean lover, like me. I’m talking about Libby’s pumpkin pie recipe made with only with canned pumpkin (not fresh) and where canned evaporated milk is the star of the show.
I’m a good cook. I’ve taught cooking. Some people call me a great cook, a gourmet cook, or even a foodie, a term that always confuses me, because technically, aren’t all eaters “foodies”? I’ve won cooking contests (puff-pastry-wrapped stuffed figs come to mind). I might also be considered by some as a food snob, and about some things, why yes, yes I am. For example, I do turn up my nose at frozen pie crusts (come on, they’re so easy to make!), margarine, canned cranberries, and Velveeta “cheese”. And there are some things I believe I make exceptionally well, such as eggnog, which is why you’ll know I’ve been kidnapped by aliens if I purchase a carton of store-bought eggnog.
However, there are some well-known ubiquitous American holiday recipes, like my beloved candied yam casserole, that I’m tired of pretending are beneath me. To quote my grandkids, I don’t like canned candied yam casseroles topped with marshmallows, I love them!
Yes, as a food writer I’ve created recipes where I’ve adapted those often-disparaged so-called déclassé recipes and transformed them into something more acceptable to grace high-end tables adorned with cloth napkins, floral centerpieces and gold-rimmed place cards. But frankly, not only do I not find those revised recipes more palatable, but I find them disappointing. Certainly, I am fully capable of roasting organic yams, peeling them, cubing them and topping them with homemade spiced candied pecans, covered with a recipe from Martha Stewart’s cookbook for homemade marshmallows cut in turkey shapes. But alas, to my way of thinking, all that effort would be a waste of time and money, because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the upgraded, upscale version wouldn’t appeal to me as much as the old, simple version.
Before I leave the subject of the canned candied yams topped with mini marshmallows, what kind of food writer would I be if I teased you with this delicious dish without providing a recipe?
OK, if you insist.
Doni’s Spiced Candied Yams
1 40-ounce can of yams
2 cubes of butter, cut in small pieces
1 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup orange juice
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon each ground nutmeg, cinnamon and cloves
Mini marshmallows, as many as you want
Drain the yams. Place in a buttered 9×13-inch baking dish. (Cut the yams if you think they’re too large.) Dot the yams with butter. Sprinkle with the brown sugar, salt and spices. Drizzle the orange juice over everything. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. (If you’re using a glass baking dish, don’t preheat the oven, or the cold dish may break on contact.) Top the mixture with as many marshmallows as you desire. Bake until the marshmallows are golden and melted.
Serves 8 to 12
Enjoy.
Where were we? Oh yes, food.
My generation was among the first to eat TV dinners, a term my sisters and I took literally, as we were allowed to eat the foil-topped TV dinners on TV trays, while watching a special-occasion TV show, like the Wizard of Oz (just once a year, kids). What a treat it was beforehand to select our individual TV dinners, packaged in those colorful thin cardboard boxes graced with actual photos promising the wonderful meals inside, though truth be told, the actual contents rarely matched the photos. Early untruth in advertising, I’m afraid. No worries. We accepted the marketing discrepancies and marveled at so many choices! Salisbury steak, fried chicken with mashed potatoes. Guess what? There was even a turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy TV dinner, perfect for Thanksgiving or Christmas! Some TV dinners even included dessert, like a small brownie. And for the record, no, I was not fooled into considering applesauce dessert. Truly, as a child, those TV dinners were my idea of fine dining. A stack of TV dinners in the freezer beside a carton of chocolate ice milk “ice cream” was not just my idea of bliss, but complete food security.
I didn’t grow up as a rich kid, which meant I wasn’t exposed to rich people food. I didn’t partake of a single homemade yeast roll or a fresh vegetable or my very own steak or artichoke until well into my teens. Poverty aside, my mom didn’t like to cook, although when she did cook, she was ahead of her time with regard to healthy breakfasts of hot oatmeal or Cream of Wheat cereal topped with raisins and a pat of butter and milk, and stewed prunes, as well as soft-boiled eggs, and broiled grapefruit halves topped with brown sugar. She didn’t believe kids should have Coke or Kool-Aid. After Halloween night, all candy was thrown away. She wasn’t a baker, per se, but she did bake this one incredible one-dish pasta dinner in a big yellow Pyrex bowl that included egg noodles, hamburger and sharp cheddar cheese, the latter of which was all bubbly golden under a broiler. I have looked my entire life for that recipe to replicate, without success. I know there must have been something else in the casserole in the way of moisture. Milk? I don’t know. But what I do know is I would know it if I tasted it.
My early culinary skills involved preparing such delicacies as Chef Boyardee boxed spaghetti, one of my favorite meals. I’ve not seen it for many years, and I’m not talking about modern Chef Boyardee plastic pouches filled with slimy lasagna. Gross.
At around age 10 or 11, I basked in the heady feeling of complete kitchen authority when granted the responsibility to boil the Chef Boyardee spaghetti, drain the pasta, heat the contents of that small can of spaghetti sauce in the copper-bottomed Revere Ware pan, and garnish the steaming mound of aromatic spaghetti with grated Parmesan cheese, which I believe, if memory serves, was included in a matchbook-sized plastic bag inside the box. That could be a false memory, so I can’t swear to it. I do know there was as a smiling portrait of Mr. Boyardee on the box, which I liked to believe was a picture of him showing his approval at my cooking success as he beamed and looked on. Bon Appetit, Doni!
While I’m in my food confessional, I’ll admit that to this day, I still also like such obviously low-quality packaged foods as strawberry Pop-Tarts and Pepperidge Farms apple turnovers, though I haven’t bought them in years, mainly because I do know they’re probably filled with preservatives.
Back to those classic Thanksgiving recipes, to which I was first introduced during a calendar conveyor belt of Thanksgivings and Christmases while in my teens and leading into young adulthood. These meals included more than just canned candied yams, and the green-bean casserole, and creamed corn (not a fan) but Sunbeam store-bought brown and serve rolls, and McCormick turkey gravy made from powdered stuff inside a paper packet. Just add boiling water! There was the pre-dinner Lipton instant soup mix and sour-cream dip and a big bowl of Ruffles potato chips. During the holiday dinner, as legit as ever, sat the ambrosia Jell-O salad with marshmallows and coconut and instant pistachio pudding. That cold, light-green concoction sat proudly on the table beside the platter of turkey as if it truly belonged there, not as a dessert, but as bona fide side dish.
Like all early foods and scents, they transport us back to another time, way back to all those firsts. First true holiday meal. First holiday meal with roommates. First holiday meal as a young couple. First holiday meal with another family. First holiday meal in a school cafeteria. First holiday meal as a visitor. First holiday meal in the military. First holiday meal away from home. First holiday meal alone. Most of all, for many, we recall those first holiday meals during lean years when there were more mouths to feed than dollars to invest in ingredients for a fancy holiday dinner, when items like canned yams, canned green beans, cream of mushroom soup and marshmallows were an affordable Godsend.
These holiday food memories are as lasting and sticky as the gooey browned marshmallows on top of the canned candied yam casserole. And the memories that accompany those foods are as precious as the people — mostly women — who scrimped, planned, shopped, cooked and hauled out their best dishes and silverware to serve an unforgettable magical holiday meal. The magic worked. We remember. We can’t help it. That’s why, when the holidays roll around, all the slick gourmet menus and magazines in the world cannot compete with tradition and a longing for simpler bygone days and ways, and people who are no longer here.
That’s why holidays meals are often so tied up in such a tangle of confused emotions, accompanied by recipes that sometimes make no sense, but have the inexplicable power to trigger vivid memories of the best and worst of times.
The holidays arrive just a few times a year. We should be kind to ourselves and others during these tender days. It’s OK if we indulge in whatever comfort foods do the trick. It’s fine to enjoy the foods we love, with no apologies. No shame.
Meanwhile, I feel a sudden urge to locate a box of Chef Boyardee spaghetti for a main course dinner. For dessert I’ll make a Libby’s pumpkin pie, topped with real whipped cream. Canned whipped cream, you say? Seriously? Please! I have my standards.
Happy Thanksgiving! I’d love to hear about your family-favorite traditional holiday recipes. I invite you to share your stories in the comments section below.
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Note: This food column is generously sponsored by the Eureka Way Redding Grocery Outlet Bargain Market and the Churn Creek Road Grocery Outlet Bargain Market. Here are some Thanksgiving related specials I found last week in the Eureka Way Grocery Outlet. Please note that some items may not be available or at the same price as when I was there. My personal favorite food bargain was a frozen turkey that cost just $5.99 as long as I spent $50 or more.
