This long stretch of one-handedness fell inconveniently during a busy celebrating season, with two birthdays and several other parties to cook for. To my delight, I discovered that a little ingenuity and planning makes it easy to entertain one-handed; a trip to Trader Joe’s makes it even easier.

These are recipes — heck, not even recipes, just templates and ideas and products — that I plan to use again and again when time is tight or inspiration is lacking. Here’s just a few of the festive dishes I whipped up with one hand tied behind my back.

for The Fella’s birthday party, a twelve-hour open house:
- goat cheese with store-bought tapenade, served with grape tomatoes, roasted red peppers from the grocery store’s olive bar, and crackers.
- store-bought hummus topped with Trader Joe’s eggplant & garlic dip, served with pita bread, cucumbers, and olives.
- brie topped with a palmful of brown sugar and a sliver of butter, then baked until bubbly and served with baguette, water crackers, and cold grapes. Also good with dried cranberries.
- Trader Joe’s spanakopita triangles, spread out on a baking sheet, not crammed into their tiny tray, brushed with olive oil or melted butter, sprinkled with coarse salt, and baked much longer than instructed, until deep golden brown and crispy. They weren’t as delectable as homemade spanakopita, and no reasonable person would expect them to be — but they were pretty darned good.
- pulled pork. The Fella diced up the fixings for a taco bar, and I contributed a big mess o’ pulled pork, which required me to open 1) a butcher’s packet; 2) a bottle of BBQ sauce; 3) a tetra pack of cheap red wine. It is fannnnnntastic.
- marble cupcakes. (Yeeeah, this one was tricky to do one-handed, but it’s not a birthday without cake. I didn’t make the cake from scratch, just bought one packet of chocolate cake mix and one packet of yellow cake mix, whipped them up with cooled melted butter in place of the oil, and spooned them into the cupcake tins, then swirled with a skewer for delicate marbling.)
- ganache for frosting: just heavy cream brought to a boil and poured over good chocolate, then stirred until smooth. My professional-baker fancy-pants sister even gave me instructions for whipping it (much better instructions than Cooks Illustrated cookbook, by the way), but in the end I realized that dipping cupcake tops into the warm ganache would be faster and easier than any other method.

For a birthday dinner:
- baked brie again, because WHY ON EARTH NOT?
- more store-bought hummus spiked with lemon, topped with eggplant spread, and then sprinkled with the last of the tomatoes from the taco bar, seared with olive oil and chili powder, served with pita.
- my simplest, best black bean soup. (Instead of mincing an onion, I whacked one up roughly and processed the entire pot of soup, then added some reserved beans at the end.)
- oven-baked frittata with frozen spinach and caramelized onions, using up the last of the onions from The Fella’s taco bar.
- a perfectly simple salad: greens topped with cranberries and toasted almonds and tossed with good balsamic vingar, superb olive oil, cracked pepper, and Polish finishing salt.
- a half-baked loaf of bread (from TJ’s again), finished in our oven.
- buttery cake (on The Fella’s birthday, I baked the excess yellow-cake batter in tiny loaf pans and froze it), stabbed with a fork and soaked with orange syrup (simple syrup spiked with OJ and triple sec, reduced until thick), then glazed with the last of the ganache. I served three tiny slices on each plate, fanned out and drizzled with another spoonful of orange syrup… and I am converted: syrup-soaked cakes from now on!
- a final dessert garnish: chocolate-covered orange jelly sticks.

for assorted other events:
- goat cheese with good balsamic vinegar —the thick, expensive syrupy kind — and toasted slivered almonds, served with crackers or baguette. I made this twice, and not the same evening as I served the goat cheese with tapenade.. and by “made it,” I mean “tore open a packet of goat cheese, poured balsamic over it, and toasted some nuts.” It’s crazy-easy and crazy-good — so crazy-good that I made it twice in the last two weeks to take to some pretty ritzy doings.
- various permutations of hummus-with something: hummus with lemon and roasted red peppers and olives, hummus with tapenade, hummus with eggplant spread and tapenade, and so on.

and a few ideas I brainstormed up but never did try out:
- mushroom caps rolled in olive oil, filled with spoonfuls of frozen spinach souffle and baked.
- Whole Foods dumplings or gyoza warmed in sesame oil and scattered with scallions.
- vegetarian meatballs heated with chili sauce, red currant jelly, and white wine. (I’ve made these retro darlings with frozen actual-meat meatballs and people go INSANE for them.)

These last few ideas sounded so good it’s a shame we didn’t get to try ‘em. Oh, well, maybe the next time I inflict a horrible injury upon myself, we’ll get around to these.

This year, I have one more vegetarian Thanksgiving entree to suggest, and boy howdy, it’s a doozy! Inspired by The Kitchn’s rendition of Dorie Greenspan’s stuffed squash, I whipped up a vegetarian version of my own. You’ll notice that the recipe at the link includes bacon, but don’t get hung up on that: the key here is the technique, not the ingredients.

I’ve never been a fan of baked stuffed squash, which too often comes out of the oven pallid and limp, slumping and drooling its thin juices onto the plate. But this simple, brilliant idea turns that bland, pale stuffed squash on its head — literally. The trick: hollow out the squash and fill it with cheesy, bready, aromatic stuffing…

And then flip it upside-down to bake.

Elsa's topsy turvy stuffed squash

It’s so simple and so obvious: get the stuffing in contact with the pan, let the oven’s heat and the roasting pan’s surface work their alchemy upon the ingredients. Here’s a photo of the squash halves, one still resting in the pan, the other flipped up to show off the crispy underside. As you can see, cooking them face-down results in tender roasted squash with a deeply browned, richly crisped crust over creamy soft stuffing.

The fabulous contrast in textures and flavors makes this a dish you’ll groan over. Our dinnertime last night was a chorus of “OOOOOH”s and “AAAAAAH”s and other, less polite expressions of delight. I urge you, urge you, to try this topsy-turvy stuffed squash soon.

note: even as I ate my delicious squash, I took mental notes and made plans to revise the recipe further; the squash you see in the photo was made with the recipe I’m giving here. I’ll appending my tasting notes and suggestions for proposed future versions at the end.

topsy turvy stuffed squash

1 acorn squash, scrubbed, split, and seeded
1 1/2 cups cubed or torn bread, stale or slightly dried in oven
1 onion, diced or slivered
2 cloves garlic, slivered
1 cup mushrooms, sliced
3/4 cup mixed cheese (I used mostly Swiss with a scattering of provolone and mozzarella)
1/3 cup sherry
3-4 TBS cream
3-4 leaves of sage
sprinkling each of rosemary, chili powder, freshly grated nutmeg
butter or oil
salt and pepper

Preheat oven to 400F. Select a nice heavy roasting pan that can easily accommodate the squash halves laying face-down. Earthenware, oven-safe glass, or enameled cast iron would be ideal.

Heat a splash of oil or sliver of butter in a saute pan and add onions, garlic, sherry, and a generous sprinkling of salt. Cook over medium heat until onions are tender and gently browned and liquid has cooked off. Add mushrooms and seasonings, raise heat to medium-high. Saute until rich brown. Remove from heat and cool slightly.

Right in the pan, toss onion-mushroom mixture with bread cubes, cheese, and cream. Taste mixture and add salt & pepper as desired; the stuffing should be highly seasoned.

Rub squash halves with a small splash of oil, then salt and pepper them inside and out. Spoon stuffing into squash halves, packing it well so they can lie face-down and flat in the pan. (Notice that I overstuffed the squash, to no ill effect. If you prefer a tidier presentation, just barely fill the squash and allow its cut surface to make contact with the roasting pan. Any extra stuffing will be delicious cooked in a ramekin.)

Place face-down in the ungreased pan and bake at 400 until squash is tender when pierced with a knife. Let rest five minutes and serve.

We had our squash with a side of broccoli; something fresh and green makes a good foil to the rich, savory flavors of the stuffed squash.

notes: This technique is a winner, and the recipe itself is fantastic… but I’m going to try ringing a few changes on it in the future. If I use an acorn squash again next time, I’ll roast it at a lower temperature, which should allow the squash to cook through while the stuffing crusts up more delicately and less thoroughly than ours did last night. Or perhaps I’ll try stuffing a delicata squash at the prescribed 400F. With its tender skin and thin flesh, a delicata should cook through faster at the higher temp.

This creamy, cheesy stuffing is very rich, suitable for a holiday table but not for every day. Next time, I’ll cut down the cheese to 1/2 cup, replace the cream with vegetable stock or milk (both of which we keep around the house; holiday pie-baking time is the only time I’m likely to keep cream in the house).

Best of all, I’m going to try making stuffing with whatever leftover vegetables, cheeses, and herbs we have in the fridge. This recipe will lend itself to improvisation all winter long!

And sometimes you can hit that balance by happy accident. That’s what happened here. As a finishing touch for the our recent Sandwich Party, I tried another blogger’s recipe for chocolate sandwich cookies. The flavors sounded promising, but something in it rang alarm bells for me.

And rightly so. My dough didn’t come together as promised — or at all — so I had to improvise. A little melted butter here, a little extra flour there, and a rest in the fridge did wonders. Thanks to instinct and accident, I ended up with a winner of a recipe, one that I know I’ll make again and again. (And then laziness, inattention, and a power outage delayed my posting. But you have it now, my sweeties, and I have the accidental recipe archived here for many future occasions, so let’s count our blessings.)

I love this cookie. I call them “fauxreos,” but they deliver so much more than an Oreo: more chocolate punch, with a rich, almost bitter undertone, more crispy crunch and creamy lushness. The crispy chocolate wafers are deeply, darkly chocolatey and faintly sweet, with a slightly salty edge that makes them the perfect foil to the rich sweet filling. The assembly process is a bit of a chore, but when you bite into the first cookie, you’ll know it’s worth every moment.

Elsa’s fauxreos

1 1/2 c. unbleached white flour
1 1/4 c. sugar
1/2 c. Dutch cocoa (not the lighter natural cocoa; these wafers need not only the flavor and color of Dutch cocoa, but also its high pH)
scant 1 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt (not kosher salt)
10 TBS butter, or 5 TBS butter and 5 TBS shortening, room temperature
1 large egg

With a fork, 6 TBS of butter (or butter and shortening) until just smooth. Do NOT whip until light; unlike most cookie recipes, you are not trying to incorporate air into the dough.

Melt remaining 4 TBS butter (or shortening) and let cool.

Sift together dry ingredients: flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Stir into butter as well as you can. Mixture will be dry. Add egg and stir well with fork.

Pour melted butter (or shortening) into dough and stir until dough comes together into a mass. The dough will be dark, stiff, and slightly shiny.

Form into logs and wrap in plastic wrap or parchment, rolling dough well under hands to compact it. The dough will spread in the oven, so size your logs accordingly. For sandwich cookies the size of a half-dollar, make logs the diameter of a U.S. quarter. Refrigerate dough logs at least one hour.

Preheat oven to 375F. Take well-chilled dough log from fridge and slice into thin rounds. A knife can crush the slices, so I use a long piece of dental floss: slide it under the log, cross the threads above the log, and pull tight. You’ll have nice even rounds that hold their shape.

Place on parchment-lined cookie sheets. If prepping the panful of cookies takes a long time, stow the waiting slices in the fridge; warm dough spreads too thin. For subsequent batches, be sure to use a cool baking sheet; a warm sheet causes the dough to spread.

Bake at 375F for 6-8 minutes, or until flat and fragrant. (If your cookies are puffy, they have not quite finished baking. Return to oven and they’ll flatten out.) Cool completely on a rack and store air-tight to retain crispiness.

not-cream filling
8 TBS butter, room temperature, or 4 TBS butter and 4 TBS shortening (In cool weather, all butter is fine; in warm weather, an all-butter filling will become soft and liquid.)
2 1/2 c. confectioner’s sugar, sifted
1 tsp vanilla
1 tsp milk or water

Beat butter well. Add confectioner’s sugar and beat until incorporated; filling will be stiff and chalky. Add vanilla and milk and beat until light and smooth. You can make this filling ahead: refrigerate well-covered, bring to room temperature, and beat to lighten before spreading on cookies.

During this weekend’s Sandwich Party, Ploobie and I enjoyed this easy, cozy meal: a hot sandwich of cheddar and tomato on beer bread, served with a brimming bowl of simple black bean soup.

One long-ago stormy night when the snow prevented my planned marketing trip, I threw together this vegetarian black bean soup in desperation from the few ingredients at hand. To my surprise, it turned out rich, dark, and savory, and it’s been a favorite of mine ever since. It’s low in fat, high in fiber, and relies on shelf-stable staples, so you can make it even when the fridge is bare. But don’t wait for a pantry emergency to make it; it’s too good to put off for long.

Simple black bean soup is fast to put together, though it needs to simmer for a while. Like most soups, it improves overnight in the fridge, so it’s a cinch for casual dinner guests. With warm bread and salad, it’s a hearty winter’s meal. Every time I serve this soup to company, someone asks for the recipe, which is a trifle embarrassing, since it’s so stupidly simple.

All measurements are approximate; feel free to improvise.

Elsa’s simple black bean soup

2 large yellow onions, diced
2 cloves of garlic, sliced thin
1 tsp butter
1 tsp olive oil
oregano, crushed rosemary, cumin, black pepper, a bay leaf
2 TBS tomato paste
1/4 cup dry sherry
3/4 cup red wine
~ 6 cups cooked black beans (2 28-ounce cans, or 1 lb. dried beans, cooked)
~ 14 ounces canned whole tomatoes (you can substitute diced tomatoes or tomato puree)
optional: if you like it very garlicky, two more cloves, pressed or minced
water as needed
optional: lemon wedges

note: “Salt to taste” is a tricky cooking instruction, but here it’s the only one possible. If you use canned beans and salted tomato products, you may not need to add any salt at all. If you’re using low-sodium canned foods or home-cooked beans and fresh tomatoes, you may be surprised how much salt it takes to sharpen the flavors.

In a large soup pot over medium-low heat, heat butter and oil (and a sprinkling of kosher salt, if desired). Add onions, herbs, and spices, and tomato paste, tossing well to coat, and cook until the onions start to soften and the tomato paste becomes fragrant. Add sherry and red wine and cook until liquid is reduced by half.

Add tomatoes and beans and, if desired, the additional garlic. (I like to puree the soup with an immersion blender after simmering, then add some reserved beans for texture. If you want to do this, add 4 cups of beans now and set aside 2 cups for later. If you prefer the soup chunky, add all the beans and be sure to dice the tomatoes before adding them. If you prefer the soup completely smooth, add all the beans now and puree everything later.)

Add about pint of water, turn heat to low, half-cover the soup pot, and simmer until thickened, stirring occasionally. (If you’re standing in the kitchen to stir frequently and make sure it doesn’t scorch on the bottom, you can keep the heat medium-low and have your soup ready sooner. Otherwise, turn it to the lowest possible heat.)

When the soup has thickened nicely, it’s time to puree, if you so desire. First be sure to fish out the bay leaf.

Here’s a secret to save your immersion blender: before you immerse it in a tomato-ey pot, lightly coat the business end and the shaft with cooking spray. Instead of staining the tool with the familiar slick orange of tomato residue, the soup and the oily spray will wash off easily.

Then stir in the reserved beans and let heat through. Now your soup is ready to serve, to refrigerate, or to freeze — or it can simmer along happily for a good long while, with the occasional splash of water to keep it thinned down.

I like simple black bean soup served with a lemon wedge, to spark up its deep, earthy flavors; The Fella prefers it without. (As you can see, Ploobie was game to try it.) It’s marvelous with a sprinkle of Parmesan or Jack cheese, a few slices of scallion, or a dollop of sour cream… or all three.

With all these virtues to recommend it, beer bread shows up on our table often, cozying up to soup or salad or frittata, but this weekend you can expect to see it in a simple (and crumbly!) sandwich for the Sandwich Party.

The recipe from Epicurious makes a very tasty loaf of bread with a heady aroma, but I’ve adapted it slightly. A touch less sugar and butter and a heartier mixture of flours brings out the subtle flavor of wheat along with the tang of beer.

beer bread

3 TBS butter
3 cups flour (I use a mixture of white and white whole wheat)
2 1/2 TBS sugar
1 TBS baking powder
1 1/2 tsp kosher salt, or 1 tsp standard table salt
~ 12 ounces beer, room temperature

Preheat oven to 375F. In a loaf pan or 8-inch round, melt half of the butter (1 1/2 TBS). Remove from oven and set aside.

In a medium bowl, mix flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt. Add beer all at once, pouring slowly to retain carbonation, and stir it into the flour mixture. Be sure to fold in dry ingredients from the bottom of the bowl. Batter will be lumpy and rough; don’t overmix.

Scoop batter into the buttery baking dish and dot the top with remaining 1 1/2 TBS butter.

Bake at 375F for ~30 minutes (for 8-inch round), ~40 minutes (for loaf pan), or until the top is crusty and flecked with dark spots. Between the cracks of the craggy, golden crust, the dough should look damply matte, not wet and shiny.

Let cool a few minutes, then remove loaf from pan and let it sit ten minutes or so before cutting into it. (Cooling for ten minutes allows the quick bread to set and lets you cut neater slices, but I admit I usually hack rough slices off the heel end of the hot bread and serve it right away. It’s crumbly and ugly but irresistably delicious.)

If you’ve made an 8-inch round,you needn’t remove it from the pan or let it rest quite as long. For a round loaf, I bake it in a handsome ceramic dish so I can serve right from the warm pan.

I’ve made this bread with all kinds of beers: light and dark, cheap and fancy, and with whatever was kicking around the fridge. The bread tastes deliciously different each time: sometimes light and faintly tangy, sometimes heavier and darker with a pleasantly bitter undertone. A few days ago, I made it with a long-chilled, lone bottle of novelty porter that neither of us had deigned to drink, and it was still great. Beer bread hasn’t disappointed us yet.

As lightning-fast as this recipe is, I often keep the dry ingredients mixed up and stored in a cabinet, which makes it even faster to toss together. If you decide fifteen minutes before dinner to whip up a pan of beer bread, you can juuuuuuuuust about squeak in under the finish line by spooning the batter into muffin tins instead of a loaf pan. Grease the tins very well (and skip the paper liners), melt the 2 TBS of butter and stir it directly in with the room-temperature beer, then top each uncooked muffin with a sliver of butter before baking for, oh, I’d say 12-15 minutes in a preheated oven. Muffins don’t need to rest; you can serve them immediately.

I’ve thought about varying this bread with additions of sauted onion, rosemary, dill, or grated cheese, but we haven’t tired of the original yet, so I haven’t been tempted to tamper yet.

note: don’t worry if your loaf doesn’t rise this high. The handiest beer was a 16-oz. can, so I made a batch-and-a-third… and I’m glad I did. We can always eat more beer bread!

This is an ersatz ginger beer; real ginger beer requires a ginger beer plant, a symbiotic colony of yeasts that carbonate the drink through fermentation. I decided not to buy or culture my own ginger beer plant. Instead, I followed Dr. Fankhauser’s instructions for fermented yeast carbonation, which gives a nice fizzy lift to a syrup-and-water base.

For my long-ago first batch of homemade ginger ale, I followed Dr. Fankhauser’s directions carefully. The resulting drink was tasty and fizzy and exactly what he promised, but not spicy and dark as ginger beer should be. For my recent batch, I brazenly modified the ingredients and the prep technique to produce a richer spicier drink, but the brewing directions remain the same.

A few improvements I made: cooking the ginger and spices with the sugar extracts more flavor and also eliminates the need to dissolve the sugar after it goes into the bottle. Adding the lemon zest, cinnamon, and clove results in a more complex flavor profile, and the peppers and peppercorns add bite and snap. Straining the syrup makes a cleaner, less cloudy ginger beer that’s far more pleasant on the tongue — no shreds or ginger to tickle your throat! I also added a bottle-sterilizing step for extra safety.

Note that the fermentation process produces a trace amount of alcohol. Dr. Fankhauser estimates it at 0.04%.

homemade ginger beer

special equipment:
non-reactive funnel (plastic, rubber, stainless steel, or glass)
extra-fine strainer or standard strainer and cheesecloth
2-liter screw-top plastic bottle (do not use glass; I use an empty seltzer bottle, well rinsed)
medium saucepan

ingredients:
scant 2 liters fresh water, plus 2 -3 cups
one large hand of fresh ginger
1 cup sugar (I used half white sugar, half rapadura sugar for extra flavor and color)
one stick cinnamon
6 -10 cloves
2 dried chile peppers
5 – 6 peppercorns
1 lemon, one lime
1/8 tsp instant yeast (in the baking aisle of your grocery store)

for sterilizing:
a spoonful of vodka

Wash your hands and equipment carefully. A little contamination at the beginning can affect the fermentation later. Pour the spoonful of vodka into the plastic bottle, cap it, and rotate the bottle to wet all surfaces including the cap. Uncap and drain the bottle and cap upside-down until vodka evaporates.

Wash ginger and gently scrape the skin off with a spoon or dull knife. Discard skin. Chop ginger fine and place in saucepan, along with peppercorns, crumbled peppers, crushed cinnamon stick, cloves, and sugar. Cover with 2 cups water and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer gently until reduced to one cup.

Mixture should be dark and syrupy. Taste your syrup (using a clean spoon each time!) to determine its spiciness. If you desire greater intensity of flavor, add the additional 1 cup of water and continue simmering to reduce to 1 cup. The longer you steep the ginger and spices, the more intensely flavored your syrup (and therefore your ginger beer) will be.

While syrup cooks, peel strips of zest from lemon and lime, removing all traces of pith. [Detailed instructions are in my internet-famous lemonade recipe.] Reserve zest.

Juice lemon and lime. Remember that you get more juice from a warm or room-temp lemon than a cold one, and that rolling it firmly between your palm and the counter breaks up the fibers to release still more juice! Juice half of each and pour juice into sterilized bottle. (This is a question of preference: you may choose to add the juice of a whole lemon and a whole lime. I prefer a subtler citrus flavor.)

When syrup is reduced to 1 cup and slightly cooled, toss in citrus zest and let steep. The zingy citrus oils will release into the hot syrup to brighten the flavor.

When syrup is well-cooled, you’re ready to mix your ginger beer for fermentation.

Place the funnel in the bottle neck. Place the extra-fine strainer (or strainer and cheesecloth) in the funnel. Pour syrup into bottle through strainer and funnel, pressing gently on solids to express all the liquid. Add the tiny quantity of yeast. Don’t worry if some yeast sticks to the syrup’s residue — the water will wash it in.

Pour in slightly less than 2 liters of fresh water. Your goal: to almost fill the bottle, leaving a 1-inch headspace. Cap bottle tightly and upend gently to mix. Give the bottle a gentle squeeze so you’ll know how to gauge the difference later.

Put your sealed bottle somewhere out of the way (and ideally somewhere easy to clean in the unlikely event of an eruption). A guest bathroom makes a good fermentation spot. We put ours in the front hall. No bottle has ever exploded, but I swathe it loosely in a plastic bag juuuuuuust in case.

Let it sit for 24 – 48 hours at room temperature. During this summery stretch, I found that the latest batch fermented in just under 24 hours. Give the bottle a squeeze every 12 hours or so, checking to see if it’s building pressure. When the bottle is too tight to squeeze, put it in the refrigerator and thoroughly chill before opening. If you open it at room temperature, you may find it fizzing wildly, erupting in a foamy embrace up your arm!

When it’s thoroughly chilled, gently open over a sink — just in case! If it bubbles over, that’s okay; it has more than enough carbonation to keep you happy.

zucchini fritters

Shred one good-sized zucchini. (I use a mandoline, but you could use a box grater; cleaner cuts make the final product less watery, so grated zucchini will need to be drained or squeezed a bit.)

Beat one egg in a medium bowl. Optional: press in one clove of garlic.

Toss zucchini with seasoned flour: two or three big spoonfuls of flour mixed with cumin, oregano, pepper, cayenne, nutmeg, whatever strikes your fancy. Rosemary is a nice variation. Sometimes I put in a pinch of baking powder to lighten the whole thing.

In well-seasoned or non-stick pan, heat a small pat of butter or a splash of oil over medium-high heat.

Mix zucchini with egg and a good bit of salt. Toss until everything’s mixed, then spoon into the oiled pan, heaping up the zucchini and gently pushing it into rough fritter-shapes. I usually cook two or three of these in a standard saute pan. You can instead fill the pan and make a zucchini frittata, but I like the smaller, darker fritters; more surface area means more flavor.

I often cover the pan loosely with a cookie sheet or a lid propped open to cook the fritters through without steaming them into floppiness. (When you bite into a fritter and find it soft inside, don’t worry: that’s not raw egg, but creamy-tender cooked zucchini.)

When the first side turns a deep rich brown, flip, and cook the second side. Serve immediately or, if necessary, hold briefly in a warm oven.

[Yeah, yeah: properly speaking, these aren't fritters. If you made a thicker batter, you could deep-fry or shallow-fry them, and they'd be delicious proper fritters. I take the easy way out and they're fantastic improper fritters. Mmm, improper fritters.]

pan-roasted potatoes

[If you're serving these with zucchini fritters, start the potatoes first. They're very simple; the secret ingredient is time.]

Scrub and dry several high- or medium-starch potatoes. Cut into large wedges — sixths or eighths — and sprinkle generously with kosher salt.

In a large heavy frying pan, melt a pat or butter over medium-high heat and heat until the foam subsides, then add a small splash of olive oil. Lay the potato wedges in the pan and partially cover with cookie sheet or propped-open lid; you want to cook the potatoes through but allow steam to escape.

Turn down the heat to medium… and wait. Go sit down. Have a drink. After a leisurely wait, check the potatoes. You’re looking for a deep brown, slightly blistered surface. (If your stovetop heats unevenly like mine, you’ll need to re-arrange the wedges to get them equally brown.) Flip to cook the other side.

herb & olive oil sauce

I make this sauce whenever I buy a bunch of parsley. It’s a great use of the big bunch that would otherwise sit in my fridge quietly turning yellow.

How much parsley do you have left over? That’s how much you need for this recipe. Rinse parsley and dry well. Chop or tear coarsely, breaking stems into short lengths. Take a few of the leafy tops and chop them fine; reserve.

Plunk the parsley (except the reserved leaves) into the blender* and pour over it a glug of extra virgin olive oil. If you have a special bottle of olive oil, this is a good time to use it. The sauce is very simple and the best ingredients make it sing.

Add a generous squeeze of lemon juice.

Add any or all of the following:
- a strip of lemon zest
- a few capers, rinsed and drained
- fresh-ground pepper
- a very few leaves of basil or dill or any other fresh herb you have kicking around
- chili powder or cayenne
- a hint of oregano, fresh or dried
- a tiny tiny tiny bit of minced garlic; the garlic flavor will become more pronounced as the sauce sits, so tread lightly

Blend until roughly pureed, pushing mixture down the sides as necessary. If necessary, add more oil. You want this mixture just liquid enough to blend; too much oil will produce a thin sauce.

Taste and adjust seasoning. Unless you’ve added a lot of capers, it will almost certainly need salt. I like kosher salt for its clean flavor.

Stir in the reserved parsley, which gives the finished sauce a pleasant texture. You can serve this immediately or refrigerate it in a clean, tightly capped jar. It will keep nicely for several days; for safety, it should be discarded after ten days, but you’ll use it up long before then. It’s bright and tart and fresh-grassy-green tasting, a fantastic foil for earthy or tangy flavors.

Serve it with pan-roasted potatoes or zucchini fritters, drizzle it over frittata, spread it on sandwiches, mix it into yogurt cheese, pour it over goat cheese for a lickety-split fancy appetizer with crackers and veggies. When I have a jar of herb & oil sauce in the fridge, I find endless uses for it.

*My dirty little secret: I use the Magic Bullet for this and for many other simple little kitchen tasks. I mocked The Fella over his yearning for a Magic Bullet, but then his parents handed down their little-used model. It turns out I’m the one who uses it almost daily.

The Fella left the house before it started wafting its enticing aroma out of the oven, which means I am the only one who gets to walk around for the next two hours saying, “Hey, what smells like pork butt?”

[If you're looking for ideas to serve guests, keep in mind that The Fella is an ovo-lacto vegetarian, so many of our dishes are not suitable for vegans, though any of them could be adapted. Of course, if you're catering to vegetarian guests of your own, it's worth asking them what they can and cannot eat, since restrictions vary, as do tastes.]

The centerpiece of our dinner is The Fella’s specialty, roasted squash galettes with caramelized onions and roasted garlic in a yeasted olive-oil dough. He’s brought it to family Thanksgivings, where everyone fell upon the dish with moans. The recipe is from Deborah Madison’s wonderful book, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone. Instead of one big pastry, The Fella makes mini-galettes the size of a fist. You can even shape them ahead and freeze them; let the frozen pastries thaw on a parchment-covered cooking sheet, then brush dough with egg wash and bake them. We made a hundred of these to serve on our wedding buffet, and they came out perfectly.*

A side of greens with chile mushrooms cozies up to the squash galettes perfectly. Its strong, slightly pungent flavor (tarted up with lemon) contrasts perfectly with the squash’s sweet-savory complexity. Chard, beets greens, kale, whatever looks good at the market. You know the rule with greens: wash, wash, wash, at least three times, changing the water each time. I like to do this as soon as we bring them home, before they even get into the fridge. Then I strip the stems, blanch and shock the greens, and — hey, presto! — huge bushel of greens shrinks down to fit in a small covered dish in the fridge (or in the freezer if you’re keeping them more than a couple of days). This is a handy dish to take to a potluck if oven space is scarce and you’ll have a chance to slide in front of the stove for three minutes immediately before dinner.

The method is pretty simple: saute some thinly sliced mushrooms in olive oil or butter with oregano, chile powder, salt, pepper, and plenty of fresh-grated nutmeg. You can prepare this up to two days ahead; when ready to serve, heat mushrooms in a pan, toss in greens (as is or roughly chopped), and toss as the greens sear and steam for a very few minutes. If you like garlic (we do!), you can add chopped or slivered garlic with the greens, or do what I do: squeeze a clove of garlic from your garlic press as the greens finish steaming, turn off the heat, and stir the garlic into the greens. The residual heat from the pan takes the sharp edge off the pressed garlic. Now add a healthy squeeze of lemon and toss. Ta-da!

Uh-oh: I want mashed potatoes, The Fella wants mashed sweet potatoes. Trouble in Paradise? Heck no — we’re having both! I’ll make smashed Yukon Gold potatoes with scallions: steam the potatoes in shallow salted water until they slide off a sharp knife. (I learned that trick from Cooks Illustrated, and it has never failed me.) Smash them roughly, skins and all, in a bowl. Add a lump of butter and a generous splash of milk. (For vegans, substitute olive oil and vegetable broth.) Add generous pepper and more salt than you think you need. You can make these ahead, too, and reheat in a double boiler. Add chopped scallions shortly before serving; stir through.

If The Fella agrees, we’ll stay away from the super-sweet sweet potato dishes that blot so many holiday tables. I’m thinking up a dish: whipped sweet potatoes with orange and lemon. We’ll make this one up on the fly, but the idea is simple: bake sweet potatoes, skin and mash them, then with a fork whip in a little fresh orange juice and zest, a little lemon to balance the sweetness, plenty of salt and pepper, and a little bit of butter or oil.

The Fella suggested roasted vegetables, which is sure to include roasted carrots. I like to blanch them, toss them with a tiny bit of butter and salt, and roast at high heat until they’re brown on the edges, slightly shriveled, and totally delicious.

We’ll add something green and fresh and little bit fancy, too. Maybe a dish of steamed asparagus, because it’s always fun to eat a fancy meal quite properly with your fingers. Maybe a simple salad: mixed greens, cranberries, glazed pecans or pumpkin seeds, sliced apple, and a lemon dressing. This is a favorite for holidays because it’s festive and light, and also a snap to prepare. All the components are shelf stable except the dressing and the greens. (I also love that it’s seasonally appropriate — pumpkin, cranberry, apple — but then I’m a foodways nerd.)

Honoring your vegetarian tablemates’ wishes and appetites really ought not to be too difficult, especially when so many families serve abundant vegetable side dishes with their roasted meats. Some basic guidelines:
- Keep vegetable dishes vegetarian, or clearly indicate which ones aren’t. It’s frustrating for vegetarians to take a bite only to discover that a seemingly vegetarian dish contains pancetta or bacon or chicken stock.
- Some vegetarians are cautious about eating cheese, which can contain rennet, so it’s best to ask your guests what they do and do not eat. You can encourage them to bring a dish, too.
- Realize that most “vegetarian” dishes will be eaten by vegetarians and omnivores alike, so make plenty.
- Tofurkey is not necessary. Serve it if you like it, but don’t feel the need to offer a meat substitute.
- If you’re making old-fashioned in-the-bird stuffing, consider serving a separate dish of stuffing cooked in a casserole (without meat juices).

Onion herb bread is perfect for a vegetarian Thanksgiving, especially if you’re doing without stuffing. It’s richly savory and fragrant, crusty on the outside and soft inside with a tender crumb that falls apart. I like to bake it in small loaves or rolls, to be sure the interior gets cooked through… and also because they’re so darned cute. (It’s also a great Thanksgiving recipe for meat-eaters: stack some leftover turkey on this bread, add some mayo or butter and maybe a lettuce leaf, whatever else goes in your Thanksgiving sandwich, and thank me later. Add some gravy and it’s transcendent.)

Speaking of cute: tiny tarts and pies, oh my! I’ve decided that a major delight of a teeny tiny Thanksgiving is a teeny tiny dessert buffet: pumpkin pie, three-berry pie (blueberry, blackberry, raspberry), and maybe some so-tiny-they’re-almost-invisible pecan tarts. Also ice cream.

For all the sorrow and all the pain that befalls us every year, there is always so much for which we can be thankful. This year especially, I am deeply thankful for my husband — and for an entire holiday alone with him.

*From what I hear. Pfffft, I didn’t get to eat anything except a bite of salad, a bite of — you guessed it — squash galette, and a big ole slab of my sister’s wedding cake.

Cut the bacon in strips one quarter of an inch in thickness and two or three inches in width and long enough to pass entirely around the throat. Remove the bacon rind and any lean meat there may be in it to prevent blistering of the throat or neck. Sew the bacon to a strip of flannel so as to hold it into position and prevent its slipping and then apply the bacon to the throat and neck. Pin it around the neck, so that it will not be uncomfortably tight. The throat and neck should be completely swathed with the bacon. If after an application of eight hours the patient is not better apply a new bandage in the same manner.

I particularly like “the throat and neck should be completely swathed with bacon.” This seems more like a sound brunch-time policy rather than a health concern, though.