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Be sure to always buy organic tofu. Commercially grown soy crops are treated with enormous amounts of pesticides and are genetically modified. Over 80 percent of this is fed to livestock, mostly chickens and pigs, but also cows and farmed fish. With organic tofu you’ll be safe. Ingredients: • 1 LB extra-firm tofu • ¼ c soy sauce • ½ ts smoked paprika • ¼ ts cayenne pepper • 2 flax eggs * • ½ medium-sized onion, finely chopped • 2 TS capers (optional, leave out if you don’t like them) • ½ c peeled, cubed butternut squash • ½ c breadcrumbs • 2 TS olive oil (plus 2 T if pan-fried) * 1 Flax egg: 1 TS ground flax seeds mixed with 3-4 TS water Let rest 10 - 15 min Preparation: Prepare the 2 flax eggs. Crumble the tofu into grain-like pieces (I cut the block into large chunks and then use my fingers to crumble it, or you can mash it with a fork). In a medium-sized bowl, combine the tofu with soy sauce and any spices you want to use, let soak for 15 minutes. Heat 2 T olive oil in a frying pan over medium high heat, saute the onions until translucent and slightly browned, lower the heat a bit, add the squash and simmer for 10 minutes or until squash is softened. Turn off the heat and let it cool down, then add it to the crumbled tofu, together with the flax eggs and breadcrumbs. Mix well. Use your hands to form patties with a diameter of about 2 ½ - 3 inches and about ¼ inch deep. I tried three different ways to finish the patties: 1. Baked: Preheat your oven to 400 F. Place the patties on a non-stick baking sheet and bake for 20 minutes. The outside became evenly brown and crisp, while being soft inside.  2. Air Fried: I placed the patties in my air fryer and let it run for 10 minutes at 400 F. They turned out to be somewhat more crunchy.  3. Pan-fried: I added 2 TS olive oil to a frying pan. When the oil was hot, I placed the patties into the pan and fried them for about 5 minutes on each side. The coloring wasn’t as even as with the other two methods.  Choose your preferred method, and enjoy.
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 ~Zach Hively
Fool's Gold Look, I realize that vacation rentals—let’s just call them “Airbnbs” because that’s what they all are—are responsible for a great many of the world’s woes. These include housing shortages and jacked-up costs of living, gentrification, several Kardashians, the lion’s share of the endangered species list, and methamphetamines, probably. But they are still my preferred way to stay in a stranger’s home on vacation, when I actually go on vacation. In adulthood so far, this averages once each decade. Plus, they have kitchens. This is preferable to hotels, where I cannot even pretend that I will cook my own breakfast. Not using the included kitchen that I COULD use is just one Airbnb perk among many. I’d like, for your vicarious vacationing pleasure, to declare several other benefits—unlike the apples and the baggie of ham that we did not declare at customs on our way home. We brought them along for the flight after not eating them for breakfast for a week. Then I did not take them out of my backpack before customs because I was hungry, and also because I forgot. Speaking of hunger, let’s make you hungry for travel with these Many Benefits of Staying in an Airbnb. Ease of Access After a long day of international plane travel, all one wants is to lay one’s head on another person’s used pillow and fall asleep so fast that one cannot wonder for long about how foreign head lice differ from domestic ones. Such was our wish. We were in good spirits after traveling by car, plane, moving walkway, plane, bus, customs line, and bus to the one coastal town in Mexico that spring break hasn’t heard about. I was able to use our Airbnb hosts’ directions—and the knowledge that “a la izquierda” means either “to the right” or “to the left”—to guide our taxi right to the front gate. The taxi drove off, and I pulled up the Airbnb host’s instructions for easily and safely accessing our new home away from home. “The purple gate will appear to be locked,” the instructions read. “It is unlocked.” “It’s locked,” said my travel partner—let’s call her “Maggie” because that is her name. I, being a man, tried the lock myself. It was locked. I managed to message our Airbnb hosts. I’m not sure what I wanted them to do, seeing as they were at that moment in California or some other place that was not Mexico, but I hoped it would be something useful. They, however, did not reply in a timely fashion. So I did what any former middle school math student would do: I skipped to the next word problem—the keys to the house, reportedly left, securely, under a cloth on a table by the front door. Unfortunately, the front door and this purported table were inside the gate, which had not yet unlocked. The irony of a gringo jumping a wall to get into someplace in Mexico gave me the boost I needed to do so very quickly and discreetly. Maggie guarded the luggage because she is scarier than I am, while I fetched the key. This was challenging, considering there was no key. “There is no key,” I muttered through the gate. “No key?” Maggie said back. “No key,” I said. “Unless you can find it,” which, her being a woman, seemed likely. My whole life, women are finding things that don’t exist until I ask them to look. Maggie passed our backpacks over the gate and then jumped it herself to prove me wrong about the keys. But the keys did not materialize. I wrote our hosts again, as timestamped proof that we were not breaking and entering in case the authorities ever got involved. We made ourselves right at home on the rocking chairs on the patio and watched the sun set on the locked doors and welded-shut windows of this beautiful one-bedroom casa with well-tended garden and fully equipped kitchen. We laughed a little, we cried a little, and we got hungrier and hungrier, until I decided to jump the fence again and fetch us some food and possible camping supplies from the mercado on the corner. While I was away, the hosts responded that this situation was very unusual and they would try to get ahold of Juan the property manager. In the meantime, they suggested we dig for the possibility of a spare key buried in the corner of a flower bed opposite a radiant pink bougainvillea. We did not find the key, but we had corn chips, real Mexican corn chips, made with actual tortillas and not whatever comprises a Tostitos. And we had a bottle of tequila from the highest shelf in this little mercado, which I ordered using my best Spanish pronunciation of the label over and over until the clerk understood my accent from sheer repetition. We were prepared to hunker down for the night, mosquitos be damned, when Juan arrived with a hefty set of keys and a heftier set of apologies. “I thought today was yesterday!” he said many times. Now we move on to the next of many Airbnb benefits: You get to leave public reviews. Beautiful outdoor space. Through the window, the kitchen appears useful. Clear directions and very communicative hosts! I already can’t wait to go back. ~Jessica Rath Compared to Coyote, Abiquiu is a veritable hub of commerce and entertainment: several restaurants, several stores, a hotel, an elementary school, a gas station. Coyote has none of that. Not any more. It does have a post office, a clinic, and a volunteer fire station, plus the Coyote Ranger District – the northernmost district of the Santa Fe National Forest, covering 261,100 acres. If you love the outdoors, the diversity of the area around Coyote is pure delight: it boasts lush, alpine woodlands, pastoral mesas, and dark-red colored canyons and cliffs that are the signature signs of the region.  And the ground is covered with treasures, too. The sides of almost every dirt road here is strewn with pieces of agate, which are of volcanic origin and are part of a supervolcano that last erupted 1.2 million and 1.6 million years ago and is now known as the Valles Caldera National Preserve. The last eruption and collapse piled up 150 cubic miles of rock and blasted ash as far away as Iowa. Near Gallina, and also on the way to the Pedernal near Youngsville, one can find quite large chunks of alabaster, a soft mineral which is a variety of gypsum and can be carved like soapstone. When I cross the meadow in front of my house and climb up to the mesa on the opposite side, I cross an area with lots of pieces of petrified wood. They’re nowhere as spectacular as those in the Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness, but for being right at my front door they’re quite impressive.  Petrified Wood  A Herd of Elk Near my House I wanted some input from a local voice, and Coyote resident Pete Garcia kindly agreed to chat with me. Pete will be 89 years old this coming March – maybe being active all his life kept him young, because I would have easily taken him to be ten years younger. He was born in Coyote, at his grandmother’s house – the abuelas commonly took care of the kids. Pete has two sisters and two brothers, five sons (one set of twins) and one daughter, and eight grandchildren.  I asked Pete why the village was called “Coyote” – I figured, since the animals are so ubiquitous there might be a special reason for the name. Wrong; they’re everywhere here, that’s why the hamlet has its name. In Gallina, everybody had chickens. Youngsville was different, Pete told me: an Anglo named Jack Young opened a general store in the town which was then called El Rito, and he also established a post office. This was about 100 years ago. Pete’s grandparents were also born in Coyote, but he doesn’t remember them. He barely remembers his dad, he was eight years old when his father died. His mother lived until he got married. “ I moved to Utah when I got married, I was working in a mine there for two years. And then I was in the service for four years, in Germany – I was stationed in Hanau, near Frankfurt. This was the biggest city I visited while in Germany".  Pete went to school in Coyote, except for one year, the 5th grade, when he went to school in Espanola. At that time, the school was across from the church, on what was then the main road. Eventually some people also lived in the school, and then it burned down. A new school, an adobe building, was built near the site of the current school. But this new school closed because there were not enough kids. The High School is in Gallina. When Pete graduated, there were only three students in his grade. There were more students in the class, but they were lower grades, all in the same room. Still, there were more people in Coyote at that time than there are now. People gradually moved away from Coyote when the Lab in Los Alamos opened, because they were able to find work at the Lab. They would move wherever they could find employment. In Coyote there just were not enough opportunities to make a living. Pete’s in-laws lived in Canones, they had a lot of cows. In the fall they sold the calves, but that didn’t bring very much money. The last store in Coyote closed a few years ago. People moved away, there just weren’t enough customers. Pete drove the school bus for a few years, and the children used to stop at the store to buy candy. They built a great new school in Coyote, but there were not enough kids, so the school closed. Then Pete worked at the Ranger Station for about 25 years and retired from there. His kids started in school in Coyote, and then continued in Gallina. The old school, the one near the church, was founded in 1944. The new one was open only for a few years. In the last year before the school closed there were only about seven kids who attended. Another indicator for the dwindling population is church attendance: Pete said that years ago there were many people in church every Sunday. Now – only a few. Arroyo del Agua also had a school house. There was no post office, but they had two stores, one of them was selling gas as well. And there used to be a garage where they fixed cars. After crossing the bridge, the first house on the right used to be a store, for a long time. And another small store was a bit further, when one turned left. Pete sold all his cows recently. He had cows all his life, he had his own cattle brand. He never had very many, only about 30. But it has become too much work. One of his kids still has 30 or 40 cows. They still have a ranch and 160 acres up in the forest.  I asked Pete whether he feels sad that his village’s population keeps shrinking, but this doesn’t bother him all that much; it is what it is. Losing friends or relatives is always hard, whether they die or move away. But life goes on. And that’s my impression of Coyote too: there’s a sense of timelessness here, things change, but deep down it all remains the same. Like a steadily flowing river. Maybe that’s what inner peace is all about.
 This Japanese pumpkin has a firm texture and doesn’t have to be peeled. If you’re adventurous, you can clean and dry the seeds and roast them with some salt. I found one at Trader Joe’s, but Sprouts has them too – I just checked. Sprouts also sells miso, but the website only lists “mellow white”. If possible, use red or Hatcho miso. A word about miso: it’s made with fermented soy beans, or barley, or rice, and there are other variations. Although traditional Japanese cuisine doesn’t include yogurt, miso has similar health benefits: the fermentation process adds probiotics and enzymes which help with digestion, reduce toxins in the body, and strengthen the immune system. If you’ve ever been to a Japanese restaurant, you’ve encountered miso, because absolutely every meal, including breakfast, includes miso soup. Here is a different kind of miso recipe, resulting in a thick stew.  Ingredients:
1 T sesame oil 1 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced 1 Lb kabocha , cubed 1 c water 1//4 c red, barley, or Hatcho miso, thinned into 1/3 c of water Preparation: Heat the oil in a wok or skillet. Add the sliced onions and saute over medium heat for 5 to 7 minutes, stirring gently, until lightly browned. Add the kabocha and fry for another 3 minutes. Add the water and bring to a boil. Cover, reduce the heat, and simmer for 30 minutes. Stir in the thinned miso and simmer for another 5 minutes or until liquid has been absorbed. My late husband and I built a log cabin on Mesa Poleo in the early 70s. We did not inhabit it too long, just over two years but that time is an indelible part of my existence all of these years later. Lynn Zotalis, Hippie at Heart  Cerro Pedernal, the infamous northern New Mexico landmark…
the mesa peak I always wanted to hike up but in the years I lived so near, just a few miles away past Youngsville between Coyote and Gallina, I never attempted it and now? The peak requires a steep hike on very loose rock, a short, Class 3 wall, and a narrow, exposed trail eight miles up and back. I just may have missed this one now bowing to my muscles that require continual preservation or maybe it’s conservation, nonetheless, definite constraints undeniable but not ready to admit defeat. Certainly limits that can be quite unforgiving at this stage of my life, for instance, I’m resigned to no more cartwheels. Well, pretty much. I’m forced to be reasonable, sensible, oof, I do not like that moniker but now I often have conversations with my peers about mindfulness exhorting them and me to watch where we walk to avoid missteps, to stay upright. DON’T FALL! especially when I consider the consequences, how traumatic brain injury may result. Aging is not for sissies. It is a shock, that gut check noticing the changes now so blatantly undisguised. Drooping lids, jowls, neck waddle following down, down, down to these appaloosa legs, one might say roan. Mottled, spotted, splotchy, red and purply stippled. Could be reshod? Arms peppered, freckled brown spots like a connect-the-dots puzzle. The gray streaked mane, tow head to platinum, even though gradual it was notable the year it morphed. Did you know that green chili synthesizes collagen, reduces inflammation for healthier aging? Now that’s the best reason for consuming vast amounts of my favorite stew. I’m truly not that obsessed with the decade’s effects upon this body, I continue to take notice, to appreciate the days, the waning years as they take their toll, unescapable father time. I reevaluate what’s treasured, and of course, family is paramount. Precious photos in my faded albums, innocent, tender faces, the imprints etched deeply upon my heart. Those old albums are stored with easy access, staged for rescue from any disaster. Possessions are one thing, I’d relinquish them all, save for those memories stored in 3 x 3 images. I take some comfort in the fact that I live in the middle, New Mexico, far from rising oceans, oceans that possess too much melancholy for me personally. I ponder all of the ones that have passed on, try to make sense of loss and I must resign questions to fate, a conscious effort to let go and release those to the other side submitting to the seasons as trees shed their leaves transmogrifying back to the earth. What’s happened to my face, my body, tells the story of experience, the love, the laughter, the tears I speak gratefulness to the lumps and lines, the hues and patterns that weave history and memory together in one unique crazy quilt, blanketing my shoulders, wrapping it around absolving absorbing the imprint every single thread holds, the elegantly designed material of life resonant in wakening waves of understanding.  By Abbot Christian
Christ in the Desert Monastery The first thing that may surprise our families and friends about a Monastery Christmas is that we do not start decorating for the Solemnity until December 24th. No trees or decorations are visible in the church, refectory or corridors, inside or out, until the “Night Before Christmas.” Why is that? Christmastide technically begins, in the Catholic Liturgical Calendar, at First Vespers of Christmas, that is, the eventide of December 24th. By then, but not before, trees are decorated, lights are strewn, poinsettias are in place, and the festivities begin. Our Christmas celebrations on December 24th include significant time in church, chanting the Divine Offices of Vespers, then a little later, Christmas Vigils and culminating in the celebration of Midnight Mass, as December 24th turns into December 25th. After Mass the monks as well as our resident guests and visitors are treated to a festive breakfast (yes, at 1:30 am!), including scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, muffins and more, then off to rest for the monks and guests, and the visitors typically return to their homes, presumably to rest as well. On the morning of December 25th we pray the Office of Lauds and celebrate Mass of Christmas Day later in the morning, at 11:00 am. In the afternoon, after the Office of None (the Ninth Hour), we have our principal meal of the day, usually something quite special and delicious, though a surprise every year, and prepared by our monks, as are all our meals in the Monastery. While many people start taking down Christmas decorations and lights within a day or so after Christmas, we monks maintain the mood of comfort and joy which the Christmas Season always brings, for the succeeding “Twelve Days of Christmas.” We cannot be stopped or even slowed down, as we rejoice in the reality and mystery of God-with-us, Emmanuel, who has come that we might have life and have it in abundance. We suggest to all to consider the “monastery pattern” regarding the celebration of Christmas this year. It may take some adjusting to, but hopefully worth every minute of it, to celebrate with less commercialism, and place the emphasis on the true meaning and spirit of Christmas, when Christ entered time to bring us to eternity. Some wonderful words from the Norwegian-Danish novelist Sigrid Undset, who lived from 1882 to 1949, come to mind here: “And when we give each other Christmas gifts in His name, let us remember that He has given us the sun and the moon and the stars, and the earth with its forests and mountains and oceans—and all that lives and moves upon them. He has given us all green things and everything that blossoms and bears fruit and all that we quarrel about and all that we have misused—and to save us from our foolishness, from all our sins, He came down to earth and gave us Himself.”  ~Hilda Joy
We reshare this recipe from 2020 This recipe came to mind recently when a friend asked me if I remembered drinking gluhwein with her many years ago at Chicago’s annual December Christchild Market. Indeed, I do remember. I also remember enjoying salty warm pretzels and bratwurst. For several years, I made gluhwein at home and drank it out of the souvenir mug in which I first enjoyed its warmth at the frosty outdoor market, the largest in the world outside of Germany. Then one year, I dropped the mug, breaking it. Oh well, I can still enjoy the glowing warmth of gluhwein. Now in 2020, the Year of Covid-19, this wondrous fairytale market that has enchanted adults as well as children has gone virtual, like so many of the things we have perhaps taken for granted. Literally meaning ‘glowing wine,’ this German drink will give you a glow of warmth during the lengthening days leading to the Winter Solstice. Traditionally served at every outdoor Kriskindlmarkt (Christchild Market) that springs up during Advent in German and Austrian cities and towns, it also hits the spot indoors, especially in front of a roaring or glowing fire. Ingredients 1 bottle dry red wine, 750 ml and inexpensive 6 whole cloves 2 cinnamon sticks Optionally: 4 star anise pods 2 juniper berries 2 cardamom pods 1/4 cup sugar, brown or white 1 orange, sliced Directions Empty wine into a medium-sized saucepan set on medium heat. When wine is heated, add spices. Add sugar and stir until dissolved. Lower heat. Slice orange and cut each slice in half. Add slices to pot, simmering all for about 10 minutes At this point, gluhwein is ready to serve, but it could simmer for a longer period on very low heat to perfume one’s home with its sweet spicy aroma. EnJoy  Hebe Garcia sends in this recipe of Holiday Cheer
Coquito is a popular Christmas coconut rum nog traditionally served in Puerto Rico. This is my mother’s egg-free recipe which has an ice cream twist. Sprinkle with ground cinnamon or nutmeg and serve. Cheers! Prep Time: 10 minutes Additional Time: 8 hours Ingredients 1 (15 oz) can cream of coconut 1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk 1 (12 oz) can evaporated milk 1 cup coconut-flavored rum ¼ cup water 1 scoop vanilla bean ice cream 1 tsp vanilla extract 2 cinnamon sticks 2 whole cloves 1 pinch ground cinnamon 1 pinch ground nutmeg Directions
Note: When I opened my News letter from Christ in the Desert I was immediately drawn to the essay "Chicago Christmas Carol". I'm from Chicago and my name is Carol. Shared with permission.  By Brother Chrysostom
The theme of this newsletter referenced community. While at the writers’ residency this summer I learned about flash fiction (a short story consisting of less than 1500 words). I wish to share with you a Christmas themed piece that showcases a community that I love and that shaped me, Chicago. I have learned as a monastic that it is what we bring from the communities that formed us to the monastery that creates the vibrancy of intimacy between monks. I hope the story achieves a threefold purpose: 1) sharing the fruits of a Creative Writing MFA with supporters of our Educational Appeal, 2) sharing Chicago with a wider audience, and 3) building a monastic community where art and letters complement evangelization. I hope you enjoy it. Merry Christmas. Aunt Jane is my mother’s older sister and my favorite aunt. Every early December after the first of the holiday specials--Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Santa Clause is Coming to Town--airs on ABC and CBS, Aunt Jane arranges for me and her to have our Chicago Christmas. It is late Sunday morning. Mom and Dad have gone to 8:00 am Mass at Our Lady of Peace. They let me sleep in. I miss Frisky. He had to be put to sleep three days ago because the vet told us that his problems wouldn’t get any better. I am a big boy. I can understand. I am almost ten years old and I can stay at home alone while my parents go to Mass three short blocks away. When they come home, I want to stay in bed. They will get me out of bed and rush me to get ready because Aunt Jane is coming over soon. I wash up quickly, put on my brown thick cord corduroy pants, my cordovan Buster Brown shoes, t-shirt, clean white collar shirt, and a crew neck sweater with bands of light brown and black. I make sure that my afro is neat and fluffy with my pick in front of the bathroom mirror. I hear the horn of Aunt Jane’s 1970 Blue Dodge Dart outside. Quick kisses and hugs from my mother and father and a rush to grab my loden coat, knit skull cap, scarf, and mittens heralds the metallic clang of the storm door closing behind me. I bound down the steps while humming the finale of A Charlie Brown Christmas. The soles of my Buster Brown shoes make scuffed tracks in the thin layer of snow to the back door of Aunt Jane’s car. No sooner do I close the door and kiss the back of her neck, which has the chemical smell of the relaxer that her hairdresser uses, than the car is gliding down our neighborhood toward Lake Shore Drive. We are going downtown. Downtown! Snowmen, nutcrackers, and Santas populate the front yards of the neat bungalows we pass along the way. Strings of lights outline doorways and wrap around exterior ferns and trees. The lights excite me, but I know that the lights on State Street are better. Aunt Jane finds parking easily on Madison Avenue and we get out of the car and walk a block or so to St Peter’s Catholic Church. Aunt Jane works for Catholic Charities downtown and attends Mass here most mornings before starting her work day. She loves this church with its high ceilings. The Franciscans in their brown robes and knotted rope belts and sandals are happy to see us. She likes the Franciscans, too. We make it in time for Mass. There are no Christmas decorations. The outside world with lights and decorations doesn’t know that Christmas is still a week and days away. They don’t care. They are going to have Christmas before the baby Jesus even comes at Midnight Mass! I kneel down before Mass and say a prayer for Frisky. One of the Franciscan priests comes over and hugs Aunt Jane as I pray. I want to ask him if dogs go to heaven, but I don’t. After Mass we file out of church into the cold with some other people and make our way to Marshall Fields & Company. I can read street signs. We take a left down Clark Street and then up Washington Street. Aunt Jane wants to show me the Picasso in Daley Plaza. It reminds me of a dragon, but the large Christmas tree close by makes it less scary. The large jutting clocks on the corner of the Marshall Fields & Company department store look so heavy. I don’t want them to crush me. The illuminated faces on the clock have hands that mean something to me. I can tell time. It was 12:20 pm. We pass through a heavy revolving door into a Christmas palace. A large Christmas tree higher than my house stands in the middle of the store. Gold, silver, red, and blue bulbs hang off branches. There are also rocking horses, tin soldiers, teddy bears, clowns, elves, and other presents decorating the biggest Christmas tree I have ever seen. Aunt Jane holds my hand tightly and we wind through the cosmetic section, the chocolate section, and the handbag section to one of the many wooden escalators that will take us up to the Walnut Room. We pass my favorite floor, the 4th floor, that has toys. But, I don’t care. There is a long wait in line to eat lunch. My legs are getting tired, but we are finally seated at a table next to the top of the huge Christmas tree that we saw when we first came in. A model train is making its way around a track above our heads. We order hamburgers which came with special French fries that were almost like fat potato chips. I don’t like my hamburger because the bun has butter on the inside. “Herbert, eat your hamburger, the butter is supposed to make it moist,” Aunt Jane said. I eat my hamburger, but I want a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with cheese. After lunch, Aunt Jane goes shopping in the ladies’ section which goes up several floors. I ask if I could go to the 4th floor and look at the toys. Aunt Jane agrees, but tells me to wait for her down there. I have fun looking at the space ships and castles. The large die cast toy cars are my favorite. Buried within the mound of Gund animals of different sizes is a dog that looked like Frisky. I like it. But I want a real dog. I so hope Santa would bring me the Batmobile with the launching rockets that I want. When we leave Marshall Fields & Company the large three faced clock on the corner of Randolph and State reads 3:30 pm. As the sky grows darker and the Christmas lights along State Street grow brighter, Aunt Jane and I join the procession of Christmas window gazers who joyfully file by animated windows of Christmas scenes for the next five blocks. Large department stores like Carson Pirie Scot, Sears, Montgomery Ward, Wiebolt’s, and Goldblatt’s each Christmas season deck their windows with Santas, reindeer, snowmen, and elves. Aunt Jane who is much taller than I sees it before I do. She puts her hands on the shoulders of my loden coat and leads me through the crowd closer to the corner of the store. At the last Marshall Fields & Company window before crossing Washington Street to Carson’s, there was a winter wonderland scene with children ice skating, throwing snowballs, and sledding down hills. In the corner of the snow scene is a lone boy and a dog playing catch. The boy doesn’t look like me at all, he has yellow blonde hair, but the dog looks just like Frisky! I smile at Aunt Jane and she hugs me. Hark the Herald Angels Sing is playing on a speaker at Carson Pirie Scot across the street. Snow is coming down. Aunt Jane takes my hand and leads me away from the Frisky in the window. She knows that Santa would have Max, a small wirehaired terrier puppy, under my Christmas tree soon.  One of the best things about our traditional American Thanksgiving dinner is the choice of leftovers and the creative uses to which such leftovers can be put. Thanksgiving evening, shortly after we think, “I can’t eat another thing,” we may find ourselves heading to the kitchen and opening the fridge to see what would make a quick snack. For me, that is usually a leftover biscuit split in half, dabbed with mayo, and filled with a small piece of cold turkey and topped with a spoonful of cranberry sauce.
My favorite leftover, however, is Turkey Carcass Soup. Making it also clears out the fridge a bit. Though not as rich as a traditional bone broth because the turkey bones have given up most of their goodness during the roasting process, this soup is satisfying because of the addition of fresh vegetables, frozen corn, and wild rice. It became even more filling the year I decided to make croutons from leftover stuffing. The morning after Thanksgiving, while the Turkey Carcass Soup was simmering gently on the stove, perfuming the whole house, and working up appetites for lunch, I was rearranging the fridge. “What can I do with all this leftover stuffing?” I wondered. I transferred it to a large rectangular baking dish and baked it until crisp and cut it into small squares to top the soup. Ever since, these croutons have been part of this soup recipe, which I hope you will try this Thanksgiving. A New Mexico friend—when she lived on a small farm in Michigan—threw a star-gazing party most every August during the Persied Meteor Showers. Friends from several states would arrive in campers and trucks loaded with food. One year, three turkeys were brought—my smoked turkey, a roasted turkey, and one made on site on a Weber grill. After a long, sumptuous outdoor feast and lots of oohs and aahs as we watched the meteors, several women gathered in the farm-house kitchen and began stripping the turkey carcasses of meat, and all during the night a large stock pot simmered with turkey bones and meat and lots of vegetables. The first person to waken was expected to enter the kitchen and turn on the huge coffee pot already filled with water and coffee. As I crawled out of my pup tent, I realized I was the only person there to see the sun rise. Walking up the steps to the kitchen, I was overwhelmed with the smell of turkey carcass soup. Sometimes I think I can still smell it. Yes, I know I can! Ingredients dressing (stuffing) left over from turkey dinner butter 3 tablespoons salt 1 tablespoon black pepper 2 tablespoons sage 10 cups cold water 1 large onion, diced 1/2 stalk of celery, diced and including leaves 1 handful of flat-leaf parsley leaves, chopped 6 large carrots, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch ‘sticks’ carcass of 1 roasted turkey, stripped of meat 1 cup wild rice, rinsed and drained 3 cups water 1/2 teaspoon salt the diced, left-over turkey cooked wild rice 1 cup frozen corn flat-leaf parsley, chopped baked dressing croutons Directions
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