Pomegranates keep one humble.

(A scrubbing paste of Oxy-Clean and ice cold water seem to work best, BTW.)

So if you find yourself lacking in Holiday Giddy-Up and/or a spiritual insight into what Christmas is about, just have an incredibly delightful man peel a perfect mandarin orange and mix in a handful of July jewels for you.

Instant fix.

The “abbondanza” of the table is just the beginning.

There are pockets of generations everywhere you look, swapping recipes…

… exchanging vital personal information…

… and imprinting on upcoming generations the very real possibility of life-long love affairs.

It was so wonderful to remember that dishes are prepared with warm anticipation in one kitchen, then wrapped in a towel, schlepped on a lap, and unswaddled without fuss in another kitchen as a conga line of squealing anklebiters fly by in a blur just under your elbow.

COUSINS!!!  IS THERE ANYTHING MORE FUN THAN COUSINS?!!

Nope, unless it’s having a great camera to chase them around with.

Not every offering at the table was personally squeezed in the produce section, washed, peeled, sauteed, spiced, spruced up, set to rest, and plated perfectly. Some bought and brought exquisite cheese, God bless them.

Others showed up with the fruit of their labor that had been several months, even years, in the preparation.

That wine, dear readers, was a gift. It was as though Nevi had thought last year, “I know! I’ll make an outstandingly full, warm yet clean, and European-style cabernet sauvignon with just the softest end note of cranberry. It will be great with Thanksgiving dinner next year.”

He would have been (was?) right.

Inside jokes…

A well planned menu…

The chance for everyone to help out…

The comfort of the “must haves”…

… and the celebration of the “Must Know”…

Another precious chance to laugh at the same old, wonderful stories…

… and the opportunity to get input on which to pile higher on what.

These are all part of the familial elixir fumes that are breathed in and stored up in the pulse of the memories of the generations.

But there is always room for something–

.. or someone–new at the table.

At least, that’s what one Thanksgiving celebration looked like this year.

We’re very grateful we got to share in it. Thank you, Nancy.

Step #1: Get some phresh pheasant breasts. (Okay, I’ll stop already. Enouph is enough.)

Wash and pat dry. Admire how incredibly fit and outdoorsy they look.

Actually, pheasant is a super-lean and finely-grained game meat. That’s why the apples and bacon are such an inspired combination: the bacon ups the flavor-enhancing fat quotient with a smokey base, while the apple brings a fresh treble balance to the whole experience.

Steps #2/3/4:  (We missed a few steps with the camera… sorry.)

Pan fry some bacon, remove from pan and crumble, and then saute a sliced apple in the bacon fat. Remove apple slices, reserve bacon fat, and deglaze the pan with some of the red wine you’re drinking.

Reserve the resulting red deliciousness from the deglazing, and wander over to put a few more pieces in place in the puzzle on the dining room table.

Seriously, what’s better than cooking with a bit of red wine and a puzzle?

Step #5:

Put some long-grain brown rice on to simmer, then salt ‘n pepper the breasts and dredge in flour…

… return the bacon fat to a fresh pan (or clean the one you were just using), and fry the dredged breasts at a decently high heat until they’re just done.

Step #6:

Set the cooked breasts aside to let rest. (After all, they’re tired, poor things. They’ve been through a lot.)

Step #7:

Hit the pan with red wine to melt and release the caramelized “taste” stuck to the bottom. Return the juices from the first deglazing…

… and add the apples and bacon back in to reheat as the sauce reduces, thickens, and comes together.

Step #8:

Plate the pheasant and rice, then pour the apple and bacon sauce over top of the pheasant. Add something green to the plate, and prepare to experience field-to-table bliss. (You’ll have to image the green stuff for yourself. We got busy with the puzzle again.)

Let’s call them “Bonnie” and “Zinc.”

One glorious Saturday morning when they were hosting some poor commoners from the South Bay, Bonnie waved her magic spoon around the kitchen for a few minutes, and…

… poof!

Out of the oven came the most wonderful and fragrant brunch dish.  And as the aroma wafted throughout the castle and out into the kingdom through the kitchen window, there was great rejoicing in the land.

Bonnie waved her magic spoon again, and…

… poof!

There appeared on the picnic table a delightful array of beautiful linens…

… and ice-cold champagne in exquisite mystery stemware…

… a chunky white-fish spread and hunks of warm, fresh baguette…

… sweet succulent melon, a dainty strawberry-laced salad…

… and one enchanted prince from a far-away land who had been turned into a teeny, tiny frog by a wicked winery owner. *

Seeing Bonnie’s kind and somewhat startled face, the frog hopped out from his hiding place under the butter dish.

“Please,” said the frog. “I smelled your magical baked eggs and if I could have just one bite, I would turn back into a prince!”

Zinc, being the benevolent befriender of all things small and slimy, quickly picked up his own magic wand and cut into the eggs.

They were in-freaking-credible, and indeed, magical.

For as soon as the smell of the eggs, sausage, nutmeg, fresh herbs, and cheeses hit their noses, the four diners began to salivate and pay close attention to the accurate division of the dish into four exactly equal servings.

The moment the portions hit the plate and were joined by the salad, bread, champagne, etc., the people began to eat with much moaning and table banging and exclamations of ecstasy.

And they were all very, very happy.

Everyone, that is, except the frog, for in their enthusiasm and delight, they had completely forgotten about him and his plea for help.

The End.

Bob’s yer frog.

I could sell that thing on eBay for millions.

“Eggplant parmigiana” was the first and only entry in the journal for the humble Solanum melongena. In the feedback/interview section for the recipe, Emily wrote, “Mathias cried.”

It was not a big hit, and I hadn’t bothered to cook it since.

Come to think of it, I still don’t cook it, but fortunately, Rick does.

He slices it thinly, and lays the rounds in layers in a colander, sprinkling them with salt, where they rest for about 20 minutes and leak out the mystery juice that can make them bitter.

He gently pats olive oil on them to make them feel better…

… and then slaps their happy little bottoms on the hot grill, where they grow these beautiful stripes and turn utterly translucent and crispy with joy.

We grab some hummus, a few olives, carrot sticks, pita, and maybe a glass of wine, and…

You guessed it. Sometimes it’s so good, I cry.