It has been a long weekend dedicated to eating. Thursday saw the traditional dinner at my parents’ house, with just the family in attendance. We sat around the heirloom dining room table and worked our way through quite the holiday spread and drank one hell of a wine and finished up with pie and conversation. As an adult, Thanksgiving has become, hands down, my most favorite holiday.
Friday found us back at my parents’ house for my second most favorite holiday — Left Over Day! This saw us crowded around the kitchen table digging into the plentiful leftovers before stumbling over to a spot in front of the fire for the second turkey coma in as many days.
And then came today. It’s cold and blustery, but bright. All morning, I’d had my nosed buried in “The Fellowship of the Ring” and damn if those hobbits don’t eat every three pages. By chapter eight, I was ravenous. About all we had in the house was an onion, and I wasn’t quite prepared to go out in the cold and bluster, so I did what any normal person would do. I picked up Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1 and dug out the recipe for onion soup.
Look, Julia Child is not going to steer you wrong when it comes to the delicious. She might steer you to a heart attack, but it will be tasty.
The Capt’n sat down at the table and almost wept over the soup. As a child, his father dragged him all around central Europe, and he had fallen in love with onion soup and strudel. Strudel, I haven’t attempted, but the Capt’n claims that if I did, he’d have no reason to go back to Austria, because I nailed the taste memory of the onion soup. “Seriously, this is the best thing you’ve ever made,” he said, and I have to think that the way his eyes glistened when he said it signaled his genuine feelings.
I have to remember this one for later in the winter.