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Well, it certainly wasn’t what I thought would happen. I had offered to help my daughter Joy with her annual Hot Cross Bun Bash on the Good Friday before Easter.
This involved a 6.30 a.m. start making the dough so that it would rise at staged times, enabling preparing, shaping, baking and glazing to take place at staged times during the two hour session. Soon the house was filled with the scent of spice and orange and lemon peel. The car was packed with all the essentials, with bowls of rising dough at various stages and away we went to the local church, heaving the ancient medieval door open, loaded with boxes and bowls and a lot of excitement…..
…….only to discover that a temporarily trapped bird was flying back and forth, high, higher, higher into the rafters, never realizing that his way to freedom was to swoop down low, lower, lower through the door into the blazing sunlight. Many days and many attempts to free him into the open air had still been unsuccessful.
And here they come!
But we had people arriving soon, so we set up anyway, ready and eager to see who came. With its emphasis on children, I expected noise, spills, flour, jubilant mess everywhere, mayhem, tears, voluble triumphs, and a lot of scampering around in the non-pewed sanctuary, as children always do to claim the space for their own.
But that’s not what happened. Something in the mood of the day gave a sweet gentleness to the atmosphere. The painting table, led by Bob, priest-and-artist, re-enforced the Easter story as he sat creating a picture of the empty tomb, and adults and children alike were totally wrapped up in their own work.
Some children brought in greens from the churchyard. They told the story to each other as they made an Easter garden on a pile of sawdust and shavings, near the altar, putting the figures in last. Once completed, the bird came to visit and helped himself to morsels of Easter. He must have been exhausted and hungry.
Even the Easter egg hunt was happily cheerful, but not very voluble, in their triumphs of discovery.
New friendships over HCBs
At the other end of the building, the church started to fill with the scent of baking buns, while adults and children shaped and claimed their own on baking paper, ready for the next batch to go into the oven.
Two women who had brought their children, sat apart with their coffee and buns, talking and laughing, mentioning how grateful they were for this time of peace before they returned to chaotic households and festive preparations.
Visitors who wandered in to see this unusual church were greeted with freshly buttered buns and hot drinks, and became part of the food that built us all into a gently warm community. Everyone was welcomed, stranger and friend drawn together by eating together. All were fed.
Even the bird.
Orange and Whisky Marmelade
A favourite blog reader suggested that I use this as the recipe of the month. And there is a connection: when Joy glazed the buns after baking, she used a dilution of homemade marmalade without fruit pieces and hot water. When I make it, I have to snatch handfuls of time now and then. That’s why I’ve divided the process into several steps.
A note about jars: The most tedious part of making jams and pickles is cleaning labels off donated jars. If you are a generous donor, the good community-spirited thing to do is to remove the labels before handing them over. Sticky Stuff or your local equivalent is a must for every household, as it clears off far more than jar labels.
Wash and remove the stems of 900 gms (2 lbs) oranges (about 5 of them) and one lemon. Place in a pressure cooker. Add 1.2 litres ( 2 pints 40 ozs, 5 cups, ) water, bring to pressure, and steam for 30 minutes. Cool.
Put the fruit into a strainer and carefully pour any stewing water into a deep jam-making pan. The fruit will probably crack open by themselves, and the insides usually fall out of the skins. With scissors, cut the skins into shreds and plop them into the jam pan, too. Now press the fruit pulp through the strainer, ensuring that all of the seeds are cleared of their slitheriness (it’s pectin and will make the jam set.) You may wish to wash the fruit clean with a slosh or two of boiling water.
Add 1.5 kg (3lb 6 ozs 7 ½ cups) sugar. Check that all the sugar has dissolved completely in the fruit and juice before you start cooking.
Wash, and drain 5 – 7 jars. Place upside down in an oven on VERY LOW heat.
Bring the fruit-sugar mixture to boil, stirring now and then. It should come to 105 degrees C (220 F) . You can use a thermometer, or try the wrinkle test, where a teaspoon of sauce on a cold plate will wrinkle when pushed gently with the side of your finger.
Remove from heat. If the jam is scummy, stir in a knob of butter which will clear it instantly. Add 4 tablespoons good quality whisky and stir well.
Optional Step 5 (You may be able to skip this step).
When cold, wash each jar under the tap to remove the jam you’ve sloppily ladled onto the sides, onto the counter, and onto the floor.
Label the jars. But remember, the smaller the label the better, because you’re only going to have to scrub it off the next time you use the jar.
ALTERNATIVE SUGGESTION. Just do your favourite marmalade recipe and add whiskey to taste before putting into the jars.
Storm. On a recent morning walk, a passenger jet prepared to land on my head. It didn’t. And it wasn’t. It was only the wild wild wind thrashing the trees– spraying the raindrops into showers of rainbows in the surprising, intermittent sunshine. The fierce roar was intense. Sometimes I was hustled along, by gulping gusts that hurtled me forward too fast for my legs. Other times it was as if I were marking time, hardly inching forward at all as the blasts came straight at me. The miles of thickly edged daffodils on the roadside, an occasional blooming magnolia against a turbulent sky were whipped into the wind’s exuberant dance.
It was in this frenzy that I came across pink-hatted diminutive Maggie whacked against a stone barn. “Isn’t it a blessing that the rain has stopped”, she shouted as she righted herself. “Er, yes,” I shouted back, surprised that there wasn’t the usual weather-grumble that normally followed. I was going to point out that we might have been blown to Kingdom Come, but apparently Herefordshire folk don’t notice a bit of breeze. Archie her small dog couldn’t have been more fluffed up in a tumble dryer, but he too was unperturbed while investigating a strangely scented stone.
This wild tempest went on for days. Then, suddenly the wind-wailing, the tree-thrashing stopped. Quietly, the sky turned blue, the joyous birdsong was loud and beautiful. Earth, exhausted and dripping, had given birth to Spring.
And into this Spring the blessed welcome of visitors – friends we’ve known for years, with whom we’ve shared and grown through joys, successes, and failures. Isn’t it amazing to know people with whom we can pick up just where we left off before, and go right on laughing! These are the friends who by their very arrival in this new house have anchored our identity from Past to Present, and made it home. For this, and all the others yet to come, we are everlastingly grateful.
Gluten Free Dairy-free Crumble
If you use this amount for a tray-bake (13” x 9” 32 x 23 cm ) pan, the fruit below will bubble up, peeking through the lumps, making it cozily attractive. For our dinner we didn’t need that much fruit and used the whole crumble recipe in a smaller baking dish, making the fruit invisible, but lots of crumble per serving.
Measurements aren’t exact, but give plenty of room for playing. Find a cup that holds about 8 ozs (250 ml, a scant half pint) and use it for the cup measurements in this month’s recipe: In a bowl pour 2 cups gluten free (rolled) oats ¾ cup brown sugar, ½ teaspoons salt, and 1 tablespoon (or more) chopped crystalised (candied) ginger. Mix well. In a small bowl mash 1 ripe banana, and add 6 tablespoons oil (not olive), ½ teaspoon vanilla, and 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon. Add some dried fruits to the topping – we used snipped dates, dried cherries, and raisins. When thoroughly combined, add to the oat mixture until blended.
In your baking dish, prepare fruit up to about a thumb joint from the top. We used apples, pears, and a tin (can) of sliced peaches in juice. Berries would be pretty. If the fruit is especially tart, sprinkle on a few spoons of sugar. Mix thoroughly, then sprinkle on the above crumble topping. Pop into a moderate oven and bake about 30 minutes until lightly brown and bubbly.
Dairy eaters add cream or ice cream or thick yogurt.
Me: [Ending a telephone conversation]: It will be so good to see you. I thought I’d make fish pie.”
Prospective visitor: “Yes. You made that the last time we came.”
Me: I did?
PV: Uh-huh. It was good. (vaguely) It was good.
A storage of memories
Keeping a journal will prevent YOU from having such a conversation. I never thought of doing so until good friends presented me with a “Guest Book”, padded and elegant, a ribbon bookmark, and even a diagram page for a seating plan for eighteen guests – a crowd I’d never seat at once, because I learned early in life that any number over 8 becomes a buffet dinner. That was in 1985, and it’s fascinating to read today, revelling in the length of time we’ve been friends with some of them. Thank you, Anne and Hugh.
At the point of invitation, I always encourage people to tell me what their food preferences are. From this I have learned a lot about allergies, and even what lurks in perfectly innocent foods – eg yeast in stock cubes. I don’t care how lengthy the list of banned substances is, as long as I know in advance. Stravinsky said that the more limited you are the more creative you can become. Some guests are reluctant to tell me, thinking that they are being a nuisance, but with a little persuasion they will say. This has worked well in the years we have had guests, except for….
Two notable exceptions.
Guest One watched me make a Salmon en Croute with mushroom stuffing in honour of her (absent) partner’s birthday, only to divulge at serving time that she was allergic to seafood.
Guest two. Direct Quote. “I’m quite omnivorous and easy to please. I can eat anything.” Apparently, “anything” did NOT include chicken, coffee, tomatoes, wheat, cow dairy, alcohol, fizzy drinks, gluten, and only a teensy smattering of beef, pork, pasta, bread, and butter. That took some hippity-hopping of menu change, but we eventually settled on lots of vegetables, beans and fish – also a penchant for eating leftovers for breakfast. We had a good time together.
Doesn’t Always come out as expected.
If you do keep a journal, write down how the food turned out and how it was received. I recently came across an entry from 1987 when our girls were in their early teens, and Robin (of the brownies – see November 2014 blog) and her daughter Alexandra came to visit. Looking back, the chosen menu was ambitious, but set together well because nearly all could be prepared ahead of time. These days I wouldn’t have included three items using lemon AND tomatoes on the same menu but hey, I was young then and had to learn. We ate: tuna pate and crackers, Chicken Frances, French peas in a rice ring, swede (rutabaga) with lemon, baked tomatoes, and lemon meringue pie.
I will always cherish the notes from it. “A million visitors arrived just as we were serving up! Robin mentioned that the lettuce in the peas was the height of nouvelle cuisine. Unfortunately, the effect was somewhat marred by the pink tinge on the rice ring, indicating traces of the jelly that had occupied the mould previous to the rice – an observation commented upon loudly by the rest of the family.”
This is a magically quick do-ahead dessert served warm or, if you must, cold, but the almond flavour is rich when warm. The only difficulty is in its name. Bakewell is a place in Derbyshire, England. The dessert is called Bakewell Pudding there. But others call it a tart because of its crusty bottom. The Dairy Book of British Food reports that the original recipe is still a secret. This one is definitely not – see tweaks and additions.
(Reminder: in England, desserts are sometimes referred as “puddings” unless they’re talking about “Yorkshires” of course – see Sept 2016 blog. )
Roll out thawed puff pastry on a floured surface and use it to line a pie pan.
Trim and design the edges of the crust so that it doesn’t slither downwards while it bakes. Some people make a fancy frill. Some fiercely fork the crust to the pan’s edge.
Brush the base of the pan with 4 large spoons of red jam.*
Now make a filling. In a medium sized bowl, beat three eggs. Add and beat into them 4 oz (100 grams, 1 cup packed) of ground almonds, 4 ozs (100 grams, ½ cup) of caster (fine) sugar, 2 oz (50 grams 2 fat tablespoons) soft butter, and ½ teaspoon almond essence or flavouring.
Pour the filling over the jam. Spread evenly. Bake on a lower shelf in the oven at 180 degrees C (350 F) for 30 minutes or until filling is set. If it wobbles in the middle, pop it into the oven for five more minutes. Serve warm or cold with fresh cream, or if you must, custard.
*Tweaks and Additions. Jam has a high sugar content for some of our guests,, so we used orange and cranberry curd instead. And – because it’s February, George Washington’s birthday, I threw in a handful of dried cherries as well.
Leftover pastry? Why not make cheese straws? ( See October 2014 blog.)
In celebration of Peanut Butter Day, January 24th.
Even my mother’s feet showed distress as she pitti-pitti-patted down the stairs, “Poor Georgina! I’ve put her into a terrible mess and don’t know how to get her out!” she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen, and retrieved – of course — her jar of peanuts. My mother couldn’t survive without peanuts, whether she was writing a children’s story or not. Read her sad – to- happy account of what happened on the ship taking us back home as exchange prisoners from a Japanese internment camp in China, while she was on the brink of giving birth. (The Chinese Ginger Jars, by Myra Scovel. Available online new or second hand.)
I, like my mother, find solace in peanuts. I’ve always loved them. As a teenager during my school days in India when things got tough, or dreary, or (for me most frequently) the absolutely ghastly definitely end of the world and I will DIE, I would take a walk through the bazaar hearing the scoop-scoop-scoop of husked peanuts being roasted in sand over a charcoal brazier right there on the streets. The scent would draw me to them. A newspaper bag would be filled with their warmth, and I would delight in the rough husk, the sound as they cracked open, revealing large red-skinned beans (they are not nuts) perfectly roasted, and ooo! so delicious! Life was almost worth living again.
Arriving in England as a bride, the “Jungle Fresh” peanuts were naked, damp like the weather, and held none of the exotic-ness of those in the newspaper bags in India. And why call them “Jungle” fresh? A peanut never saw a jungle in its life, having grown underground in long rows of bushes in the heat of Georgia. Or somewhere else in the world, like China.
Which brings me to peanut butter – sometimes greeted with a sneer and curled lip by the non cogniscenti. (I pity them, I really do.) Or such a sublime love that, not trusting the natives, they would never travel from home without a jar of their favourite spread.
But when it comes to peanut butter no one can extol its virtues like my brother Tom. He inherited so much of Mom’s peanut-loving DNA that he has to hold back on double helpings. Despite the wide varieties available in his home in California (fluffernutter – mixed with marshmallow, striped with grape jelly, mixed with honey and cream, mixed with berries etc.) he sticks to the Traditional. Here is an excerpt from one of his letters:
“Mankind’s two greatest creations in my humble estimation are (1) the bed and (2) peanut butter. Indeed, George Washington Carver, the agronomist who invented so many uses for the peanut should be honoured among the pantheons of great scientists. Move over Einstein, you never gave us a single thing we could eat! I buy the nutty type with no sugar, so you have to mix in the oil which has floated to the top of the jar with the paste of ground peanuts below. Having just had peanut butter on my toast for breakfast, in a fastidious attempt to break my addiction, I’ll not have it on my bagel for lunch. (I try to control my craving to one helping a day.)
“And yes, Judy, peanut oil was used to run vehicles in China since it was more available than gasoline in many areas. Naturally it produced little power but thick black smoke and a bad smell, which I remember because I couldn’t believe that something that tasted so good could stink so horribly! Peanut oil was replaced in most areas by charcoal burners that looked like large water heaters strapped on to the back of buses and trucks whose incomplete combustion of gases was fed into the engine to make the vehicle chug along. Ah, the experiences American kids have missed growing up nowadays!”
Happy Peanut Butter Day!
West African Groundnut Stew
“Do you ever eat peanut butter with meat?” I asked my Ghanaian dentist before he plunged equipment into my mouth. His usually-mute assistant grunted involuntarily. “Yes,” he replied, “I make soup with peanut butter and smoked turkey and my daughters love it. The girls are always asking me to make it for them.”
Here’s a similar taste to that soup, adapted from my crumbling Food Aid Cookbook (1986) edited by Delia Smith. It’s a dawdle to fling together into a slow cooker before you dash out to enjoy your day. Also works well on a stove top or in a very slow oven.
Make this in a heavy pan with a tight-fitting lid. I used a slow cooker, The meat needs to cook in its own juices. Saute 2 chopped onions until tender. Place in the casserole/slow cooker. De-seed 3 mild chillis and chop finely. Mix with 6 tablespoons smooth peanut butter 1 inch (2.5 cm) grated fresh ginger or 1 heaped teaspoon dried ginger, a pinch of mixed herbs, 1 lb sliced carrots, and a 14 oz tin (can) of chopped tomatoes. Mix well. Place 1 lb (450 gms) cubed beef in the pot. Add the tomato-carrot-peanut butter mixture. Once again, mix well. Cover, and cook very slowly for 1 ½ hours (4 – 6 hours in lowest setting of a slow cooker). If you don’t peek and release steam, there will be enough moisture to keep everything well juicy and the flavours will “hold hands”.
Serve with rice steamed with a drained can of black-eyed peas. (I think we used coconut rice in these photos.)
“Hello, how are you? I’ve seen you out walking. Are you new?
Yes. My name is Judy. We have just moved here to be near our daughter. I try walk each day.”
This is the conversation I practised on my early walks in the countryside around our new home. I didn’t use it often because around here there is a lot of land between any individual I meet. I’ve also learned to respect the fact that the long term residents are reluctant to share their name,. Using the normal New Yorker’s phrase, “Hi! I’m Judy — where are you from?” would, I think, seem rudely invasive. I’ve lived here in the UK so long that even when people ask me that question I find it startling. The Brits, I notice, are just as eager to know where I’m from, but their questioning slides in sideways, with a faint turn of the head as if they’re aiming their good ear at me, and their eyes go into an upwards corner as they ask: “Er do I detect a slight mid Atlantic accent?” or, even more courageously, “you’re not originally from these parts, are you?” It takes longer to get the answer they’re looking for, far longer than a New Yorker would be able to bear. A name takes even longer.
“The people are there, and they do care. But you won’t see them,” says Maggie, a relative newcomer herself (only been here 20 years).
That is why, as I puffed up to the summit of a hill, gasping for air in my overworked lungs, I was surprised to see an old Landrover rattle towards me and stop.
“I’m putting the cows in the field up therr.” “You should be all right, though,” he added. The voice came from a half opened mud-splattered window, and belonged, obviously, to the farmer whose land I was trespassing over – middle aged, any ounce of fat on him had been worked off years ago in the tough tough life of sheep and cattle farming.
“Oh, I didn’t know cows were dangerous.”
“The mums are, from April to August – I’ve been kicked down more than once – and I’m the one feeding them!”
The conversation continued as he talked through the many public rights of way across his territory. “Want to see it from the top? Get in and I’ll show you.
[I thought I WAS at the top having panted up a mountain so steep I could only take steps half a hiking boot long.] The ride in his beat-up seatbelt-less vehicle lurched over roadless fields, hurtled full speed at a fence (his sister’s boundary) and braked in time, as the running commentary never stopped: “yer not allowed on this road, but there’s a road marker down this hill – see him? Follow the furry trees to the bottom and you’ll end up at the fire station.” He continued showing paths where there were no paths – “straight ahead therr and go down into the forest on steps cut into the earth or……” he jerked the car around and sped to a gate lurching to stop just in time. “There are two ways down from yerr” he said. But I wasn’t listening. I was just gasping at the breath-taking view all around me, every direction. When he noticed, he rolled the car forward more precariously than ever so that I could see an even wider view. “We’re on top of the world yerr,” he said. Thirty seconds later he was off again, and as he talked I learned more about what a farmer needs to know to run singlehandedly the acres of land criss-crossed with public rights of way. Farming and animal husbandry, yes, but also a midwife, plumber, builder, chemist, soil expert, market awareness, electrician, mechanic, environmentalist, legally alert to whatever the National Farmers’ Union commanded, crime prevention, and much more, as well as reacting to all at the whims of the weather (last winter one of his barns collapsed under six feet of snow, followed by a drought in the spring.) Nursery songs about “High Ho the derry oh” farmers had nothing to do with Reality Farmers. So by the time he left me on the path exactly where he’d picked me up, I thanked him warmly in jaw-dropping awe, overwhelmed by his generosity of spirit. “My name is Judy”, I said. “Urrrr” he replied and dashed off down the hill in a scurry of dust and leaves.
My Favourite Cookies
Basically from Betty Crocker’s Cooky Book, well over 50 years old.
Have seen these called Mexican Wedding Cakes, or Russian Teacakes, and my friend from Czech Republic sent these to me one Christmas, so call them anything you’d like. I tried “Snow Cookies” but that wouldn’t be very appropriate for Blog Readers south of the Equator, in blazing hot drought. I gave some to Nick the Postman. Some will go to the garage when I take the car in for a check up. And of course, a box of them will go to the farmer at the top of the hill.
In your favourite mixer, add 8 ozs ( 230 gms, 1 cup) butter, 4 tablespoons ( 50 gms, 1/2 cup) icing (confectioners’) sugar, 1 teaspoon vanilla, 9 ¼ oz ( 270 gms. 2 ½ cups) plain flour, ¼ teaspoon salt, and 4 ozs 105 gms (3/4 cups) finely chopped nuts. [If you don’t feel like chopping them, just put them in your food processor before adding other ingredients.]
Chill dough, even for 20 minutes. Roll in balls about the size of a large grape. [This is a good time to open freeze them if you don’t have time for baking.]
Moderately hot oven (200 C, or 400F ). Bake 10 minutes or so. They don’t spread, but are very delicate when hot. You may have to eat the broken ones (what a shame!).
Tip gently into a roasting tin full of icing sugar (confectioners’ sugar) and roll them until completely covered. Carefully place them on a rack to cool.
Then roll them again in the sugar when they are completely cold. .
Well, we had roast turkey, sausages, gravy, apple-celery-bacon cornbread stuffing with cashews and cranberries, Amish sweet potatoes with apple and mace, mashed potatoes, squash with crystallised ginger, green beans almondine, broccoli, cranberry-orange relish, the obligatory creamed onions (which, I understand, is an Upstate New York addition), and mince-peach pie, apple-cherry pie, and of course, pumpkin pie. The sweet corn, nestled in a glass casserole dish in the microwave never got heated, never got served. Corn, anyone?
This of course is not the whole menu. I should have put baby marshmallows in the sweet potatoes, crushed lemon boiled sweets [candies] in the squash, condensed mushroom soup and French fried onion rings with the beans. I should have served a “salad” of cottage cheese, mayonnaise and crushed pineapple fixated in a mold of lime gelatin. But I didn’t want to scare the foreigners any more than was necessary.
I tend to feel a bit weird at this time of year. Yes, I’ve lived in many countries, and, yes, I’ve celebrated Thanksgiving in all of them. But it has always been with other Americans. When it was just me, it felt weird to say to people, “Er, uh, I’m having a Thanksgiving dinner, [mutter] national thanksgiving in USA, [mutter mutter] wondering if you …….” I felt so exposed, so Other, to the people I was trying to understand and be part of. I don’t know why I felt so strongly that the tradition should be celebrated. It seemed stupid to make such a case for it. It was only me, after all. I tried NOT celebrating it, saying “oh hang it, let our children be brought up British and be done with it.” But the niggling empty loneliness persisted. Perhaps it was important because it was the only day in the year that I had a right to declare my American-ness. Of course my Yorkshire husband was naturally supportive of the event, not only for the food, but for my sake.
But I’m glad I persevered. This year, the weird feeling was brief. Daughter Number One married an American and celebrates Thanksgiving in California. And now I have another daughter’s family nearby – a half American and two quarter Americans, which make up to one more whole American, doesn’t it? And, after deep reflection about selective additional guests, and with heart in mouth, I phoned. They probably do not know the joyful relief they gave me by saying yes to the invitation.
The evening began with the two quarter Americans, aged 9 and 11, playing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” on their newly acquired trumpet and saxophone. I gave my little introductory speech, that Thanksgiving was one of the few national (cross-religion) days of thanks in the world, that it commemorated the Puritans who sailed from Europe, on The Mayflower headed for Jamestown, but blown off course and landed in autumn in what is now Massachusetts; how the Wampanoag Indians helped them survive that winter, and the first Thanksgiving with Indians and Puritans together. And how the composer of the performed piece, Sarah Josepha Hale, wrote an open letter to President Lincoln requesting that he declare a national day of thanks. Which he did.
It takes longer to write about it than it actually took on the night. The whole talk only lasted half a glass of prosecco and a couple of cheese straws. One of the guests had seen the replica of the Mayflower in Bristol, and another had even done a painting of it, which brought great delight to me.
It was a glorious evening. So convivial was the gathering, in fact, that I forgot to take pictures for the blog. I also forgot another tradition – that each person had the opportunity to say what they’d been thankful for this year. But the positivity did come out in the evening’s bubbling conversations. One was relieved gratitude that we had a National Health Service (after hearing about crowd-funding pleas to finance chemo therapy for a sick woman in the States). Another, unlike my Puritan ancestors, was the freedom to worship – or not to – as we chose. We are blessed.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
What do YOU do with left-over turkey?
Mole Poblana Guajolote
A sort of Turkey casserole
Here’s a recipe adapted from my Better Homes and Gardens Mexican cookbook (1977). It’s great for all the tiny scraps that come with a Roast Turkey dinner. …. I served it the night the Bits of Americans and their English Dad came for supper. [The two quarter Americans had fish fingers.] Out of the four adults: one ate the casserole as served, one added salt, one found it too spicy, and one lavished the serving liberally with tabasco sauce. So, take your pick.
Grease a casserole dish (mine was 13” x 9”) and fill it with turkey, bits of bacon, and cooked sausage left over from the Big Meal. I didn’t try it, but cooked vegetables could be thrown in, too.
Chop a medium onion and a clove of garlic and saute them gently in 1 tablespooon oil. Then, in a liquidiser/food processor, whizz together: 2 medium tomatoes or a can of chopped tomatoes, the cooked onion-garlic, 2 canned chopped jalepeno peppers, rinsed, seeded, ½ cup blanched almonds, OR 2 tablespoons ground almonds, 1/3 cup raisins, 1 six inch tortilla cut up, 2 tablespoons sesame seeds, ¼ to ½ teaspoon crushed red pepper, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon crushed or ground fennel seed, ¼ teaspoon ground cloves, ¼ teaspoon cinnamon, and ¼ teaspoon ground coriander. Cover and process until smooth. Add about 4 cups turkey or chicken stock and 1 square unsweetened chocolate, melted. Pour sauce over the turkey, ensuring all pieces are well coated
Bake uncovered in moderate oven until bubbly, about 44 minutes.
The mole may be fine as a VEGAN or VEGETARIAN dish. If you try it, just tap a note onto this website so that others can try.