Giving Thanks.

The Thanksgiving lovelies have come and gone, leaving a smile in the corners of one's mouth and a pleasant feeling in the tummy.

Popular culture often makes gathering with The Family around the Thanksgiving dinnertable out to be a fate worse than death, complete with insults, inane arguments, pettiness, lack of charity, frustration, exhaustion and stress.

Yet it seems to me that just as often there are families that actually enjoy hanging out together, throwing together a big meal and, well, giving thanks.

We, the Pepper family, joined my brother (Mr. T) and his family for an extended Thanksgiving fest. We usually end up with a crowd of about sixteen, including assorted little ones, but everyone chips in a dish here and there and, before you know it, the meal is assembled.

In addition to all the traditional fare, my sister-in-law's sister (Auntie Dac) always contributes a fabulous baked salmon in a Dijon sauce. She makes it in a Saladmaster electric skillet and claims it's a snap:

Fish + Dijon mustard + honey + finely chopped jalapeno peppers + salt + pepper.

Right in the pan it goes and twenty minutes later you can dig in.

And, oh, she usually throws a few thin slices of lemon on top as well.

It's amazing how frequently a strong and rustic flavor such as Dijon mustard is coupled with fish, especially salmon and kingfish. Of course, salmon dishes often gravitate toward strong flavors because the flavor of the fish itself is quite robust.

You know how sometimes the recipe on the box turns out to be wonderful?

I once bought one of those smoking bags with real wood chips at Trader Joe's. There was a recipe on the box for smoked salmon. You made diagonal slices in the salmon about one inch apart, first in one direction, then in the other. Then you filled the openings with bleu cheese and sprinkled the whole fish with lemon pepper. Then you smoked it.

And, let me tell you, that fish was indeed smokin'! YUM!

Dijon mustards are made with black or brown seeds---surprisingly, most of these seeds are grown in Canada (they are even shipped to Dijon, France, for mustard making). While the French mustard, named after the town of Dijon, is most famous, there are many domestic varieties as well.

The herbed Dijon mustard with Chardonnay pictured here was the Gold Medal Winner at the 2002 Napa Valley Mustard Festival.

*** You can make your own flavored wood chips for smoking and your own smokebox. Chef Paul of Forewinds Hospitality tells you how.

Is that not beautiful?

Yes, it's that time of year again for partridges and pear trees.

But I prefer pears with mascarpone cheese.

Some books are meant to be listened to.

Tantoo Cardinal's serene and lilting rendition, along with the lovely, unobtrusive music, adds layers and layers of beauty to the already poignant and quietly fascinating story told in the Island of the Blue Dolphins.

This is one of those tales you can get something new from by listening to it again at different points in your life's journey.

Of chocolate sauce and tablecloths.

I was tidying up after a family dinner party the other night and noticed that Jipper's spot at the table had a bouquet of chocolate stains on the tablecloth.

I sighed. Really, the tablecloth would not ever be "right" again.

Then I smiled.

The chocolate bouquet was the evidence of a child, trying to be careful, but having a wonderful time.

I still remember the "oohs" and "ahhs" rising up like a Hallelujah Chorus around the table as we topped off a lovely celebration with cheesecake with chocolate sauce.

Once when I was growing up, I was part of a relatively unhappy dinner event. It was Christmas and for many years the hostess had used a particular tablecloth for this dinner. The tablecloth had poinsettas on it.

This particular year, for some reason, the poinsetta tablecloth could not be found. Legions were enlisted in searching for it, but the time to set the table came and there was no poinsetta tablecloth.

For some reason, to the hostess, this was as traumatic as the end of the world. And, therefore, our dinner got off to a terrible start and ended with a thud.

I thought of that when I realized I'd probably not be able to use my tablecloth again, at least not with company. I'd miss it. Like the poinsetta tablecloth, my tablecloth had become a staple in our family traditions.

Then again, I told myself, it is just a tablecloth. And even tablecloths can cause good memories or bad.

*** Photo from fitnessandfreebies.com. Did you know that if you don't have ramekins, you can use a muffin pan to make lava cakes?

How rice of you!

My son, Jipper, who is all of ten years old, announced that if---"big if," he emphasized---he didn't feel too old for trick or treating next year, that he wanted to go as Jerome Bettis.

Okay, that costume should be relatively straight forward.

Jipper also knows what he likes in the food department. Uh, most everything.

As he was gnoshing on sushi a while ago, I got to thinking about making the little tasties at home. However, when eaten at the pace of a growing boy with a hearty appetite, that's a lot of little rice discs whizzing past.

I wondered if I might find a similar dish, but in a less-painstaking size.

I did (thanks, greggman): Japanese Onigiri (also called Musubi or Omusubi). Basically Japanese fast food, these rice balls are larger in size than sushi and are not elaborate to prepare.

Here's how it happens: Make some rice. Mix in some goodies, such as chopped shrimp, tuna, pork, scrambled egg . . . you get the idea. Add spices as you wish and even sauces such as chili or mayo (which is quite popular in Japan). Wet your hands, sprinkle with a pinch of sea salt, grab a scoop of the mixture and shape it into a ball.

There you go: onigiri.

Of course, like every other food in the world, something will be lost in the translation. Your onigiri probably won't taste like those picked up by hungry commuters at a combini in Japan.

But it will be "you"! Think of it this way: this is your onigiri and your onigiri is a blank slate. The only constraint you have is: keep it fresh.

The rice doesn't like time.

In Hawaii, they sometimes make onigiri with Spam.

***Photos at greggman.com and nhk-book.co.jp

You can even make onigiri into funny shapes and action figures,

such as snowmen, dancers, and elephants.

"Bless The Broken Road"

(Rascal Flatts - From the Feels Like Today cd)

This song has a special meaning for our family:

I set out on a narrow way many years ago

Hoping I would find true love along the broken road

But I got lost a time or two

Wiped my brow and kept pushing through

I couldn't see how every sign pointed straight to you

Every long lost dream lead me to where you are

Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars

Pointing me on my way into your loving arms

This much I know is true

That God blessed the broken road

That led me straight to you

I think about the years I spent just passing through

I'd like to have the time I lost and give it back to you

But you just smile and take my hand

You've been there, you understand

It's all part of a grander plan that is coming true

Every long lost dream lead me to where you are

Others who broke my heart, they were like northern stars

Pointing me on my way into your loving arms

This much I know is true

That God blessed the broken road

That led me straight to you.

***Photo from Hawaiiweb.com.

The beauty of the earth.

Batiks by Mary Edna Fraser,

author with Dr. Orrin Pilkey of

"Islands from the Sky"

It’s November on the Eastern Shore of Virginia, but, astonishingly, glimpses of an Indian Summer day still peek through.

Jipper and Finkie’s favorite new food is fried flounder, so we thought we might as well eat it where the locals do: at Sting-Ray’s truckstop on Route 13, just after exiting the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel.

There's nothing quite like eating fishfry at a truckstop.

And locals there were: miles and miles of 'em, it seemed, lines of ‘em to get served up one of the dozen or so Saturday lunch specials.

After feasting on fish and crab cakes, with spicy cole slaw, collard greens, green bean casserole and broccoli with real cheddar, we continued motoring along Route 13 looking for adventure.

We ended up at the Barrier Islands Center Museum which, as serendipity would have it, was staging a gorgeous exhibit of the batik art of Mary Edna Fraser.

Ms. Fraser takes aerial photographs of barrier islands all over the world, then turns the photos into works of exquisite art by translating the landscapes through dyes and wax and silk and the ancient art of batik.

The museum was charming, with the twisted chimney and the tale of the “breeches buoy” being especially captivating. But I felt so downright lucky to have happened upon the museum when it was exhibiting Ms. Fraser’s work.

The batiks were breathtaking. To me, the beauty of the earth was represented in a marvelous new way.

The world is my oyster.

It's Oyster Festival time in the town of Urbanna, along the Rappahannock River in Virginia.

Ever since I read Marguerite Henry's Misty of Chincoteague as a girl---the tale of a wild pony who finds a home with two children in that small fishing village on the Eastern Shore---I have loved this area and this time of year and the oyster roasts and clam bakes and fish fries and BBQs with all the fixin's.

How could I ever forget that opening line of that wonderful book: "A wild, ringing neigh shrilled up from the hold of the Spanish galleon...."

Or its tale of the harsh thrill of the ponies swimming through the surf after the galleon's shipwreck. The talk of roundup men, sea grasses, galloping like the wind. The Pied Piper and the Phantom. And, of course, Grandpa Beebe.

And roasted oysters for supper. Or grilled.

The Beebe family probably would have been amazed to see their hearty bivalve staple made into something fancy. This recipe for Oysters Mornay, however, only looks glamourous. It only takes 15 minutes to prepare, and it's yummy.

A classic.

Here's a wonderful review posted on amazon.com that made me smile. Thank you, Diogenette.

I first read "Misty of Chincoteague" when I was a child in the 1950s. I loved the story so much that I ended up memorizing it so that I could tell it to myself after lights-out.

My parents took me to Pony Penning Day in the late 1950s, when Chincoteague was still very much like the town Marguerite Henry described and the bridge to Assateague was way, way in the future.

Pony Penning Day was very exciting, but even more exciting was the fact that Misty was still alive and living at the Beebe ranch!

I still have a picture of me petting her. Marguerite Henry was there, too -- a wonderful woman, with a genuine love for children. So was Grandpa Beebe, looking very much like Wesley Dennis drew him.

I will always treasure the memory of that vacation, and judging by the other reviews of this book, there are many, many people out there for whom this book occupies a special place in their hearts.

Even though times have changed since this book was written (Maureen would probably not play so much of a second fiddle to Paul these days), the story itself is timeless: the love of the children for the Phantom; their yearning to own her; their willingness to do whatever it took to buy her; Paul's eventual triumph; and, once again, the love of the children for the Phantom that compels them to do what it best for her: these things make up a story that will continue to captivate children for many generations to come.

I would also like to add that the Wesley Dennis illustrations in all of Marguerite Henry's books are simply wonderful. That was a very serendipitous partnership, because his drawings add so much to Mrs. Henry's splendid stories.

Coffee, tea and me.

I like coffee and it likes me.

My life is a better place because of this soothing brew.

Sure, some people fill up on joe purely for a buzz. But me, ah. My relationship with this aromatic mystery is much more complex.

Coffee is one of those foods that’s been hounded by a battle of the experts over the years. Good for you, not good for you. Should, shouldn’t.

If I threw out all the foods that at one time or another experts said were the cause of mankind’s health ills, there might be a lonely bottle of water in the pantry. No, wait. Bottled water---didn’t I just read that bottled water gives you cavities and that, anyway, the experts were wrong in claiming a body needed gallons of water a day?

Let me just peer into that luscious brown brew as I bring the steaming mug up to my lips. There. All better now.

For the first several years of my professional life, I had to get up really early.

And I do mean really early.

In an effort to find some way to increase my sleep time and decrease the ungodly hurry over the early morning coffee mug, I started drinking my coffee in the shower.

Makes sense to me.

Yep. The alarm would go off and, after hitting the snooze button once or twice, I’d finally roll out of bed and amble in to the shower. At the same time, like a well-oiled military operation, Kean would amble down to the kitchen and put the coffee on.

By the time I’d finished shampooing my hair (“Lather. Rinse. Repeat.”), Kean would be nudging back the shower curtain and murmuring, “Honey, here’s your coffee.”

Now this shower, it so happened, had a ledge along the back that was out of reach of the water and just perfect for coffee cups. So I’d sip and soap, sip and soak.

Hot water on my skin, hot coffee in my tummy. Ahh.

I also had a job once that required being outside in the harsh elements for extended periods of time. Someone always seemed to be able to come up with a thermos full of hot coffee. It didn’t matter how bad it was, it was always good.

Sometimes, though, innovation was required. There were times all we could do was heat some water by placing a pan on a vehicle engine. Then we’d put a pinch of instant coffee in our mouths and take a slug of hot water and swish.

Now, those were good times.

Once I was sent to the ends of the earth---the jungle to be exact---to do my duty. The colonel in charge drove me through miles and miles of rainforest and wilderness to a little outpost (near a then-Soviet listening station, by the way). After all the formalities and ceremonies and hand-shaking was over, he drove off and I was left there with my assistant, who, after a long silence as we watched the jeep’s dust settle on the road, turned to me and said, “What do we do now, ma’am?”

I replied, “Well, first, let’s make some coffee.”

While some historians believe bone-chilling weather was the impetus for coffee’s exalted place, I found java equally satisfying in tropical climes.

In short, as I said, today my life is still a better place because of this soothing brew. And, yes, I think tea (of all sorts, but especially Earl Grey) is pretty wonderful, too.

And coffee, of course, is a wonderful flavor in some of my favorite desserts, including a well-made tiramisu (which rightly means in Italian “Pick me up!”---which, translated to Vivi language means, “This dessert makes me swoon!”---and which is also known as "heaven in your mouth").

My favorite store-bought tiramisu has always been the one at Romano’s Macaroni Grill. In fact, on Valentine’s Day, that’s where you’ll find Kean: waiting in line at the Macaroni Grill to buy tiramisu to take home to his sweetie. (Thanks, babe!)

Roses are lovely, but they are even better with a plate of tiramisu to nibble on.

And tiramisu is worth learning to make at home [here], [here] and [here]. (I will say this, though: although there are thousands of tiramisu variations, whatever you do, don’t skip the ladyfingers, the Mascarpone cheese, or the espresso. Che disastro!)

For something easier, though less elegant (duh!), here’s the recipe for a creamy mocha pie Kean and I used to make in college:

1. Make an Oreo crust in a pie pan.

2. Spoon about three cups of coffee ice cream into a bowl. (Adjust to your pan---”savoiardi,” as recipes say in Italian.)

3. Stir the ice cream with a wooden spoon to soften. Add a large drizzle of chocolate syrup to taste. Throw in some chocolate chunks and nuts, if you desire.

4. Pour the ice cream into the crust and drizzle on a little more chocolate syrup (why not?).

5. Spoon on a layer of whipped topping and smooth into a yummy design.

6. Decorate with more chocolate chunks, sprinkles, etc.

7. Place pie in freezer at least until ice cream re-freezes.

8. Cut with a sharp knife and enjoy.

*** How To Make the Perfect Cup of Coffee ***

Photos from Coffeehouse and Boughton's Coffee House.