Cranky came down with a sore throat on Thanksgiving. The day we were to be treated to a meal of roast suckling pig, courtesy of a secret meat forager.
Well, he didn't want to drag his contagious, achy self anywhere healthy people would be gathering, so we stayed home. Rats.
But we had Thanksgiving food. The dishes I was going to bring to my hosts.
Pan-fried delicata squash in half moons, smothered with a whisper (is that an oxymoron?) of pear chutney and finished in the oven.
A braise of garden-grown celery and leeks, with chicken stock (Aha! It wasn't vegetarian after all) and butter and sage.
It tasted like Thanksgiving.