It wasn't stuffing, because there was no bird to stuff.
So we decided to call it bread pudding, and gussy it up with milk and an egg. Slices of Kabocha squash. Mushrooms and onions. And that milk? It was deeply perfumed with garlic and bay leaf.
The kind of thing you could eat all season long. Because there was no sage in it to whiplash you into a pilgrim state of mind.
That's my kind of religious freedom.