A Look On The Lighter Side: Let me tell you about our fall specials

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A Look On The Lighter Side: Let me tell you about our fall specials

Now that there’s a little autumn chill in the air, I’m willing to spend time over a hot stove or oven, once again. I’m even ready to open a cookbook or two but I can’t promise anything about the results.

Many years ago, a trip to Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia furnished me with a lavishly illustrated cookbook of “traditional and contemporary recipes” from the town’s inns and taverns. I can still see the stars I penciled into the book’s margin, next to the recipe and gorgeous photo of “King’s Arms Tavern Cream of Peanut Soup.” I can even remember how delicious that soup was in the candlelit tavern. But no sooner did I get home and start making the shopping list than my husband realized that the vague rash he’d been battling was probably a (mild, but persistent) reaction to nuts. So—no soup.

I got a little farther with the Acorn Squash Puree, from the sumptuously illustrated “Spa Food,” by Edward J. Safdie. Seduced as I was by those mouth-watering photos of beautiful china and silverware — I mean, the food, of course it’s about the food — I duly purchased four acorn squashes.

And I meant to follow through with the baking, and pureeing, and combining with tofu and egg whites and spices, and baking again. I truly did (although tofu?) — and it probably would have been quite delicious — if only I had thought to check inside the oven before turning it on. Alas, I have to admit that the smell of melting plastic rather took away our appetites.

In hindsight, the oven was probably not the right place for storing unmatched Tupperware lids.

One thing I knew I could make was brisket — or pot roast, as my mom always called it. But I had a problem: I had two different recipes for it. One was my mother’s, with a lot of onions; it required a lot of monitoring and basting and adding liquids for most of an afternoon.

The other promised to be ridiculously simple: Just pop your meat into a dutch oven and add one packet of Lipton’s Onion Soup mix, a lot of ketchup, and a large bottle of cola or ginger ale. Put that in the oven and it supposedly watched itself.

I had company coming, but I just couldn’t decide which recipe to use.

“Why not make both?” suggested my husband. “That way it’s like a controlled experiment and you’ll know forever after which is the best recipe to use.”

“But won’t we have too much brisket if both recipes work out?”

“You let me worry about that,” he said, licking his lips.

It was a crazy idea — but it just so happened I had recently bought a second Dutch Oven for next to nothing at one of our local thrift shops (my first one was a wedding gift), so I had all the equipment I needed.

I managed to get both roasts all set and side-by-side in the oven, a few hours before company arrived. I had enough time to vacuum the rug, set the table and decide which dress to wear.

But it seemed like no time at all before the doorbell rang and guests had arrived.

Then the timer went off. It was time to take the briskets out of the oven. (Yes, you’re supposed to cool and slice them the day before, just warming them up for serving. Now you tell me.)

I pulled out the first one — my mom’s recipe — and discovered that the liquid had all boiled away. Clearly, I should have hovered more in the kitchen, but at least I’d caught it before anything burned — much. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” I said, throwing a few charred onions into the sink.

And what about pan No. 2? I almost couldn’t look. But I pulled that one out, too — and learned three things right away.

The first thing I learned was that the thrift-shop roasting pan was much lighter than the wedding-gift pan — and consequently came swiftly toward me. Much faster than I was expecting.

The second thing I learned was that the soda recipe was nowhere near burning, but instead had made a ton of delicious gravy!

Alas, very little of that gravy made it to the table because the third thing I learned was that when you pull a pan full of gravy swiftly towards yourself, the lid will lift and any juices inside slosh up and out like a gravy tsunami — all over your apron, if you were smart enough to wear one. Or else your dress.

“We have a winner!” my husband chirped, as he finished pulling out both pans.

He was talking to himself, however; I had run upstairs to change out of my gravy-covered dress.

In spite of all these memories, I am willing to try again this fall. But as I said, I make no promises about the results.

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