By New Times
By Robrt L. Pela
By Lauren Saria and Heather Hoch
By Deborah Sussman
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Kathleen Vanesian
By Eric Schaefer
By Heather Hoch
"Never mind," I snapped. "I guess we can't take it to Flagstaff."
"No, let's take it," he said, his mouth working against a smile. "We can stick the pan in the snow, maybe it'll set."
"That's very funny. You're such a funny guy." I grabbed the pan and a couple of spoons and headed back to the family room, where The Polar Express was restarting. I dimmed the lights, snuggled up with my little girl, and handed her a spoon. This was good enough for me.
By Judy Nichols
To me, Christmas is Kansas roads, drifting snow, and corn casserole, a down-home dish that gets no respect until you taste it.
When I was little, we would drive for hours across the flat farmland to get from one house of grandparents to another, the beams of our headlights catching only snowflakes and the unending yellow centerline of a Kansas highway.
My sister and I would squeal as we reached the familiar turnoff to Hanover and came over the hill to see the tiny main drag lined with twinkly lights and big plastic candy canes. It looked like the North Pole.
My grandmother Ida would be watching through the frosty window in her front door, waiting with a table loaded with steaming food: pheasant my grandfather had saved from a hunt, potatoes dug from the backyard garden after the first frost and stored in the root cellar, jars of pickles put up in the heat of summer with help from the neighbor ladies, and homemade pie made from frozen cherries picked off the tree outside the back porch.
At the Dunwells, my father's side, my grandmother Mollie laid a table with recipes born of the Depression, like meatballs stretched with rice, and rabbits she trapped in the backyard.
Her corn casserole was brilliant in its Kansas flavor and its mistake-proof simplicity. The "recipe" is not written anywhere, just remembered, passed from my father's mother, to my mother, to me: a can of creamed corn, an egg and saltine crackers, crushed, some stirred in and some sprinkled on top. Bake at 350 degrees until golden and set in the middle. It is easily expanded to feed whatever number is coming to dinner.
The first time I made it for my Italian in-laws in New York, they scoffed as it bubbled in the oven.
"Oh, my, you opened a can of corn," Carmella said, with more than a hint of sarcasm. "You'd better sit down." Granted, my brother-in-law, Ray, had spent hours making lobster sauce for the pasta.
But once that piece of Kansas Depression hit the table, the Italians were beguiled, and, not to put too fine a point on it, they "woofed" it.
In fact, Carmella was so enamored that corn casserole became her go-to dish.
Unfortunately, she keeps trying variations, like adding a higher proportion of egg to make a sort of corn soufflé, or using Triscuits instead of saltines. Do not go there.
I will admit to two slight alterations: using one can of drained whole-kernel corn for every can of creamed corn to give the dish more texture, and adding more crackers than my grandmother did to make it stiffer. Any other changes mess with perfection.
My grandmother died while I was in college and, in March, my father passed away. I realize that it's time to teach the next generation how to make corn casserole, so this year, my son Nate, a college freshman, will be crunching the crackers.
And I hope that, somewhere on Staten Island, Carmella will be handing the can opener to her son Mario.
THE CHESTNUT ASSAULT
Growing up in Las Vegas, you're not allotted many of the Christmas-y traditions of cooler climes. Snowmen are hard to make when it's 60 degrees, and you could only organize a neighborhood snowball fight if you shaved the ice yourself.
So, around Christmas of 1996, my father got the notion that if we were going to have any traditions at all, we would have to make our own. But family customs, like nicknames, have to arise organically — you can't make them up yourself, or the universe will correct your mistake with hilarious consequence. So it was with the chestnuts.
For his first attempt at tradition-genesis, Dad found inspiration from what he thought was the purest of muses: "The Christmas Song." To him, that lovely tune heard every winter season on the radio exemplified everything Christmas was about. And if we couldn't have Yuletide carols being sung by a choir or Jack Frost nipping at our noses, then, by God, we would at least have chestnuts roasting on an open fire.
But this was Nevada, where a warm embrace is enough to cause a brushfire, and open flames were outlawed. So we used a grill.
Two things wrong with this. First, a grill concentrates all the heat on one area of the food; that's why you've got to flip burgers. Second, you're supposed to cut notches in chestnuts before roasting to let the pressure escape. We neglected to recognize either issue, which is why, as we gathered around the grill to watch our first tradition come to life, the chestnuts began to whistle.