Posted by Denise Mickelsen

"Christmas is not properly observed unless you brew egg nogg for all comers."
—unknown source, 1866

I don’t eat eggs. Ask anyone who knows me, and they will tell you that I have not eaten eggs on their own – scrambled, poached, deviled, or in a salad – since I was 2 years old.  I don’t know if it’s the texture of eggs, the odor, or the flavor (or all three), but I stand strong in my distaste.  The incredible, edible egg is not for me.

That said, I volunteered to edit the holiday drink story in the current issue, which of course includes eggnog. I have never been a fan of the store-bought stuff: it’s too thick, too rich, and cloyingly sweet. The fact that it’s made of eggs, of course, never helped. 

Does eggnog have to be this way? I wondered.  Surely, making it from scratch would help.  I could control the sweetness, the thickness, and I could even control the egg-i-ness!  And so Allison and I set out to create an eggnog that even an egg hater would love.

It’s a simple enough formula.  Blend egg yolks, sugar, and a pinch of salt until thick and pale yellow, add your liquor of choice (our version calls for combination of dark rum, brandy, and bourbon), then stir in cream and milk. I let that mixture chill overnight and folded in beaten egg whites the next morning. The drink chilled for another few hours, then I packed it up and brought it to my mom’s house for our holiday festivities.

Garnished with a dusting of freshly grated nutmeg, the eggnog was frothy, creamy, and light as air.  Just sweet enough, the milk helped to lighten the mix and the alcohol was mellow and warming. My sister drank her glass down in minutes and asked for more.  Even my mother, who is not an eggnog drinker either, asked for a taste and proclaimed it delicious. I loved it too, which is great. Now I can honestly say that I like eggs, as long as I can drink them.

Posted by Sarah Breckenridge

Ever had a Thanksgiving recipe turn into a total disaster? It happens to the best of us. Here, two of the chefs who contributed recipes to our All-Star Thanksgiving Potluck menu recall some of their turkey day horror stories.

If you're looking for a new spin on the traditional Thanksgiving turkey, you can't do better than Alfred Portale's version rubbed with a juniper-ginger butter. We caught up with Alfred in the kitchen at NYC's Gotham Bar and Grill to learn more about the juniper berries he uses in the compound butter.

Posted by Denise Mickelsen 

Let me begin by saying that I am not a soda drinker.  I wasn’t allowed to drink pop (as it’s called in Buffalo, NY) when I was a kid, and most sodas are so over-carbonated--and so sweet-- that it’s usually easy for me to abstain.   That is, until I discovered Fentiman’s Botanically Brewed Beverages at last summer’s Fancy Food Show in NYC.  A British company that recently jumped the pond, Fentiman’s has been making their beverages since 1905.  Their spicy, tongue-tingling Ginger Beer blew me away, as did the drink’s stylish glass bottles.  These are not your run-of-the-mill, grab-one-at-lunch soft drinks, but rather a soda for adults: carefully crafted, mildly carbonated, and brewed with all-natural ingredients (herbs, spices, natural yeast, sugar, spring water) in a 7-day process. 

After tasting Fentiman’s at the show, I contacted the company to get some samples sent to our office for my fellow editors to try.  Given what a picky bunch we can be, it’s a true testament to Fentiman’s that everyone - hands down - loved the drinks.  From the Dandelion & Burdock soda to the Curiosity Cola (great for mixing into cocktails), the clean, not-too-sweet, complex sodas won us over.

Fast forward a few weeks.  We were about to shoot the photos for our “Dinner with Friends” menu in the December issue.  We wanted to have some wines on hand, but what else could we bring to liven up the party?  Fentiman’s, of course!  I knew that the Ginger Beer and the Mandarin and Seville Orange Jigger would pair especially well with this menu, and a quick call to the company led to a few 4-packs of the sodas on set.  I figured that they might be used as a background prop, but they ended up taking center stage, so to speak.  Check out our holiday issue to see what I mean, and check out www.fentimans.com to get some of these delicious drinks for yourself.

Photos: Scott Phillips

Take a tour of the December issue of Fine Cooking with editor Laurie Buckle. It's loaded with holiday menus, deep chocolate desserts,  and clever, quick  party appetizers.

Posted by Lisa Waddle

One of the great things about working at a food magazine is how totally acceptable it is to talk about food obsessions. Walking back from the test kitchen the other day, following an afternoon tasting (yes, the test kitchen and afternoon tastings are two other things I love about the job), a group of us were discussing anise, which led to the topic of licorice. As expected, the crowd cleanly divided between the “I hate licorice” folks and the “Can’t get enough of the real stuff—not the pseudo red vines.”

As a longtime licorice devotee, I’m always on the lookout for authentic licorice. (And by that, I mean candy flavored with licorice root, not some sugar-and-anise-extract poseur.) I was excited when Altoids came out a few years ago with a “Curiously Strong Licorice Mints,” bittersweet and potent. Panda licorice from Finland is pretty widely available in grocery and natural foods stores here in the Northeast. And of course, the Internet simplifies the feeding of my licorice addiction immeasurably. One of my favorite sites is LicoriceInternational.com, a store that puts all the salty, medicinal, sweet, oddly shaped licorice from around the world in one place, even offering “samplers” so you can get a taste of some of the more exotic types and brands available. One of my favorites is the Dubble Zout Dutch licorice—coin-shaped, hard, and salty, they are one treat you can be sure no non-licorice-lover will ever sneak from your desk (at least not more than once).

With the passing of Halloween, I’ll be able to get my licorice fix by buying half-off Good & Plenty from the local store, but I may need to mail-order some of that Dutch licorice soon.

How about you? Know of any other licorice products that I simply must try?

Posted by Allison Ehri Kreitler

“Genius! Absolutely freaking genius!” I declared as I listened to bartender/mixologist Jim Meehan describe his "fat washing" technique. “You mean I can make my bourbon taste like bacon?” I couldn’t wait to get home and get started. Fat washing has been done for years in the cocktail world, most commonly by browning butter and adding it to rum to infuse it with a complex nutty flavor. But Jim and other bartenders have revamped the concept by infusing booze with lovely, smoky bacon.

The Benton’s Old Fashioned Jim made for me (he used bacon-infused Dickel Tennessee Whisky, Grade B Maple Syrup and Angostura Bitters) was a revelation. Here's one of Jim's fellow bartenders at PDT in New York showing how they do it:

Fast-forward a few weeks: My bacon-loving friend’s going-away party was just the opportunity I needed to develop my own bacon infusion. After a few tries I found that 1 3/4 cups Makers Mark and the fat from 12 oz. Niman Ranch bacon (about 1/2 cup) gave me the smoky, meaty flavor I was looking for (the PDT folks use less fat because they buy a super-smoky bacon that most of us can't get our hands on).

Here’s how it works: slowly cook the bacon so you don’t burn the fat. Eat all the bacon and let the fat cool just a little (so it doesn’t boil the booze out of the bourbon). Pour the fat into the room-temperature bourbon and let sit, stirring occasionally at first, until the fat solidifies, then refrigerate. I found that 2 days in the fridge was perfect. Remove the fat layer and strain the bourbon. Keep refrigerated; I found that the bourbon changes flavor as it sits, so you'll want to use it fairly quickly. At my party, I served it with equal parts Guinness and chocolate sorbet, which was a big hit (really!).

P.S. Oh, and Sharon? Bacon will never be dead to me. I feel sorry for you.

Posted by Sharon Anderson

I hate high-tech kitchen gear. Granted, there are some items (knives, pots, and pans come to mind) where you get what you pay for, and it's worth shelling out for quality because the good stuff makes you a better cook, effortlessly. But all those little gadgets? Forget about it. I don't want a timer that tracks five different dishes, because (even if I could figure out how to use it) I have no desire to make five things at once. I don't want a silicone colander that comes in 18 colors and can be folded into a neat little package the size of a matchbox car for storage. And I definitely don't want a spatula that looks like it might blast off into outer space at any moment, but can't flip a pancake to save its slick, aerodynamic life. In fact, the two kitchen tools I find myself reaching for over and over again are the oldest, crappiest things I own (both inherited from my parents): a wood-handled metal spatula and a cheap aluminum colander.

I actually have four spatulas, or "flippers" as my dad calls them, but I only ever use one. This sad-looking tool (at right), which is celebrating its 30th birthday this year, is cracking slightly in the middle, charred at one end of its handle, and it might be starting to rust. But, it is the best thing that's ever happened to to flip-able food. The head of this spatula is perfection: the metal is sturdy enough to handle a hefty pancake or chicken breast, but thin enough to get under the most delicate piece of fish, and it's wide enough to hoist a sandwich, while slim enough to maneuver in my smallest skillet. And I know the cheap wooden handle doesn't look like anything special, but it has been worn so wonderfully that I'm pretty sure it defined ergonomical before that word was even in the dictionary.

Generally, I am less picky about colander perfection, but this one (at left) nails it for me. Sure, it only has two feet—so it looks a little gimpy sitting there in the sink, listing to one side. And I don't remember it ever having handles. But somehow, it still works like a charm. I bought a new colander once, a sexy little number with funky-shaped holes, but I took it home and tried to make orzo and ended up with a sink full of pasta...and an empty colander. Though a little aesthetically challenged, mine has perfectly sized holes arranged in a just-sexy-enough star pattern.

Unlike a good cast iron skillet, neither of these tools is getting better with age. But, of course, there's that sentimental part of me that loves to think, as I am flipping my grilled cheese, that this is the spatula my dad's been using to make French toast since the day my parents got married, and that this crippled old colander has drained pasta in every apartment, dorm, house, and hovel they have inhabited since 1978. But mostly, they work. And that's all I really ask.

Poasted by Lisa Waddle

After 30 years of fighting hunger, America’s Second Harvest has changed its name to Feeding America. The good news is, there’s no change in the non-profit’s mission of providing groceries to food pantries, soup kitchens, and other emergency food agencies across the country. The name change is an attempt to raise awareness of the group’s primary motive: fighting hunger. Makes sense to me. I’ve long supported the hunger-relief charity, but thought the name Second Harvest made it sound like it just reused food from farms.

Given the current financial turbulence in the U.S., donating to charities is probably not top of mind right now. But as households of all economic strata face choices they probably never thought they’d have to (Pay the rent or buy groceries?), the work done by Feeding America is more pertinent now than ever. Go to FeedingAmerica.org to find out how you can get involved.

Posted by Denise Mickelsen 

A loaf of Portuguese sweet bread recently saved my day, and my work ethic. I had traveled with my husband, Bill, to Rhode Island for a family wedding, and we proceeded to thoroughly enjoy ourselves at the reception. The trouble was, we had to get up at the crack of dawn the next morning for the 2-1/2 hour return trip because we’d agreed to help cater another wedding.  We knew it would be rough.  Luckily, I’d done my homework and the day before, we had swung by the Morning Star Bakery in Providence, a Portuguese shop selling all manner of food stuffs and baked goods.  There was dried hominy, chorizo, and pastries galore, but more importantly, there was also Portuguese sweet bread (also known as massa sovada).

As we sped down I-95 on our way to the catering gig, our stomachs growling, it was a lifesaver. Similar in texture to brioche, the dark golden sweet bread (at left) was as tender as can be; it practically melted in my mouth. That, plus a cup of hot coffee from a gas station, and I was ready to face the day. 

Ever had a similar life-saving food experience?  I’d love to hear about it.