November 25 2007, 11:40 PM Seconds

One of the places we have here that makes us lucky is a fairly reasonable Brazilian steak house. If you are unfamiliar, these places are generally all about the meat: there is a cold bar from which you may build a remarkable salad, spiked with pickled morsels, and there is a hot bar, a sentry line of warming trays filled with all sorts of things, most of them involving pork in some way. The main part of the meal is ambulatory, though: the dining area is filled with wandering waiters, each with a sword of a skewer on which is freshly grilled meat. There are little doodads on the tables, on side red and the other green: if the green side is up, the waiters approach and offer you slices of whatever it is. If the red side is up, that is to signal that the table has had enough meat, really, and more meat would be a problem. In my experience, the servers ignore them when they are red and bring the meat anyway. An then we eat it, regardlessly. It's all good.

I try to limit my nights of massive meat intake these days; I am sad to report that I've not been to the steak house in quite some time. This is all Mr. Epee's fault. He throws parties that generally involve meat; he throws a party every Thanksgiving in the evening, and those nights are no exception to this rule. Leg of lamb, a turkey, a ham, a turducken. There is much meat, and much of everything else, too; the circle of people around Mr. Epee can bring it culinary, and Thanksgiving evening is the time to shine. People take food seriously here. It's what they do.

I am happy to claim space in that circle, although I have been woefully missing for much of these recent years. My brother and I ended up at Mr. Epee's house last Thursday. We brought my brother's apple sausage stuffing, which was a testament to my family's own attitudes towards food.

The night before, my brother noticed the pile of local apples in the pantry, made cold by the thin pane in the window and the lack of radiator within. "I could make apple sausage stuffing," he said. I pointed out that I had sausage in the fridge, good local stuff. He got to work. I was futzing with other things, so I didn't get to see him build it except from the corner of my eye, but he pulled down the saucier and lopped up the apples and minced sage from the garden and turned to me and asked me where the bread crumbs were. I fished them out of the pantry, and it turns out I was running low. We added some of the left over oat bread, but he frowned and needed more, so he said, "say, why don't we smash up some of those triple ginger ginger snaps from Trader Joe's and throw those in?" And we did. And I recommend that you do this, too, if you have a penchant for making apple sausage stuffing. It got compliments on Thursday night: the quiet compliments delivered with broad smiles.

I brought bread; it's what I do. I whomped up a couple of loaves of Irish soda bread with currants and fennel in for Mrs. Compass, and then set to baking two loves of Durham wheat bread: flour, water, yeast, salt, time and heat. I brought them to the evening, set one out into the side board alongside the soda bread, and then sat in Mr. Epee's kitchen for an hour with the other loaf making toast in the wood burning fireplace, spearing slices on barbecue tongs and occasionally singing edges when the conversation became too interesting. After toasting, a bit of rubbed garlic, oil, and salt. I handed the first one to Mr. Epee's mother, there at the kitchen table: it's what I do. It is good to have traditions.

We ate; we talked. The flow of things spilled from living room to dining room to kitchen, only to be chased back out again due to logistical concerns. I was remiss in that I did not fulfill the other tradition of bringing a bottle of Tokaji, but next year, next year. Everyone left well, and everyone got home safe, despite the cranky skies.

I think I have enough chairs in the living room, now.