At a certain point in my childhood, Christmas faced a stiff challenge as my favourite holiday. Never mind that I am technically Jewish. For whatever reason, we ended up with a Christmas tree and presents instead of a menorah and the eight nights of chocolate coins for Hanukkah. But at a certain point, as much as I loved getting presents, there was one thing I enjoyed almost as much as ripping the wrapping paper off brightly coloured packages, and that was eating meat.
While other kids saw the months between the beginning of the school year and the Christmas holidays as a long, bleak stretch of rapidly shortening days, I saw a shining light on the hill, a beacon of hope that would sustain me in the cold winter months of Colorado. I loved Thanksgiving.
You see, I grew up the son of a single hippie mother, whose cooking repertoire, bless her heart, consisted of about six dishes, four of which contained both brown rice and pinto beans…. Continue reading this article on JancisRobinson.Com.
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