Youthful holidays with my extended family were typical American affairs, boisterous and overflowing with traditional meats, potatoes, casseroles, and macaroni and cheese. Love, chaos, and sugary desserts abounded. For the first half of my life, Thanksgiving was torn straight from the pages of Southern Living. Eat, drink, and don’t think of offending anyone, bless your heart.
Fast forward to this past November in Palo Alto, California, where I enjoyed Thanksgiving festivities with European friends. High culture prevailed, wine flowed, and lively political and religious discourse ensued. I adored my friends, but felt intimidated by the gourmet spread, by the impeccable presentation, by the discriminating variety of peppers and salts perfectly placed in the center of the table. From the Spaniard’s palette, I learned to crave subtle nuances: the boldness of Himalayan pink salt, the delicacy of fleur de sel, the intensity of smoked salt.
Missing, though, were the desserts. Our hosts never indulged, but provided a simple offering for the enjoyment of their guests. Poached pears a la mode – a crushing disappointment for a dedicated connoisseur of the chocolate, cookie, and cake variety. The feeling of letdown vaporized, however, as soon as my friend slyly intimated that our dessert contained an exotic, banned ingredient.
Curiosity piqued, I studied my plate. A mysterious, bark-colored spice topped a duo of tender fruit and creamy vanilla bean ice cream. Wafting through the air was a tantalizing scent carrying notes of vanilla, clove, almond, and cinnamon. The taste bestowed equally enigmatic rapture, heavenly yet earthy. Even after dessert was devoured, the enticing aroma of smuggled spice lingered on. Thanksgiving magic a la tonka bean.