Amidst the gobs of turkey and fixins, the mountains of mashed potatoes, the rivers of gravy, and the forests of green beans, Thanksgiving breakfast is an easily overlooked thing. Is it even a thing? Let’s be real. Hardly anybody is thinking about Thanksgiving breakfast. I recently had a conversation with my girlfriend over breakfast about how much she adores coffee cake and what particularly makes a good coffee cake good.
My grandmother grew strawberries in springtime in a small garden plot that lined the exterior of her detached garage in Southern California. The soil was edged with scalloped grey concrete bricks, adjacent to a chain link fence with a gate leading to the back alley. As a little girl, I’d sneak out to the garden, lift the big green leaves, and peek underneath for that flash of bright red.
Pistachios are my favorite nut. I love their vibrant green color, their great crunch, that overt saltiness, and the rhythm of cracking them out of their shells. I don’t even mind when I come across an especially stubborn pistachio that refuses to emerge from its shell; that’s all part of the fun. Pistachios have more character than your average nut. They’re feisty.