I tend to be very skeptical of those mystery casserole-esque recipes of southern rural lore.
You know the type.
Can of this, can of that, packet of this, twelve sticks of butter and a tub of sour cream and voila!
Of course there is the obvious reason for cynicism toward them, that being my bourgeois hippie mental aversion to the injestion of toxic chemicals and vats of trans fats.
And then there is the more subtle reason, that being a genetic and conditioned predisposition toward culinary
and other forms of snobbery instilled by my Nana. According to my maternal grandmother: if it isn’t seasonal, if it came from a can, if it came from a box, if it contains processed cheese product, if it was made in a grocery store bakery, or if it is served on anything other than china (oh the horrors), then it has absolutely no place at the Thanksgiving table.
Green bean casserole = heresy.
And Lord help the distant relative who shows up bearing broccoli rice casserole and must face her laser beam heart scorching stare of scorn and utter disgust.
I, too, have absorbed these staunch views into my psyche via osmosis and large amounts of brainwashing through the years.
HOLY MOLY did these suckers look delicious:
Of course I could (theoretically with no promise of execution) have made Martha’s homemade pate brisee with a tart apple filling, or creme brulee, or chocolate mousse, or something else fancy that would stroke my culinary ego.
But that seemed hard.
And also, likely to thrwart my plans for a Hico-pace-of-life-induced Thanksgiving break sleep coma (these associate attorney dark undereye circles aren’t going to erase themselves). So I needed to tweak the input/ouput levels of my dessert contribution.
And that, my friends, is how I came to smuggle cans of Mountain Dew and Pillsbury Crescent Roll dough into Thanksgiving.
For the Pioneer Woman, for chemical-laden secret ingredients, for my beautiful (albeit slightly elitist) family, and for my friends, I am oh so thankful.