Rex Murphy shares his autumn cranberry sauce recipe
The blessed juncture betwixt the terminus of summer's sacchariferous embrace and the autumnal consecration of halcyon titillations – mercurial though they may be – truly, what an unequaled, peerless, impeccable insufflation of the very lifeblood that thrums in a most quotidian manner through our very depths. We are all of us spiritually ameliorated for its presence.
Thanksgiving, a performative gavotte of indebtedness to the macrocosmic, a diligent affectation of nevertheless keen and abject reverential pronouncements, is exceedingly instructive and perhaps singularly inexorable in the particular comestibles it implores us to both concoct and ingurgitate.
VERILY, AS KITH AND KIN GATHER TO FEAST, ANTICIPATORILY ENVISAGING ONLY THE FINEST DELECTABLES AND INIMITABLE SENSORY PROVOCATIONS, IT BEHOOVES ONE TO WIELD THE CONSUMMATE CRANBERRY SAUCE RECIPE SO UTTERLY TRANSCENDENT THAT THE EXALTED MEMORY OF THE AFOREMENTIONED MEAL WILL BE AS FLAWLESSLY PRESERVED AS THE JOYOUSLY TART FRUITS THEMSELVES.
- A single, lone, individual satchel of the most distinctively succulent, nectarous cranberries made available for purchase. Without question, it is a most sagacious consumer of goods and services who scrutinizes, juxtaposes, and indeed, heeds a higher call to ponder multitudinous brands prior to pledging himself and his life to any particular one.
- A demi-cup – or, if one prefers the notably more pedestrian, downright plebian term – half-cup – of maple syrup. This most ostentatious display of Canadian nationalism fastens us together as countrymen, a sugared substratum of our very identity.
- Water. A demi-cup, once more. THE VERY LIFE-GIVING ESSENCE OF ALL PLANETARY EXISTENCE, without which, we are, summarily and without concession, reduced to scurrilous, petulant, infirm and helpless things, mere neonates, unequivocally destined for true and unvaried nothingness for all eternity.
- An ever-so-slight dash of cinnamon. A gentle baptizement of spice to enliven, invigorate, and infuse one's most ambrosial of concoctions.
- Take it upon oneself to cleanse the sacred berries, ensuring that one's prompt ministrations return the fruits to their virginal, exemplary state, tenderly laundering each individual satchel-member with the utmost consideration.
- In a saucepan of intermediate capaciousness and girth, synthesize and commingle the cranberries, syrup, and water. Join all three in a holy union that calls any passerby to immediately cogitate on the mixture's undeniable echoes of that most famed and fundament of trinities: the father, the son, and the holy spirit. Invite the startling mass to boil at medium heat until the fruits have burst forth in sonorous triumph. Reread the complete works of Roland Barthes (1915-1980) as you wait. It should take 5-10 minutes.
- Without forewarning, with not so much as the faintest of intimations, seize the wretched pot away from the murderous combustion that lies beneath it, the tempestuous inferno, which, if left unbridled, will surely sabotage all in its path, laying waste to not only one's cranberry sauce, but the very notion of Thanksgiving itself.
- Inaugurate the cinnamon into the dish and serve. Simultaneously query a table of beloveds about whether much of the fiscal policy of Jean Charest's government at the time presupposed that the federal and provincial administrations had both the capability – to say nothing of the inclination – to resolve the marked imbalance in their respective economic visions. Happy Thanksgiving!
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