Tarter Than The Average Berry

Cookbook co-author James Baker says that “Cranberries have played a supporting role in American cuisine for so long that we take the familiar red fruit for granted. …” Now, just wait a minute. I may not be a food historian, but I think the American public knows a thing or two about the mother of all Thanksgiving fruits—we did invent the holiday, after all. Let’s take a moment to assess what we can already say about our tart friends from the North.

Cranberries are a moody Irish band from the mid-'90s. Uh, no. You’re thinking of The Cranberries. Honest mistake.

Cranberries were served at the first Thanksgiving along with other New World foods like pumpkin, corn and turkey. Well, no. While wild cranberries were certainly available in 1621 (even in some parts of England), sugar was not. You’d have a tough time convincing anyone to tuck into a heaping pile of sour swamp pellets without something to tone down its astringency. Cranberry products didn’t really catch on until British colonialism reared its ugly head and sugar prices went way down in the West.

Cranberries are excellent for the scurvy. Aye. That they are, matey.

Cranberries are giggly cylinders of sweet goo that grow in aluminum cans. Come on, guys! Don’t you think it’s time to start thinking outside of the can? Tradition is one thing, but pigeonholing these little gems into the same culinary niche year after year is just plain cruel. Cranberries are a remarkably versatile ingredient. They can move effortlessly between sour, savory and sweet, chewy and soft, hot, cold, bold and barely there. And here’s the clincher: Fresh, whole cranberries are entering their peak season for flavor and affordability right now. It’s the perfect time to pick up a bag and experiment at home. If you’re stuck for ideas, the Cranberry Companion (Baker and Clark, paperback, $9.95) is here to help. Who knows? You might just fall in love with a whole new holiday tradition.