Baking memories BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

Holidays bring up many things, including a rush to our local psychiatrists for extra doses of Klonopin and Ambien, or, for some, trips to more organic purveyors of relaxants. Not only are the holidays a mine field of expectations — yours and, even worse, others' which you feel pressing on your shoulders like cinder blocks — but they also focus on one of the more basic and, at the same time, most conflicted of themes: food.

Because holidays are repositories of our memories, and because many memories focus on food (just think of Proust's madeleine cookies), we find ourselves with copious amounts of food and stuffing ourselves and our inner weepy children like foie gras.

This Thanksgiving I actually hosted the meal, which must be a sign of adulthood. My father and step-mother decided to make the trip south to have a low-key day with me and Cowboy, which honestly was appealing for many reasons, not the least of which was not having to travel anywhere. The preparations began about two weeks in advance when I started making lists to which Cowboy grunted approval or disapproval. Brussels sprouts were nixed in favor of creamed spinach, yams in favor of extra stuffing, parsnips just nixed all together. We did, however, get an organic turkey (which I needed major coaching from NPR to cook), despite the fact that it was about four times as much as a Shady Brook bird would have been at Hannaford. The night before Thanksgiving we cleaned. Which means Cowboy did his favorite job of all — lots and lots of dishes! I have found that one of the great things about having a boyfriend is you can make him do dishes while you operate under the guise of doing all the other "much harder" cleaning. So as I cleaned and cooked, Cowboy did dish upon dish upon dish.

Then Cowboy made bread. For him, bread is a symbol of the holidays like the aforementioned madeleine cookies are a symbol of childhood for Proust. I was a little skeptical considering his recipe called for Crisco, white sugar, butter, and white flour, but I was game because who in their right mind is going to try to ply food away from any guy? Truth be told, I was slightly nervous since Cowboy had never made bread before but I figured he can fix most things, so bread can't be too hard to figure out. But then I came out of the bathroom where I had been scrubbing the porcelain to find Cowboy with his arms deep into a gooey mess that clearly was not yet at the kneading point. The mess was stuck to my counter top with no cutting board underneath and there was flour all over the kitchen I had just been cleaning. ME: What are you doing? HIM: Making bread. ME: Ok. Bread needs to rise and you need to add flour. You're making paste. All over the kitchen. HIM: Could you not get involved? I know what I'm doing. ME: But you're wearing most of your "bread." HIM: Look, I know how to make my mother's bread recipe. I have to say it did turn out great. It was warm and gooey and soft and, after Cowboy spent four hours cleaning paste off of the counter boards, we ate half a loaf with a bottle of good red wine. And so began a new holiday memory seasoned with Cowboy bread.

"Bramhall Square" runs every other week on www.portlandphoenix.com