When I was growing up in the 70's you were either a Hellman's house or a Miracle Whip house. We were a Miracle Whip house - of course, the more sugar the better! There were only two real purposes for it: turkey sandwiches and tuna fish salad. (I'm not going to even mention the various jell-o mold salads with a big dollop of white Miracle Whip with extra sugar or honey added. Oops, I guess I did. That makes three.) Imagine my surprise the first time I walked into a co-op and discovered there were numerous other spreadable dressings. I tried all of them. Eventually, I decided my home made recipe was the best. I use it in a multitude of recipes - everything except jell-o. The only time I don't use my own is the day after Thanksgiving if my brother is visiting. On that day I definitely need a jar of Miracle Whip for his turkey sandwiches.
If you prefer more of an olive oil taste, you can substitute 1/3 to 1/4 of the oil for a good quality olive oil. You can use all olive oil, but my family does not like that taste.
About 95 calories per tablespoon.
I first tasted hummus at a Middle Eastern restaurant in Minneapolis called Jerusalem's several decades ago. It was delightful; all buttery and lemony. So I decided it would be a good thing to have at home. I tried several versions of store bought hummus including a local variety made by Holy Land in northeast Minneapolis. It is quite good, but none of them really seemed to be the right flavor for me. Perhaps it is the Scandinavian boy from the prairie who grew up on blandness? Not! I think it really is that I wanted something smooth with a little tang that could be spread on bread as a sandwich or used as a dip for chips or pita. Something versatile and yummy. So, for years I made batches of hummus. Unfortunately, my kids really don't like hummus, so I've had to eat a lot of it on my quest for perfection. Today, I got it and I'm going to share it with you: My Perfect Hummus!
A friend posted on social media the other day that the word "moist" should only be used in reference to towelettes and turkeys. I agree.
As a waiter working my way through college in Fargo, not the movie with the wood chipper, we had frequent Canadian guests. They always asked for a serviette. So I would bring them a moist towelette. They would look at the tiny package in astonishment and try to explain what they really wanted. (Even English language speaking countries can have word barriers. Trust me.) Eventually I learned moist had nothing to do with serviette. They wanted a napkin. A very dry napkin. So goes my first experience with moist towelettes.
As an at home dad it became immediately evident that holiday cooking was my job. Trophy Wife does much of the baking. Everybody said that the Thanksgiving turkey must be moist. I was a bit dubious. After all, isn't that why we have gravy? Apparently not. So I went to the school of moist turkey cookery. For a few years I tried a number of different recipes finally settling in on Martha Stewart's. Now, mind you, her recipe calls for numerous steps that involve cheese cloth, butter wine sauce, basting, and timing. It was like a corporate flow chart that someone had devised to be cruel to employees. The turkey was decent, but I was exhausted by the time dinner came around.
So I went in search of other "moist" turkey recipes. One day, I stumbled on an article in the Los Angeles Times about the best turkey ever. It was simple called: The Judy Bird. It was named after Chef Judy Rodgers, a friend of Food Editor Russ Parsons. You can read more about it here. They had done a side by side test of three methodologies and it was unanimous that The Judy Bird was hands down the best. I have been making this turkey ever since I found that article and I'll never go back to Stewart's cruel flow chart of moistness.
This year the mother-in-law is coming for Thanksgiving. I'm renaming it the Rachael Bird. Do you think I'll get brownie points?