Herewith a casserole of extreme simplicity but terrific flavor, suitable for entertaining the hungry on Saturday or Sunday after Thanksgiving (by which time one has presumably regained one's appetite). Not only will it make use of every last scrap of meat still clinging to the bones, but the very bones themselves can be simmered to make stock for the dish. A final advantage is that it does not come across as poultry particularly, but rather, something hearty and good.

Although very little of what happens in the Hamptons escapes being news, the dunes and bluffs and potato fields manage to hold a few secrets. One of the best kept of these involves the formula for the stuff Frank Tillotson slathered on his ducks as they turned on their spits.

If there is ever an egg season, it occurs now, in early spring. The symbolism of germinating, hatching and rebirth was celebrated by primitive man and embraced by modern religions. The folklore, if not the ritual, of Easter rejoices in the egg. In every Christian nation it becomes an artform, its culinary attributes outdistanced by the spell of talented brush. 

Covered-dish parties, one of East Hampton’s more venerable social institutions, are meant to provide tasty surprises. The hit of one several years ago was Picadillo, a dish provided by a participant born in Cuba. I have been making it ever since.