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What is the proper term for the Thanksgiving side dish: dressing or stuffing? —John P., Maryland Heights
This query is the seasonal equivalent of other polarizing food debates: Coke vs. Pepsi, beans or no beans in chili, and the legitimacy of Provel cheese.
When Thanksgiving table talk devolves into a discussion of recent political antics, consider steering the family toward a more civilized (and no less spirited) topic: the dressing vs. stuffing debate. Regardless of the linguistic preference, The Daily Meal calls it the most popular Thanksgiving side dish (even more popular than gravy).
No matter the terminology, the dish is an essential accouterment at the Thanksgiving table, just as good at breakfast topped with sunny side eggs, added to a leftover turkey sandwich for lunch, or spooned into a waffle iron for an anytime snack.
There are literalists who contend that “stuffing” gets stuffed inside the bird and dressing is cooked alongside in a separate pan, dressing the bird as it were. But others believe that the difference is more regional than technical: Dressing is predominantly a Southern term, while stuffing is preferred in the north. Studies using Google Correlate confirm the theory: People searching for dressing recipes are most often located in the South while northerners are looking for stuffing. (Some Pennsylvanians call the dish filling, which indeed it is.) Then there are those who snipe that dressing is something that goes on a wound.
The Food Lover’s Companion (an essential food reference book that also happens to be a great stocking stuffer) uses the terms interchangeably: STUFFING See dressing.
Then there are those who approach the debate from an ingredient angle, like some Southerners who insist that cornbread is an essential component of dressing and that it’s inherently a simple dish, devoid of the add-ins common in some Northern stuffings.
This Thanksgiving, White Castle is introducing another Slider-based stuffing recipe. The new item—Kickin’ Southwest Stuffin’ Muffin—is made in muffin pans with Sliders purchased at White Castle restaurants or retail outlets (photo and recipe here).
Here in the Midwest, you hear both terms. We asked a few members of our dining team what's on their plate.
Dave Lowry: “It’s stuffing. People who call it ‘dressing’ are the same ones who use a Hamilton Beach Electric knife to carve the turkey like they’re wielding a Poulon Pro chainsaw on a dead oak. People who call it ‘dressing’ also will have some relative in attendance who will explain that one incurs a post-prandial narcosis because of the tryptophan in the bird, an explanation he relishes giving annually just because he gets to use the word tryptophan. ‘Stuffing’ is served in homes where the main event is always between 12:30 and 1:00 since that will allow plenty of time to recuperate and be ready for the Joy of Thanksgiving that is a supper of cold turkey sandwiches—served, of course, with a big dollop of stuffing.”
Emily Wassermann: “In our house, we both call it stuffing, and that's something of a feat because my partner is from Philly and I'm from St. Louis, so we don't agree on the names of anything. However, our stuffings are very different: I make the kind I grew up eating (very traditional; nothing out of the ordinary), and he makes Pennsylvania Dutch stuffing, which has potatoes in it.”
Collin Preciado: “It's stuffing. Dressing seems like a term a PR agency came up with to disguise how gross and weird it is.”
Pat Eby: "Dressing -- no doubt about it. Even though my grandmother put the raisin dressing inside the turkey, literally stuffing it, she still called it dressing. She was raised in Iowa on a farm. I don't know if it's an Iowa thing, but we always called the gooey bread dressing and doused it with gravy for good measure."
Bill Burge: “Stuffing. The only interesting thing about our stuffing is whether we cook it in the bird or in a pan.”
Zach Gzehoviak: "Always called it stuffing, I guess because it's the stuff that's stuffed into the bird."
Personally, my New Orleans–born grandmother called it dressing as did my St. Louis–born grandmother. And so it is in our house.
What was a basic family recipe has morphed over the years (despite my mother’s admonition of “no funny stuff”) and now includes pork sausage, a heavy hand of assorted sautéed wild mushrooms, possibly oysters and their liquor, and my secret weapon—minced turkey neck meat, the byproduct of a six-hour poultry stock made the night before. The stock is also used to moisten the dressing prior to cooking, replacing a lot of the butter and mimicking the juices in a cavity-stuffed dressing.
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