Turkey & Apricot Wraps

November is approaching and with it the first non-pandemic Thanksgiving in two years, which means the full production — the eighteen-pound turkey, the cornbread stuffing, the two pies, the cranberry sauce, the mashed potatoes, the whole magnificent, ridiculous, calorically unconscionable feast that I have been making for thirty-nine years and that I will make this year with the particular intensity of a woman who cooked Thanksgiving for two last year and who will not do that again if she has anything to say about it. Sixteen people. I have invited sixteen people. The table will need the leaf. The table will need the Bermans' folding table. The table will be everything a table can be.

I am teaching "The Crucible" again — my fall ritual, the play about mass hysteria and moral courage, and this year the students are reading it with a sophistication that surprises me, perhaps because they have lived through a period of mass everything — mass illness, mass isolation, mass anxiety — and Proctor's refusal to sign his name, his insistence on preserving his identity when the world demands he surrender it, resonates with a generation that spent a year surrendering everything and is now trying to figure out what remains.

Marvin wandered on Monday. Not outside — I have the locks and the alarms — but through the house, from room to room, touching walls, opening drawers, looking at objects with the careful attention of a man in a museum, examining artifacts from a life he can no longer place. He picked up a photo from the mantel — our wedding photo, 1982, me in the dress that Sylvia sewed, Marvin in the suit he bought on Delancey Street — and he looked at it and said, "They look happy." They. Not we. They. The couple in the photo was someone else. I said, "They were very happy." He put the photo down and walked to the kitchen. I made him tea. The tea was warm. The photo was cold. The distance between they and we is the measure of the disease, and the distance is growing.

With sixteen people coming and a table that will need every leaf and every borrowed folding chair, I have learned over thirty-nine years of Thanksgiving that the days leading up to the feast matter as much as the feast itself — you have to feed people without losing your mind, without dirtying every pan, without abandoning the slow work of grief and teaching and ordinary life that fills the hours between now and Thursday. These Turkey & Apricot Wraps have become my answer to that: something quick and a little sweet, something I can make while Marvin sits at the kitchen table with his tea, something that tastes like celebration without demanding everything I have.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 15 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 large flour tortillas (10-inch)
4 oz cream cheese, softened
3 tablespoons apricot preserves
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
8 oz sliced deli turkey breast
1/2 cup dried apricots, thinly sliced
2 cups baby spinach leaves
1/4 red onion, thinly sliced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste

Instructions

Make the spread. In a small bowl, stir together the softened cream cheese, apricot preserves, and Dijon mustard until smooth and well combined. Season lightly with salt and pepper.
Prepare the tortillas. Lay each flour tortilla flat on a clean work surface. Spread a generous layer of the apricot cream cheese mixture evenly across each tortilla, leaving a 1-inch border around the edges.
Layer the fillings. Arrange the sliced turkey evenly over the spread. Scatter the sliced dried apricots and red onion over the turkey, then top with a layer of baby spinach leaves.
Roll the wraps. Fold in the sides of each tortilla, then roll tightly from the bottom up, keeping the filling snug as you go. Press gently to seal.
Slice and serve. Using a sharp knife, cut each wrap on the diagonal into halves or thirds. Serve immediately, or wrap tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for up to 4 hours before serving.

Nutrition (per serving)

Turkey & Apricot Wraps — Something to Make When You’re Feeding the World Again