Festive Pineapple Cranberry Punch (and Ice Ring)

She's here. Simone Elizabeth Cole, born October 14 at 6:22 in the morning, seven pounds eleven ounces, with a head full of dark hair and a cry that Earl Jr. said you could hear down the hall. Jasmine is fine. David is fine. David Jr. — who is twelve and has been waiting for this sibling with the intensity of a boy who is tired of being the only child — is, by all reports, already in love.

Earl Jr. called me at seven, which is Kayla's time, and Kayla was already on the other line, so for a minute I had both of them talking at me at once, which is not how phones work but is absolutely how this family works. I sat on the edge of my bed and I listened and I cried and I did not try to hide it because I am seventy-one years old and I have earned every tear, the good ones and the bad ones both.

Nine great-grandchildren. I said that number out loud to myself after I hung up. Nine. From a shotgun house on the east side of Savannah to nine great-grandchildren spread across Georgia and Florida and wherever Alexis is this week. Hattie Pearl had six children and thought that was abundance. Mama, I wish you could see this. I wish you could count what grew from what you planted.

I cannot hold the baby yet — she is in Marietta and I am here — but Earl Jr. promises to bring Jasmine and the children down at Thanksgiving. I told him I would make Jasmine's favorite, which is my chicken and dumplings, the thick ones, not the flat noodle kind that people up north try to pass off as dumplings. Real dumplings. Drop dumplings. Dumplings that sit in the broth like clouds and taste like someone loved you enough to stand at the stove and get the biscuit dough right.

I made chicken and dumplings this week anyway, for practice, which is a lie — I have been making chicken and dumplings for sixty years and I do not need practice. I made them because I was happy and when I am happy I cook, the same way when I am sad I cook, the same way when I am angry or confused or lost I cook, because the kitchen is the only place where every feeling has a purpose and every purpose has a plate.

Simone. Welcome, baby girl. The table is set.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The small monthly grandchild-visits rotate through the small school-year. Earl Jr.’s family comes the small first weekend of the month. Patricia’s family comes the small second weekend. Denise and Kayla drop by the small most-weekends. The small fourth weekend Dorothy has to herself. The small four-week-rotation has held since 2019.

The small seven grandchildren live in the small scatter across the small Southeast. Earl Jr. (the small oldest son) is in Atlanta working for UPS. Patricia (the small daughter) is in Jacksonville with her small husband and three small kids. Michael (the middle son) had been killed in 1998 in the small I-16 accident outside Macon at age 27; his small daughter Kayla had been raised by Dot and Earl and is now a small nurse at Memorial Hospital. Denise (the small youngest daughter) is in Savannah ten minutes away and checks on Dot daily.

The small Southern-cooking tradition is the small kitchen-identity. The small fried chicken on the small Sunday. The small collard greens with the small smoked ham hock cooked low and slow for three hours. The small cornbread baked in the small cast-iron skillet that had been Hattie Pearl’s (Dot’s mother’s) and her mother’s before that. The small biscuits-and-gravy. The small recipes that have been in the family since the small 1920s.

The chicken and dumplings will be the heart of the Thanksgiving table — they always are — but a baby girl only enters this world once, and when Earl Jr. brings Jasmine and the children down, I want something waiting on that table that looks as festive as this family feels right now. I’ve been making this pineapple cranberry punch for big gatherings as long as I can remember, and there is nothing that says we are celebrating something real quite like a punch bowl with an ice ring floating in it. Nine great-grandchildren deserves nothing less.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 0 minutes | Total Time: 20 minutes active, plus 6 hours to freeze ice ring | Servings: 24

Ingredients

For the Ice Ring:
2 cups distilled water
1/2 cup fresh or frozen cranberries
1/2 cup pineapple chunks (canned or fresh)
Small fresh mint sprigs (optional, for color)
For the Punch:
1 bottle (64 oz) cranberry juice cocktail, chilled
1 can (46 oz) pineapple juice, chilled
1 can (12 oz) frozen lemonade concentrate, thawed
2 liters ginger ale, chilled
1 pint pineapple sherbet (optional, for a creamier finish)
Fresh cranberries and pineapple slices for garnish

Instructions

Make the ice ring. Arrange cranberries, pineapple chunks, and mint sprigs in the bottom of a ring mold or Bundt pan. Pour in distilled water until the fruit is just covered. Freeze for at least 6 hours or overnight until completely solid.
Combine the juices. In a large punch bowl, stir together the cranberry juice cocktail, pineapple juice, and thawed lemonade concentrate until well blended. Taste and adjust — add a splash more pineapple juice if you want it a little sweeter.
Unmold the ice ring. Run warm water briefly over the bottom of the mold to loosen, then gently turn the ice ring out and lower it, fruit-side up, into the punch bowl.
Add the ginger ale. Just before guests arrive, pour the ginger ale slowly down the side of the bowl to preserve the fizz. Stir gently once or twice.
Add the sherbet (optional). Scoop the pineapple sherbet in small portions across the top of the punch for a frothy, party-style finish. It will melt slowly and add a creamy sweetness.
Garnish and serve. Float a few fresh cranberries and thin pineapple slices on top. Ladle into punch cups and serve immediately while cold and bubbly.

Nutrition (per serving)

Festive Pineapple Cranberry Punch (and Ice Ring) — Something Sweet to Toast Baby Simone