Things I'm Learning

In a moment of weakness, I said I’d contribute a turkey (and stuffing, and gravy, plus green beans, AND an appetizer) to our Thanksgiving meal. For a dozen years or more, we’ve traveled to Michigan, to a precious cottage in my husband’s family, a magical place for my children, and also, home to a 40 (or 50?) year old oven that doesn’t accurately match its heat to the temperature on the dial. We plan our annual feast, via text, with several other families who also make the trek, each of us figuring out what we might bring (if we’re driving) or purchase (if we’re flying - or if we’re wise!). Pies are always purchased, since there’s an awesome bakery near by (and yes, I had a slice of pumpkin AND pecan!). I must have been in a fever dream imagining myself as a celebrated holiday chef when I responded to the text thread this year...

My dear husband arrived 3 days before me, so I sent him to order the turkey, and we ended up with an 18 pounder. I started to stress out - I couldn’t close my eyes and imagine how big that bird might be, let alone the proper size pan + rack combo for roasting. I got with Google, but quickly shifted into overwhelm. It turns out << how to cook a turkey + 18 pounds + easy recipe >> yielded too many results, and I recognized this was a phone-a-friend situation.

“OMG, Lisa - just spatchcock it, it’s so much easier!” was the reply from a foodie pal. I’d never HEARD the word “spatchcock” but after delving into YouTube, I convinced myself I could absolutely remove a backbone from said turkey. I trucked the biggest pan-rack combo I had to Michigan, but realized I didn’t have 1. big sharp cooking shears or 2. a big sharp cooking knife cleaver. Hmmm - were these super-specific tools really so critical to spatchcocking? (Spoiler alert: yes.)

After picking up the huge turkey and plopping it in the fridge, I watched 10 more how-to videos, made a trip to buy just average cooking shears, and searched the drawers for a cleaver, settling for a 40 (or 50?) year old, uhm, regular and fairly dull knife. Tuesday afternoon, it took me over an hour to spatch, cock, scissor, cut and swear that backbone out, and I did have a short cry in there, too. Step 2 was all about breaking and flattening the breast bone, and knew I was done for. The gist of spatchcocking is that a flatter bird cooks more evenly and quickly, but our Tom Turkey was going to keep his now butter-covered breasts riding high.

Wednesday was a day of rest (ie: another trip to the grocery store but no front-and-center bird time).

At 9:00 am on Thursday, I watched a few more videos and read a half-dozen articles, too, then set and reset 40 (or 50?) timers to get me through roasting the bird, and making stuffing, and beans, and gravy, and what the heck, an appetizer, too. I also managed to sneak in a cry, because WHY WASN'T THE BREAST REGISTERING 155 DEGREES YET and was I going to give everyone salmonella?

The turkey looked beautiful by 4:00 pm but I ignored all the ohhhs and ahhhs. I was exhausted, turkeyed out, ready to climb back into bed, defeated by the bird - its timed 425 to 325 requirements, its leg and breast temperature-taking, its aluminum foil crown off and on and off and on.

I'm learning that I should always raise my hand to help, but never again will I be the turkey girl.

Tart with farmer's market leeks, camembert cheese and this amazing jam from our beloved Cherry Republic:

(I have not one picture of the turkey.)