Patricia Lee Sharpe
I’ve spent the whole week rassling pixels, which means my brain is frazzled, so I’m going to serve up some turkey this weekend, as we teeter between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
This morning I collected my Christmas turkey from the Farmers’ Market. A heritage bird, raised on the range by some very nice people at Pollo Real in Socorro, New Mexico, it’s in no way a fowl that fits a food stamp budget, but it’s well worth the investment otherwise. Can you say flavorful—even the lovely white breast? Can you say succulent? Especially those nice fat thighs. (Hummm! This could verge on poultry porn.) Of course, the modest turkey pictured here looks more like a kicked-to-death football. It’s still frozen, and it must go into the freezer. Next week a family council will decide what to do with it. Will we have turkey on Christmas Day? Or will we have roast beef? If the latter, when to roast the turkey?
Whenever, the prep will be easy! No soaking in brine! No saline injections. Just defrost it, stuff it, truss it, anoint it with butter and pop it in the baking pan over a layer of chopped up onions, carrots and celery, whose function is to flavor the drippings that so that the ensuing gravy (add water, a soupçon of red wine, a couple of shakes of salt; thicken with a bit of flour; strain; skim off excess fat) will be all that’s needed to puddle on the mashed potatoes and dressing. As for the turkey, assuming I pay attention to the thermometer, which isn’t guaranteed, it will emerge so sweetly moist the swallowing process won’t call for the lubrication-by-gravy that’s de rigeur for every bite of a turkzila from the supermarket.
Speaking of supermarket turkey, I had turkey sandwiches for lunch recently. The alleged turkey meat was the thin sliced white stuff that looks and tastes like printer paper. The cheese that went with it, masquerading under the name of Jarlsberg, had the feel of a 
rubberized tent tarp. Unlike a good tarp, though, it had holes. Hence, blessedly less cheesy cheese to ingest with each slice. Once again, I swore off turkey sandwiches, except for those constructed of leftovers from a properly home-roasted bird, which means they come only with long turkeyless intervals.
That’s about to change, thanks to a clump of flesh held together by what looks like a hair net in this picture. Quite by inadvertence, I’ve found an easy and very affordable way to have truly wonderful cold turkey. The discovery (for me, at least) came two weeks ago, when I faced my first ever Thanksgiving alone. At first, I decided to celebrate. I’d roast my own turkey (oh! the sandwiches to come!) with all the veggies the rest of my family has no use for. Mashed turnips. Stewed onions (mine are done with broth, butter and cognac). Brussels sprouts in a Parmesan sauce. Stuffing with walnuts and apples, plus the standard ingredients. A nice wine. And I would make myself an apple pie with a rolypoly, which is the absolute quintessance of salt-sugar-fat decadence. Yum! As for the turkey, I would experiment with a boneless turkey breast. I’d never cooked one before. I’d be my own guinea pig.
Whew! A lot of work, but I like to cook and I like to eat, so I was up for it. Until the day dawned. Thanksgiving. Did I really want to slave like that?
No, I didn’t. I’d roast the turkey, bake a sweet potato, toss up a salad and make the pie—and the rolypoly. Yet dry turkey? Ugh! That’s when laziness led to inspiration. I’d fill a soup pot with chicken broth, plunk in the turkey (net and all), inject a thermometer and let the lump simmer away all by itself until the internal temperature reached 65 degrees. So much easier than babying a roast—and the meal would be so much healthier, too. Except for the pie crust part.
I had myself a totally self-sufficient and pleasant day—reading, working, listening to music, chatting on the phone with my kids who were having Thanksgiving with my ex—and, once the turkey was in the pot, checking the thermometer from time to time. When the mercury stood at 55 degrees, I hauled the unprepossessing object out of the water, slipped its net off and let the thing languish on a platter while its internal temperature rose to the approved 65 degrees. Then I got out a carving knife and sliced. Nice thick slices. The kind that could be called generous.
Wow! Moist. Flavorful. A joy to eat, even without gravy.
As for the broth the turkey had simmered in, I didn’t waste it. Chicken broth had miraculously turned into turkey broth, which made a perfectly good base for an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink vegetable soup—with chunks of turkey, of course. And rice, eventually. Nothing has to go to waste!
Pie excepted, there was one thing very traditional about my solo Thanksgiving feast—turkey always yields leftovers. I had cold sliced turkey; I made turkey fried rice; I cooked up a korma sauce and tossed in some bite-sized cubes of turkey which gave me turkey curry. I had lots of sandwiches, of course.
Now Christmas is coming. My house will be full, and we’ll have the annual animated but good-natured debate over what to serve with the turkey and/or the roast beef. It won’t be mashed turnip or Brussels sprouts. That's for sure. But one of these days....
.
That’s about to change, thanks to a clump of flesh held together by what looks like a hair net in this picture. Quite by inadvertence, I’ve found an easy and very affordable way to have truly wonderful cold turkey. The discovery (for me, at least) came two weeks ago, when I faced my first ever Thanksgiving alone. At first, I decided to celebrate. I’d roast my own turkey (oh! the sandwiches to come!) with all the veggies the rest of my family has no use for. Mashed turnips. Stewed onions (mine are done with broth, butter and cognac). Brussels sprouts in a Parmesan sauce. Stuffing with walnuts and apples, plus the standard ingredients. A nice wine. And I would make myself an apple pie with a rolypoly, which is the absolute quintessance of salt-sugar-fat decadence. Yum! As for the turkey, I would experiment with a boneless turkey breast. I’d never cooked one before. I’d be my own guinea pig.
Whew! A lot of work, but I like to cook and I like to eat, so I was up for it. Until the day dawned. Thanksgiving. Did I really want to slave like that?
No, I didn’t. I’d roast the turkey, bake a sweet potato, toss up a salad and make the pie—and the rolypoly. Yet dry turkey? Ugh! That’s when laziness led to inspiration. I’d fill a soup pot with chicken broth, plunk in the turkey (net and all), inject a thermometer and let the lump simmer away all by itself until the internal temperature reached 65 degrees. So much easier than babying a roast—and the meal would be so much healthier, too. Except for the pie crust part.
I had myself a totally self-sufficient and pleasant day—reading, working, listening to music, chatting on the phone with my kids who were having Thanksgiving with my ex—and, once the turkey was in the pot, checking the thermometer from time to time. When the mercury stood at 55 degrees, I hauled the unprepossessing object out of the water, slipped its net off and let the thing languish on a platter while its internal temperature rose to the approved 65 degrees. Then I got out a carving knife and sliced. Nice thick slices. The kind that could be called generous.
Wow! Moist. Flavorful. A joy to eat, even without gravy.
As for the broth the turkey had simmered in, I didn’t waste it. Chicken broth had miraculously turned into turkey broth, which made a perfectly good base for an everything-but-the-kitchen-sink vegetable soup—with chunks of turkey, of course. And rice, eventually. Nothing has to go to waste!
Pie excepted, there was one thing very traditional about my solo Thanksgiving feast—turkey always yields leftovers. I had cold sliced turkey; I made turkey fried rice; I cooked up a korma sauce and tossed in some bite-sized cubes of turkey which gave me turkey curry. I had lots of sandwiches, of course.
Now Christmas is coming. My house will be full, and we’ll have the annual animated but good-natured debate over what to serve with the turkey and/or the roast beef. It won’t be mashed turnip or Brussels sprouts. That's for sure. But one of these days....
.