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.Continue reading "More Adventures of a Slapdash Cook: Turkey Surprise" »
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