You see, it is my job to save the turkey from my mother. She wants to help, she really does. But there is a reason that during my entire childhood my mother either took us to Chinese restaurants on T day or bought the pre-made packaged meal from the market in a box. I really don't want to start drinking now, but I am afraid. I think that I may have to bite the bullet and be brave. This turkey is not going to cook itself and we really can't afford to let my mother do it.
I'm working from this recipe. Obviously I will be deviating from it since I am naturally deviant:
http://www.chow.com/recipes/11130-bacon-wrapped-turkey-with-pear-cider-gravy
I've started washing the turkey and I am still terrifyingly sober.
My mother helpfully lets me know that the red side of the tap is hot water and blue side is cold. In addition, she reminds me that I should not leave the giblets in.
My mother points at the oven and says, "What is this?"
Thinking she is pointing at the turkey I say, "Um, .... it is a turkey."
But she is pointing at the temperature of the oven. It's a preheating oven. "You want it at 450?"
"Yes. It's preheating, mom. I'm going to turn it down later."
"Well, okay. But we don't want the turkey turning out dry like last time."
Then she goes off on how dry it was for a little while.
Last time I made an orange-ginger-candy-glazed turkey. The bird caramelized to that perfect color you only ever see on TV. The candy coating sealed in the juices to make the bird taste amazing in spite of it being, you know, ... a turkey.
My mother has mentioned how dry the turkey was last time approximately five times since we arrived yesterday.
My husband helpfully says that he did not think the turkey was dry. Actually he thought that it was delicious! No no, my mother says. The turkey was, in fact, dry.
As she goes on for another ten minutes, my husband pours a hefty amount of Kahluha in my coffee while my mother is not looking. This is a really good thing because I didn't want to go to jail for murdering my mother today.
To be fair she wasn't telling me it was my fault. Somehow the terrible turkey was all the fault of a broken meat thermometer. And yes, last time the thermometer WAS broken.
And my turkey was still fucking perfect.
The last time my mother tried to make a turkey she burnt the entire thing. She blamed it on the mountain oven and differing altitudes in the mountains. I am sure that had an effect. However, the skin was blackened. And when I say blackened, I do not mean with a delicious cajon peppery coating.
My mother is trying to find other things to do in the kitchen while I am doing the bird. I know she is trying to bond, but it is a small kitchen and I generally like cooking by myself. It's too hard to work around other people and it just takes too long to explain to other people what I am doing to have them help efficiently. And even with the Kahluha I am still too sober.
Mostly my mother has been looking for items to put in the oven while I have been preheating it. I am just about to put the turkey in.
I've put the salt and pepper on the bird. I've stuck celery stalks around the bird and chopped up two onions. Some of this gets put in the bird. Some gets put around the bird. I think I was supposed to chop the celery up but I didn't. My sister wants to use the one and only cutting board that my mother has in the house so she attempts to put all of the items I have already cut in a tiny cereal bowl even though I tell her she can just throw them on the actual turkey that is right next to her. She says by way of explanation "I don't approve of cooking turkey."
I guess, at this point, I am glad that I didn't tie up the turkey legs together.
I was thinking I should put in an obligatory comment about the rubber gloves and some sort of sexual behavior - specifically fisting. because you know, that's what you do with rubber gloves. But I don't really have any bread stuffing for the turkey this year.
Turkey goes in for 30 minutes at 400 and then out for basting. There wasn't much juice to baste with which really seemed a shame. As a result, I added some chicken broth and a healthy dose of pear cider. This stroke of genius was fortunate since my Kahluha was long gone. Plus it was now 11am which is a more acceptable time of day on Thanksgiving to get toasted. I made sure to get a two large bottles of hard cider so that I could plan for it to be my drinking buddy for the day.
Turkey goes back in. Oven is down to 350.
Mom got this weird turkey injector. It's like a giant hypo you might see in a 1930's Buster Keaton film. I have no idea why anyone would usefully use it. I mean, I've already shoved butter under the skin before I started to cook the damn thing.
Oh.
I didn't tell you that part?
Well, I guess I already assumed you would know to shove about a stick of butter under the skin of any chicken or turkey you choose to cook. Some turkeys require two sticks of butter.
But back to the hypo. I find that it is not very useful, but it *is* kind of fun to take the drippings and inject them straight into the turkey to watch it expand before your eyes and then the little hole explodes like the tiny steamy geysers from Yellowstone Park!
I check to see that the rest of the ingredients are supposed to wait for the gravy. To me, that doesn't make sense since gravy is made from the drippings. I decide to add everything to the drippings now. C'mon America! Shouldn't the turkey have the benefit of all that cider and fresh herbs before being roasted? Plus. I need to refresh my cider glass now.
At this time the turkey has about three cups of broth below it, three cups of cider, a spring of thyme and a two sprigs of sage stuffed into the cavity of the bird. A few more are neatly arranged around the sides.
I decide that the syringe is mostly useful for squirting stuff in the far back of the turkey cavity at high speeds. This way I can watch the juice flow explosively past the neck out the other side.
My mother tries to helpfully tell me that in order to use her meat thermometer I must first take it out of the plastic sheath. I tell her that that is great news since I thought that the thermometer went into meat items with the plastic sheath on and then later you took it off so you could use the metal bits to test vegan items. This way the two parts remained separate.
It takes a few minutes before she comes back dryly with; "I know I have raised a smarter girl than that."
Turkey goes back in for another 45 minutes.
My mother, having noticed I was grumpy with her even though I didn't say anything specifically has begun to withdraw and sulk, thus indicating it is all my fault.
Of course I feel guilty.
I use my instant happier to send me to my happy place. I listen to it twice: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFzXaFbxDcM
This helps immeasurably. Also the family goes for a walk which I cannot go on since I have to baste the turkey. My husband stays behind. Yay!
Turkey comes out and pears go in it. The internal temperature is a little higher than I want it to be at this point. It's approx. 155 to 160 depending on where I stick the thermometer. I wanted it to be 120. But onward we must go. Anyway, if it actually *is* dry this year I won't be pissy when my mom talks about it the next time.
The pears go all around the turkey after being cored and split in half, though not necessarily in that order.
Then the two pound bacon weave goes on top. Normally one would put one pound of bacon on the turkey. Andrew Conway showed me that this is entirely unaesthetic. I should put two pounds on so I can get a lovely basket design. Plus I can wrap the legs up like so:
While waiting for the turkey to cook, now is a good time to watch an inspiring video like this :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VcJ5LxG4CRE&feature=youtu.be&t=9m47s#!
Turkey comes out again. Family is back from their walk. Sister makes obligatory comment about the fact that she does not appreciate the use of both turkey and pigs. Pigs are her favorite animal. Both turkeys and pigs are forced to die cruel cruel deaths in part by being forced to gain so much weight that their knees get crushed.
I manage to refill my wine glass another time.
In 45 minutes the turkey comes out for the final time. My sister does not skip a beat in making another remark about the death of animals which I have chosen to consume. Her fixation on animal cruelty is ironic due to many uncomfortable and horrifying stories of my childhood which I will not refer to here due to this being a jovial and jolly recipe site where people come to relax, to laugh, and to toss back a few.
Ha ha ha ha.
45 minutes later, the temperature of the turkey is still not quite 165 degrees. It's really close. And since I don't feel like feeding another amusing round of "last time the turkey was dry!" I left it out.
I suck up most of the liquids under the turkey and squirt them in a large sauce pan. I also throw in four pears and then mash the hell out of them along with some fresh sage and thyme. I put a little bit aside and whip that up with flour in small amounts until I got about a half cup of paste. Then I added this back to your main gravy, I threw in a little milk and I stirred vigorously.
That was it. That's the turkey. Thank you for tuning in! I hope you liked it.
Next Thanksgiving I plan to present "Rack of Pheasant Brined with Thyme and Thorazine and then Broiled with a Light Citrus Seroquel Glaze."
