Bird Song
My sister-in-law recently asked me whether I thought something could be on a person’s bucket list if it was actually more of a goal never to do it at all. I said that I think it can, especially when that something is more of an unspoken expectation that you will do it eventually. Case in point, cooking the Thanksgiving turkey.
My entire adult life I vowed never to cook a turkey on Thanksgiving. Not only do I not enjoy eating roast turkey, I’m also not a spectacular hostess, which is why adding it to my bucket list as something I would never do made perfect sense. For years, I’ve used it as my excuse not to cook a main dish for my family. Oh yeah sure, we can totally gather for Thanksgiving at my place, but since not cooking a turkey is on my bucket list, you’ll need to bring one, and also, don’t get your hopes up for much more.
For the past five years or so, I’ve “hosted” my family for Thanksgiving. Typically, there’s between 11 and 15 people, including kids, and for four of those five years I’ve forced my poor family to make the turkey, transport it about an hour to my house, then gussy it up upon arrival. I made some sides. Drank cocktails; occasionally prepared them. Set out placemats. Dusted my house. What more do you people want? “For you to cook the damn turkey,” they’d whisper between bites of bone dry poultry.
A part of me has always known the day would come when I’d finally care about the bird. I think it was around the year I bought a cornucopia centerpiece and a tablecloth from Hobby Lobby. The hour is upon us now, Kate I could hear my inner voice say. Oh, and be sure to consider getting that “Live, Laugh, Love” sign above the entrance to the store. It’s just so true.
This year my saint of a mother finally asked if we could cook the turkey at my house. She doesn’t ask very much of me and really never has, so when she mentioned it I knew it was time to lay down my arms, forget about the bucket list, and cook that bird. She said she’d still buy it, thaw it, and help me prep it the day before. Deal, I said. Although I still didn’t want to touch the slimy beast or pull out its neck, since she asked and I already had the centerpiece, I decided I could make the ultimate sacrifice and throw a turkey in the oven before my first mimosa on Thanksgiving morning. Fuck it.
In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving I mentioned cooking my first turkey to a few work colleagues and one suggested making a brine. That sounds like too much, I thought. I’ll just buy a rotisserie chicken and open a Dole salad kit. They’d be cool with that, right? He assured me that they would not and that the brine was not difficult at all. It was then, instead of continuing to make excuses, I made a commitment: I would not only cook the turkey, I would brine the thing, nurture it like my own, rub it down with canola oil to the point of resurrection, and make the best damn bird my family had ever tasted.
Keep in mind that although preparing main dishes for large gatherings isn’t really my thing, I do enjoy cooking and I make dinner for me, Rod, and Van almost every night. I wasn’t going into this thing completely unfamiliar with flavor pairings or how to follow a recipe, but preparing a bird that weighs the size of a small toddler is still intimidating AF, so I needed some guidance, and that’s where the experience of my colleague who suggested the brine and the brilliance of Alton Brown came into play.
I followed this Alton Brown recipe as suggested by my new work BFF. I also asked the BFF questions every day for two weeks straight and he has since put in for an office transfer. It’s fine.
With Thanksgiving on Thursday, I prepared the brine on Tuesday in preparation for the bird’s arrival on Wednesday afternoon. The brine was incredibly easy to make and finding a good storage bin for it and the bird to settle in for the evening wasn’t too tough either. With the prep work done and my confidence levels up, when my Mom finally cut open the netting to reveal the thawed turkey, I knew in an instant that he was my baby. We will call him Turkey Steve, I said. And I will prepare him with love.
Pulling out his innards was a lot like seeing a mild open wound. Sure it was gross, but not so gross that I wanted to look away. After that, it was into the brine and a boatload of iced water for the night. In the morning, after rinsing and stuffing him with apple and onion and rubbing him down with oil just like I promised, I placed my 24-pound Turkey Steve in the oven. I stared at him for a bit before closing the oven door knowing I had done all I could to give him the brightest future possible. It was then I swear I saw him briefly raise his left wing as if to say, “Thank you.”
Turkey Steve did not disappoint. The temperature and timing were all on point and he tasted like a dream - and this from a person who eats baked ham at all holiday gatherings (which my Mom still transports from an hour away. Oh stop, she likes doing it). In any case, after making my family shower me with compliments for the entirety of the dinner, I realized there would be many more Turkey Steves in my future and that I shouldn’t be so scared about this bird or anything else - especially when I had the support of people like my colleagues, my Mom, and Alton Brown.
