One of the many dubious accomplishments of my life thus far is that I have managed to not have to roast an actual turkey. Turkey breast, I can do. I prep it with white wine, garlic, butter, and broth; I cook it in the crock-pot. Tender, flavorful… safe. No bones. No giblets. It works for me!
On Thanksgiving, my oldest stepson walked through the front door with an honest-to-God full turkey. Frozen. With bones. With giblets (I assume). He got it at his manufacturing job as a Thanksgiving gift. Job well done!
About a week ago, while I was still in the throes of getting grade cards finished and entertaining first graders peacefully until break, my husband asked me if I was planning to make this turkey for Christmas. Christmas, of all things! The Super Bowl of dinners, the biggest (or maybe second-biggest) meal of the year. Only Thanksgiving competes, when I have cleverly crabstepped my way out of real turkey for years.
Here’s the thing: I’m terrified. I’ve read so much about all the different ways to cook turkey, all the opinions. The brining. The deep frying. The basting. The palette of which spices should be used. One of my favorite seasonal children’s books is Thanksgiving at the Tappletons, which highlights a turkey disaster involving skidding across the floor and into a lightly frozen pond. A Christmas Story, another holiday favorite, ends with a turkey calamity involving joyfully slavering hounds.
But I dearly love my stepson. As scared as I am, I want this for him. If I can get out of the way of my fear, it will be the first time that his provision has created a festive meal. He’s come a long way lately. He’s growing by leaps and bounds. If he can manage to earn a turkey, I will do this. I will make him The Founder of the Feast this year.
And so, I begin.
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