A Girl and This Turkey-The Finale

            Incredibly bleary and with a bit of a white-flag “we’ll get the rest done in the morning,” the husband and I got ready for bed on Christmas Eve. “What do you need me to do for the turkey in the morning? My mom used to get up at the crack of dawn to make the turkey, and I know I’ll wake up before you will,” he kindly offered. I asked him merely to set the bird out to come to room temperature. “As long as I have it in the oven by nine a.m., we’ll be just fine,” I said with all the assurance of someone exhausted who has been shown their deliciously fluffy pillow for the night. And if you are just counting prep and cook time, I was right. Completely right.

            But I was wrong. I was wrong, because I forgot to calculate on the sideshow of errors that inevitably ensued. Now, lest you get anxious, dear reader, I reassure you: Christmas dinner was only twenty minutes later than I thought it would be. The lateness was not even noticed. But the errors are worth the telling. 

            I rose to slather the turkey: Butter, poultry seasoning (eternally useful), pepper, salt, and additional rosemary were my choices. But as I went to take the giblets out of the cavity, there was ice. ICE! I was indignant. I knew I had consulted the Butterball website correctly for the proper refrigeration defrost time. It was like a slap in the face, like I’d been irresponsible or something. I imperiously commanded my husband to get the blue bowl out of the dishwasher; I was going to fill it and the turkey with warm water while I prepped the spices. He pulled out a clean but shallow serving bowl, claiming that he could not find the mixing bowl. I frantically gazed around the kitchen… nothing. Looking again, he pulled out the required bowl. As the water warmed, my hand froze, pulling out frozen ice chunks, giblets, and the neck. GROSS! (I also got the gravy bag out of the other side, Cousin Brenda; thanks!) I begged for a moment of warm water for my hand while he cleaned out a side of the sink (I told you we left some things for morning, right?), I can’t remember the last time any part of me was as cold as that hand drawn from the turkey. Jim reminded me that he likes to keep our fridge very cold, “And you’ve even warmed it some since you moved in!” And then I remembered all the weeks of frozen salad and greens during my newlywed days. I HAD warmed up the temp of the fridge, but it obviously is still very cold, exhibit A: the turkey, exhibit B: the condensation the underside of a container lid that I pulled out today, total ice. 

            At any rate, I was exonerated in my mind from having been ill prepared. An outrageously cold refrigerator means I did defrost according to the directions I was given. 

            As the hot water mixing bowl was asked to do its magic, I blended the spices into the butter. I finished preparing the trimmings I would add for flavor: To celery and carrots, I added onion and sliced apples. A perfect flavor profile! I got the roasting pan ready to go. 

            Drying the turkey, slathering it, stuffing it, and then nestling it on its bed of remaining vegetables and fruit went well. However, as I placed the turkey in the oven, the turkey bag was bumping the top rack, which I had moved to the top possible point, I worried that the bag would burst. With kindness and might, Jim removed the 325-degree top rack to the back porch for a couple of hours until it was needed for the side dishes. By that time, the trimmings were cooked down enough that the turkey did not bump. 

            As I drew the turkey out of the oven, I was pleasantly surprised at how well the butter had browned the skin even though it was in a bag. I resolved to do a more thorough buttering if I use this method or ever cook a whole turkey again. 

            I must now take a break to confide in you. I am basically a three-year-old when it comes to how finicky I am about food. I don’t like to eat meat with bones in it; I prefer never to see a bone. In my soul, I am probably vegetarian. I definitely choose to act like meat is not an animal but rather some kind of exotic root vegetable you can make gravy from. 

            So the turkey rests, sitting ominously on the stove until the fated time has come to pass: time to carve the turk. Neither Jim nor I had ever carved a turkey before. I had watched a video on how to carve a spatchcocked turkey, but it’s different with the backbone still intact. 

            Well. There are no words. For this bone loathing vegetarian-at-heart, it was a macabre dismemberment. I functioned as the (not-too-sharp) brains, and Jim as the brawn as we hacked our way to Christmas dinner. I know at one point we mangled a thigh not only beyond recognition, but also in a way that we never really found it again. I wondered how I would ever be able to eat that bird! I hope that in the end, all I remember is to have the turkey show you where its joints are and then make the cuts at those points, rather than trying pre-feast orthopedic surgery. 

            But here is the great and wonderful joke of it all: I have dreaded making a full turkey my entire life. I only set out on this adventure to give my eldest stepson the validation of having brought a man-sized provision home from his first man-job. And it worked!!! Despite all of the misadventures, all of the freezing and mangling, the turkey was incredibly tender and almost, I say almost, delightfully flavorful! 

            I am so grateful that this turkey turned out well. I am thankful to my kind, patient, and brawny husband (we really showed that thigh, didn’t we???), and I am so grateful to be able to give. To give what effort I can into the life of the man-child who I love so much. 

            And in giving, I received. It’s a great blessing to be useful, to give flavor and nourishment, to give a feast. Merry Christmas to all!

            And God bless us, every one.