Brining, Butt-Scraping, and an Anti-Christ Turkey: Trials and tribulations of my first attempt at cooking a turkey
Traditionally my family always traveled during Thanksgiving week. It was a nice time to get away somewhere tropical, and it incorporated some already free days from school so I missed less coursework. (That week also coincided with picture day for almost my entire youth so there is precious little photographic evidence of my ever attending school prior to high school.) I had little exposure to traditional Thanksgiving meals until well into adulthood when I was traveling on my own dime, and getting that week off from work was an uphill battle. Turkey was a foreign bird to me.
But what about Christmas, you may ask? I’m Italian/Sicilian. We don’t do turkey for Christmas. We do seven different kinds of fish and pasta, obviously! Turkeys simply never graced our dinner table, so my knowledge of how to prepare them was woefully lacking.
Enter Thanksgiving 2010, when I found myself in the position to host my very first Thanksgiving dinner for my now husband’s family. All prepared in our condo with the tiniest kitchen on the face of the planet. “Galley” kitchen doesn’t even come close to describing how small it was. If you wanted to have more than one person in there, you’d best grease the counters with some Pam first or you’d get stuck.
My struggles that year became family lore, so I immortalized them in a series of Facebook posts that I am now condensing into this blog. Read on to feel much more confident about your own cooking abilities….
Picture it: Thanksgiving week, Wethersfield, CT, 2010.
Stop & Shop had an overwhelming selection of fresh, frozen, organic, name brand, store brand, self-basting, self-cleaning, self-eating turkeys. So many to choose from! There was an employee stationed at the turkey display to deal with customers like myself - those with a deer-in-the-headlights look who clearly knew nothing about this particular bird. He smiled, knowingly, and asked if I'd like help selecting a bird.
Well no, thank you sir, I did not. I was determined to be independent and competent and carry off this holiday without a hitch. I walked confidently to the vat of fresh turkeys, fumbled around until I found one close to the size I wanted (still a bit big at 17 lbs but there seemed to be a giant gap between the 10 lb and 25 lb with little in between), and pushed my cart away, victorious.
I then called my dear friend Risa who was more familiar with this curious bird to share my superior turkey selection skills. She helpfully mentioned that where I was doing a brine, (go big or go home, am I right?) I may want to check the sodium level on the turkey as there are often additives, and select the one with the least amount so the combination of that and my brine wouldn't make it like a salt lick. Damn. That meant going back to the turkey display and the man whose help I refused.
It was then a Mission Impossible trek back to the display, ducking behind aisles, peeking around corners, desperate to paw through the turkey pile again and confirm I got the right bird without him seeing my return and ineptitude. Blessedly, he was nowhere to be found, so I dove into the pile (arms only, not literally) and frantically picked up birds to compare the sodium. Turns out I had selected the lowest one already and I was back on my shopping trip, faith in my cooking ability renewed.
I successfully bought the fresh turkey, put it in the fridge, and around 11pm that night opened the fridge to get a glass of water and found what seemed like a gallon of turkey blood/juice/secretions all over the fridge. Wtf?! The bird was still in the original blister-packed wrapping and double bagged. This turkey was spirited, at least with its bodily fluids.
45 minutes later after emptying and peroxiding the fridge, re-bagging the bird, and having a few choice words, I washed up for bed and went back to get my water. Not a gallon, but another solid cup of turkey juice on my just sterilized fridge! 8&^%$! I think some must have seeped into the shelf edge cap and slowly leaked out. Oh, it was on now, you leaky bastard. Judgment day was coming.
The next day I announced to James (my then boyfriend, now husband) that when he finished his dinner at the bar he was going to help me prepare the turkey. He raised an eyebrow and shrugged in agreement as he left, likely hoping that "helping" meant just heavy lifting or something else manly but not actually cooking anything. When he returned, I was perched on the edge of the couch, clutching a glass of wine, and staring warily towards the kitchen.
"I'm afraid of the turkey" I whispered, nodding towards the fridge. "There are giblets to contend with. And a neck, I think. You're going to help, right?" James laughed off my hesitation and marched confidently into the kitchen, awaiting my instruction.
The first mini-disaster happened when we tried to get the turkey out of the bag it came in. James was anxious to help with a task he could handle, and cutting off a bag was right up his alley, except he had me hovering over his shoulder and interjecting comments like -
"Make sure you save the instructions... don't cut the skin!”
“Yes, you DID nick the skin.”
“Well I don't know why it matters, but I'm supposed to stuff herbs under the skin and if it's cut it'll all just fall out. Or it'll let the juice out.”
“I don't know, just don't do it.”
“No I'm not a turkey Nazi!"
When the bag was finally cut enough to ease out the turkey, we carefully slid it onto a cutting board. That wasn't rimmed. Along with what seemed like ANOTHER gallon of turkey blood that rushed all over our counter, under the toaster oven, down the cabinets, onto the floor, and onto my pants.
What followed was a frenzy of grabbing at paper towels and dish towels, mopping up the flow before it spread more, forgetting about the turkey entirely and accidentally knocking it into the sink (where we probably should have put it to begin with). I cleaned so thoroughly after that mess for fear of a raging salmonella infection that there was a good chance our turkey was going to taste vaguely of peroxide. Could be tasty!
I next assigned James the duty of removing the giblet bag and neck, and instructed him to chop up the neck, gizzard, and heart for the turkey broth I was going to make for the gravy. Well we found the liver, discarded it, found the gizzard, found the neck... no heart. We had a heartless turkey! I searched the body cavity thoroughly but came up empty. I didn’t imagine it would matter much for the broth, but I hoped it wasn’t hiding somewhere in the body only to be found and be disgusting during dinner. Chopping the neck was quite the ordeal as we didn't have a cleaver and James couldn't hack through the vertebrae well, so he resorted to literally wringing the neck apart like a Barbarian.
And of course, his running dialogue that all sounded vaguely pornographic.
"Is there another hole? I just feel this big one"
"I think this piece is attached to the butt. I could probably pull it off but it looks like it belongs."
"These holes are awfully water-tight. How did this thing manage to leak all over our fridge?"
"I'm practically elbow deep up in this hole and I don't feel anything. Are you sure it's in here?"
I then slid a mixture of sage, thyme, and rosemary with some olive oil under the turkey skin, rubbed kosher salt in the cavity and on the skin, and stuck it in oven bags to begin it's 4 day brining process. The turkey broth was made with the neck, gizzard, no heart as this turkey is apparently the poultry version of the anti-Christ, parsley, onion, thyme, carrot, and celery. After a multi-step process and 50 minutes of simmering... it didn't taste like much. Very disappointing. It would get beefed up with other ingredients for the actual gravy, including some of the drippings and a pan de-glazing, but I expected more after such a process.
James's mother was bringing some dessert and bread, but she helpfully called to check on how I was managing and gave me some tips on the turkey:
Gail - "You took out the giblets, right?"
Me - "Oh yes, James did that actually, and the neck. He did great. We couldn't find the heart, but I'm not worried."
Gail - "What about the butt?"
Me - "...what about the butt, indeed? No, really... what about it?"
Gail - "Did you scrape the butt?"
Me - "...I'm supposed to scrape the butt?"
Gail - "Well there's stuff in there you should get out."
Me - "Like poop!?"
Gail - "Oh no, of course not, but butt stuff. Scrape it out.”
Me - **whispering** "James, did you see stuff in the butt?"
James - "I was supposed to look up the butt? Is this what cooking is like? Rectal exams?!"
Me - "Oh well I'm sure the butt will be fine Gail, thanks, but I'll check it just in case."
Was I supposed to scrape the butt, for real? What was the deal with the turkey butt? Maybe that was where the heart was!
I’m pleased to report the meal turned out delicious, we never did find the heart, but we also didn’t find anything untoward in the butt. I consider that a win.
…and I’m more convinced than ever that traveling over Thanksgiving is the way to go.