Thanksgiving is a joy. Turkey is a misery. That sums things up pretty nicely, I think.
Thanksgiving dinner embraces many of my most treasured cooking philosophies. It is a time when people gather, prepare simple foods, eat, reflect and celebrate. It is a time when millions of Americans are willing to fight traffic, airport snarls and long-standing family feuds all in the name of sitting down together and sharing a traditional, comforting, meal. I love the sentiment. I’m charmed at how we have spun the story of the Pilgrims’ near starvation into a fairy tale involving pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce. I get all warm and fuzzy inside when I think of how, even in the midst of such selfish times, we still take a long weekend to embrace such ideals as brotherhood, celebrating our plenty and caring for our neighbors. I love that it is still a meal that matters, that most participants often want to cook or contribute in some way to the betterment of the experience, even if that means just stopping by the corner store and picking up a tub of CoolWhip or a quick six pack for the bowl games.
What I don’t love, is turkey. I appreciate the bird and the role it plays. It is a big, inexpensive, crowd pleasing chunk of protein. The packaging, marketing and processing of modern turkey has magicked away most of the flub factor, making it possible for even very inexperienced cooks to proudly present a centerpiece-worthy fowl. Recipes, techniques and information on food safety are so ubiquitous a cook would have to make a conscious effort to avoid them. Swaggering, "manly-men", eager to avoid kitchen tasks the rest of the year suddenly don aprons and become experts on brining, smoking and deep frying techniques. Foodies will plan for weeks, clipping recipes and gathering ingredients. Those who invested big bucks early in the season will finally meet their adoptive Bourbon Red or Narragansett as it makes its plucked, naked arrival from the local, organic farm. This is all good. Thanksgiving stuffing, mashed potatoes, sauces, rolls, and vegetables- pile it high! But a slab of lab-plumped Butterball? No, thank you.
I’ve had some brilliantly cooked turkeys over the years. My family swerved off the traditional turkey path when I was very young. Mom and Dad lightly poached our birds in a soy sauce and ginger broth before roasting them, an idea inspired by The Thousand Recipe Chinese Cookbook. The resulting birds were moist and savory enough to disregard their black, scraggly appearance. My personal turkey achievements include one honey smoked version that reached near perfection and a wild turkey shot by a family friend that I stewed in rich, complex mole Poblano sauce from Diana Kennedy. Perhaps the pinnacle of turkey experiences was Jamie Guerin’s El Salvadorian chompe sandwiches. His family recipe involves roasting a turkey with a complex assortment of unfamiliar spices and, of all things, prunes. The shredded meat is served napped with a thick, sweet and savory sauce made from the pan components. It is all served on chewy rolls with sliced radishes and vinegary, spiced cabbage. We served them at our wedding. They’re that good. These days, Jamie is busy running his restaurant, The Whitehouse – Crawford in Walla Walla, so our days of celebratory chompes are sadly, long gone. Like all Americans, turkey is part of my culinary history. But we don’t have much of a future together.
535 million pounds. That is one estimate of how much consistently lousy turkey is consumed over Thanksgiving weekend. It’s a dizzying number. And while I too often wear blinders when it comes to the horrors of factory farming, turkey season tends to give me the heebie-jeebies. The average American turkey has become a mutant of over breeding and genetic manipulation. The breasts on these beasts are so bloated that even “free range” birds are often unable to walk. For years my sister had a turkey hen as a beloved pet. Even with regular exercise and a healthy diet, “Winnie” looked crippled when she waddled outside of her comfortable stable. Commercial turkey reproduction relies exclusively on artificial insemination because these bad boys are too round to take care of business naturally. Any animal that cannot procreate is cause for concern. We're not talking here about cuddly panda bears with threatened habitats. These are huge, stupid birds with very little resemblance to their crafty, lean, wild brethren.
So, I have a dilemma. Turkey plays a key role in many Volland family gatherings. Thanksgiving remains a treasured holiday for my husband’s extended family. How do I dismiss the offending entree without marring our family Thanksgiving traditions? Quite simply, I don’t. I believe these meals, both good and bad, are far more important than my opinions on a domesticated bird. Turkey dinners make a lot of people happy. So, I will continue to do what I have been doing the past few years. I will load up my plate with all the fixin’s and somewhere, under a sea of gravy, there will be a small piece of dark meat. I will eat it and I will offer my sincere thanks to the cook for their effort and generosity. If it is my year to roast the turkey, I’ll do my best. I’ll try some new magic formulation to add flavor and moisture, or maybe spring for a heritage bird if I’m feeling flush. I’ll send big boxes of leftovers home with everyone. And on rare years like this one, when we take the trip to spend Thanksgiving with my own, turkey-ambivalent family? We eat fish.
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