illdothedisheslater

Confession: I’m not great with whole birds. It’s easy to believe that all our meat starts out its life neatly packaged in Styrofoam trays and covered in plastic wrap. I truly believe it’s important to remember and respect the fact that they were once living animals, and that understanding the process of butchery helps you to become a better and less wasteful cook. I truly believe that. In theory. But as Homer Simpson once said, “In theory, Communism works.” Yup. The reality is gross and weird, and requires one call to my mother and one to my butcher. Both seem bemused/amused by my questions and concerns.

As per usual, I’m not following any one recipe – and I find it hard to believe anyone actually follows this one step-by-step-by-thirty-plus-ingredients. I’m using the instructions from an article from the Chicago Tribune, and ingredients from three or four other websites, recipes, Jeffrey Steingarten’s book, etc. I think what I’ll do is tell you what the recipe says, and put my own thoughts and substitutions in italics.

Here she is. I’m going to call her Frankie, not Tom. Frankie is fifteen pounds of all-natural Amish turkey. Let’s dive in. Quite literally. Roll up your sleeves. Spread the legs, and let’s get to it. I reach up into Frankie’s hind area searching for the upsetting bag of innards. I pull out the neck. Yuck. It’s very long. I find… Something. Some organ. I don’t know what. There is no bag. (Call mother – locate bag in neck hole. She seems skeptical about existence of bonus organ.) So I have the neck, the heart, the gizzard, the liver, and some extra prize with no name. It looks like a liver, but can turkeys have two? Now we’re ready to rock.

Cook ALL the things!!!  (“All the things” courtesy of Hyperbole and a Half, a much better blog than mine.  Check it out.  Seriously.)

1. Trim the fat from inside the turkey. I find no fat. I reach inside, poke around, and even shine a flashlight up there. I feel like a gynecologist. An ornith-gynecologist I guess. I see no fat. Apparently I have the Serena Williams of turkeys. Frankie kept it tight is what I’m saying. Let’s skip this step.

 

2. Mince fat, place in sauce pan with ½ cup of water, heat to boil. Cook until water is evaporated and set aside. Well okay. Skipping step two.

 

3. Rub turkey inside and out with salt and pepper. Oil turkey skin thoroughly with vegetable oil. This is far too intimate. Frankie and I have just met. I feel like I should take her out to dinner first, but proceed to massage oil and spices inside and out. I rub deeply and make sure to get her shoulders. I think she likes it.

 

4. Set liver aside. No problem. I put the liver and bonus organ in a little bowl and set it aside where it will stare at me all. Day. Long.

5. Chop gizzard, neck, and heart; put in saucepan with 5 cups of water, one stupid bay leaf, one clove of minced garlic, paprika, salt, and coriander. Simmer uncovered for one hour. This gets graphic. I chop the heart until I can’t look at it anymore. I chop the gizzard. I try to chop the neck, but hit bone, get freaked out, and quit. I chop the garlic happily – I’m good at this. I did not buy coriander, because it was $4.99 and I doubt I’ll use it more. Like Mrs. Lovett says, you have to be careful with your coriander. I am so careful I avoid it entirely. Set to simmer and proceed.

Upsetting pictures omitted for your viewing pleasure.  Except that bowl of liver & bonus.  I don’t know what the other thing is.

6. For stuffing combine: Jaysus, here we go:

One Granny Smith apple, unpeeled, cored, and diced. Easy-peasy!

One medium orange, peeled (optional), diced. Why is peeling optional? I opt to peel. Okay, moving on.

One 20-oz. can crushed pineapple. Because it goes well with Turkey? Why?

Rind of one lemon. Rind? Zest? What do they mean by rind – the peel? I opt to zest, because I feel like grating the skin off my knuckles with a Microplane.

Three tablespoons chopped preserved ginger. Nope. Nuh-uh. A 2-oz. jar is $12.99. I’m not doing it. I sub one tablespoon of ground ginger. 

Two 8-oz. cans of water chestnuts, sliced and drained. Let’s make that one, because that’s what I have.

Mix together in large bowl and set aside. Okay! I will!

 Six ribs of celery, minced. Chopped will do nicely.

Five cloves of garlic, minced. This is where I’m a Viking!

Four large onions, minced. I chop three. Tears are streaming down my face and the dog begs to go outside. Three it is.

Four whole cloves, crushed. Nope. Never. Death first.  Cloves are my kryptonite and are not allowed in this house. I only even have allspice under protest. Skipping ahead.

One red or green bell pepper, seeded and chopped. Shouldn’t one specify? They are very different creatures. I go with green at half the price.

One large bay leaf, crushed. Stupid.

One tablespoon celery seed. Yep.

One tablespoon poultry seasoning. What the hell is that? That’s vague. But lo, mine eyes do see a container at Kroger labeled “Poultry Seasoning”, so okay.

Two and a half teaspoons dried oregano. Got it.

Two teaspoons hot dry mustard. I have some mustard powder. That’ll do.

Two teaspoons caraway seeds. Okay.

Two teaspoons poppy seeds. I honestly forgot these. I didn’t cheap out, just forgot them. Moving on.

One and a half teaspoons of sesame seeds. Skipped after maggot debacle last time I used sesame seeds.

One teaspoon freshly ground black pepper. I can do this.

One half teaspoon each of mace, marjoram, and summer savory. Again – I’m not buying $30 worth of spices for the half teaspoon that will go in here. The poultry seasoning has marjoram in it, and I find a jar of Cajun seasoning that purports to have both mace and marjoram in it. That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.

Two dashes hot red pepper sauce. Yup.

One pinch MSG, optional. Why is this optional all of a sudden? We can’t live without the stupid bay leaves, but the flavor king is optional. Not in my kitchen! Actually I add more like a teaspoon, since I forgot to twist the lid all the way and it kind of splashed out.

Mix together in a large bowl and set aside. Confession – I put the onions in the fruity bowl because I read the directions wrong. They’re six pages!

Now in a THIRD large bowl, mix the following: Says someone with an unlimited amount of counter space and stack of large bowls all over the damn place.

One and a half pounds fine dry bread crumbs. I’m all over this. My bread crumb game is on point, son. I have a gallon zip-lock of homemade bread crumbs in the freezer at all times for meatball emergencies. 

Three quarters of a pound of ground veal and one quarter of a pound of ground pork. Subbing mild Italian sausage. The butcher is at least a 45-minute round trip, no one sells veal anymore, and you can’t buy quarter pound packages of pork.

Reserved turkey fat. Huh.

One stick of softened butter. Yes.  I’ve cross-contaminated the hell out of everything in my damn house after massaging Frankie and chopping her organs. I’ve already washed my hands around nineteen times today and my scraped knuckles are getting sore.

Combine contents of three bowls. Mix well. “Mix it with your hands. Mix it until your forearms and wrists ache. Then mix it some more. Now toss it enough so that it isn’t any longer a doughy mess.” That’s what the directions actually say. So I do it. I heave a sigh. My forearms and wrists ache.  This weighs approximately as much as the turkey. I am not kidding, joking, or exaggerating for humorous effect. 

Here is the finished stuffing product:

Yum, I guess?

Let’s take a break, shall we? It’s around 1:30 in turkey-time. I have a sink full of dishes to attend to, and have to figure out how to disable my smoke alarm. The little bowl of liver continues staring at me. The giblet pan actually smells lovely, like a poultry potpourri.

In part three, things will stop being polite and start getting real.

INGREDIENT COUNT: 30!   More, if you count the spice blends. More if you count the various turkey parts.  More if you count the ingredients I left out!