Turkey Wrastlin'

We are hosting Thanksgiving at our very own home this year. My parents and some friends and relatives will be present, and I am having a blast planning and prepping! I keep feeling like I am four years old again, playing house with my sister, pulling Mom in to sample our “supper” on plastic dishes with plastic spoons and – if we were really getting into it – real, actual water poured from a plastic tea pot into plastic cups.

Now, I’ve never cooked a turkey, and everyone knows that Thanksgiving needs a turkey.

My experience in that arena of cookery includes watching my dad prepare a turkey and reading the how-to page from a Google search on the topic. But when I hauled the fifteen-pound, semi-frozen bird from my fridge into the kitchen sink to begin ministrations upon it, I was only partially daunted.

I originally planned to just bake the fowl – the KISS principle for my original foray into this art. But then I found a page online about dry-brining a turkey. That sounds easy enough, I thought, and the plan got just a little more elaborate.

Back in my kitchen, having freed it from its plastic jacket, I stared down the naked bird. Pull out the neck and giblets, the website had said.

Ok.

The first hiccup came in the form of a metal band holding the ankles (do turkeys have ankle? It was the part of the legs where the ankles would be) together. I pushed and pulled and pried and prodded.

No dice.

I thought about calling my husband for help. But he had a cold, so I didn’t want him to have to get too close to the cooking. But it would be thoroughly baked after all, and it’s not like I need to worry about the turkey catching it! I smiled at the thought.

But I decided that I could – I would – conquer this beast.

Finally, as the bird slipped and slid around the sink, as the band weakened or as I got the right leverage, I bent it enough to force one leg out and then the other.

Victory!

I reached into the carcass, giving a tug to what looked like a neck. It didn’t move. Gingerly moving further in, trying to keep my shirt sleeve raw-bird-free, I pried around it with my fingers, loosening what was still frozen until the bird stood before me empty.

I rinsed him (her?) until he was nearly guaranteed to be the best-rinsed bird served up this Thursday and laid him in his final resting place foil pan.

Loosening the skin was surprisingly easy, and I felt masterfully culinary-ish as I administered the salt and spices per the recipe’s recommendations.

Having been thoroughly conquered, he now awaits baking in my fridge, getting (the recipe claims) marinated in the spices and tenderized by the salt.

We’ll see come Thursday.

Anyway, when I was standing by my sink, yanking and tugging and prying and becoming altogether too familiar with a partially frozen fowl, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for turkeys, what with getting bumped off and their neck shoved in strange places.

I guess the moral is that if you absolutely have nothing else to be grateful for this Thanksgiving, I have one for you: be thankful you’re not a turkey!