It’s hard to believe Thanksgiving is upon us.
The day conjures up happy thoughts: thankfulness for our blessings; family gatherings; delicious smells from the kitchen; the Macy’s parade and football on television; anticipation of joining the midnight Black Friday frenzy.
There also are memorable television or movie laughs related to the holiday — like the “Big Bang” episode when uptight Sheldon gets tipsy and bonds with Bernadette’s crusty father over football. Or the “Mr. Bean” movie when the inept Bean is startled by the doorbell while stuffing the bird and winds up with it on his head, scurrying blindly around the kitchen. I laughed so hard at that film I choked and the tears ran. People in the theater were pointing at me.
Meanwhile, turkeys everywhere hope people’s thoughts turn to ham.
Every family surely has a turkey story. Maybe Aunt Betty nipped a bit too much of the cooking sherry and served a frozen turkey. Or maybe Uncle Hank invested hundreds of dollars in a turkey hunting expedition and came back with — pizza.
A press release from the Propane Gas Association of New England sparked my own memory. They offered advice on how to deep-fry a turkey without setting your house on fire. (This is always helpful.) “Stay away from the house,” they said, urging consumers to place fryers at least 10 feet from their homes.
Our family tried this once. Conversations and TV chefs that year were all about deep-frying your turkey. Neighbors and friends told us, “Best bird we ever had.” We thought, “Aha! This could be just the thing.”
That Thanksgiving, we had the fryer and the right kind of oil at the ready, all set up safely in the driveway. The bird was thawed. Time had been checked and rechecked. We were ready to start.
The fryer heated up. The oil sizzled and smoked. The bird began to brown. After a while, it was time for a temperature check with the meat thermometer. Hmm, nowhere near done. OK, another cooking interval, with more sizzling. And more smoke. The bird became really brown. Surely it was done. The meat thermometer said … nope.
More cooking time. More smoke. Lots more smoke …
Uh-oh.
It’s hard to insert a meat thermometer in charcoal.
But it finally read 180 around a thigh. Dinner was served.
And we looked at the bird, the remains of its blackened legs resting on the outer edges of the platter. We hacked through the crisply burned skin. Surely the meat inside was moist and tender… One bite, and we stopped eating cold turkey. I mean, we stopped, because the meat was cold. As in, still half raw cold.
We really enjoyed the baked potatoes and peas that year.
The turkey fryer ended its days in a garage sale.
Bring on the old-fashioned agateware. We still have a roaster that belonged to my grandmother. Now that thing can cook a turkey.
