Does anyone remember that image of the perfectly roasted turkey being carried ceremoniously to the dining room table while family and friends drooled over the sight of that majestic bird? American artist, Norman Rockwell, illustrated this special moment in one of his famous renderings.
Well, the image is just that. An image.
For many, many years, I have roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Seems to me I managed to mess it up in as many years.
Well, the image is just that. An image.
For many, many years, I have roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Seems to me I managed to mess it up in as many years.
I have this fantasy of a perfect Christmas Day with the perfect Christmas dinner. Like magazine editors show in glossy photographs. Outside, thick snowflakes are falling softly and silently from a dark, starry sky. Inside, children play peacefully and happily with toys from Santa in front of a perfectly decorated tree. They don’t know their father was up until the wee hours of the morning trying to assemble a complicated geometric toy or guaranteed fully workable space station to place ready-made under the Christmas tree. (Unfortunately, manufacturers forgot to put in a special screw or bolt or whatever else was lost among the pieces strewn over the floor and under the sofa.) And our young son has finally stopped throwing up from excitement so I can continue preparing the Christmas feast instead of pulling out clean clothes for him after shoving vomit-riddled clothes in the washer.
At least, I think, there will be a Christmas dinner. It will be perfect this year. It better be. Friends and family are joining us.
At least, I think, there will be a Christmas dinner. It will be perfect this year. It better be. Friends and family are joining us.
So, to the bird. Seeking excellence, I had researched ‘how to roast a perfect turkey’ for weeks before this big day. Never realized there were so many different roads to perfection. One recipe indicated high heat for the first hour; another called for low temperatures but a longer cooking time. Recommendations were many and varied: brine the bird first; barbeque it on your gas grill outside for a woodsy effect; roast and carve the turkey the day before whilst keeping it moist with its own juices for reheating when needed. Stuff it with dressing. Don’t stuff it with dressing. Rub the skin with butter. Or bacon. Or mustard. Tent it with tin foil. Or not. Pour white wine over the roasting carcass (I feel guilty confessing the sins of my friend who poured red wine over the bird and, well, the visual result was less than appealing).
Then I found another highly recommended chef recipe for the very best juicy bird. Wrap the turkey first in parchment paper, cover with foil; roast at a low temperature until it’s nearly cooked; remove the foil and parchment then brown in a hot oven until skin is crisp. And don’t forget the meat thermometer…first figure out the thickest part of the thigh where it’s best to insert the thermometer.
Okay. So now the roasted turkey is ready. Friends and family are gathered around the dining table buzzing with excitement over this most extravagant meal on this most exciting day.
I’m in a hurry...last minute herbal additions to the gravy to raise it to the gourmet level...then heat it up again…
OMG! The hot pot slips from my hand. Said pot spills gravy. I watch horrified---suspended in a time warp---as a slimy, brown, murky, hot viscous liquid mercilessly slithers like a prehistoric reptile across the tiles on my kitchen floor. I’m about to scream but I hear the peaceful strains of “Silent Night” in the background.
I stand there. Defeated. I hear ripples of anticipation from buzzing dinner guests awaiting the anointed bird and its accoutrements.
Christmas magic?! I don’t think so!
Okay. So now the roasted turkey is ready. Friends and family are gathered around the dining table buzzing with excitement over this most extravagant meal on this most exciting day.
I’m in a hurry...last minute herbal additions to the gravy to raise it to the gourmet level...then heat it up again…
OMG! The hot pot slips from my hand. Said pot spills gravy. I watch horrified---suspended in a time warp---as a slimy, brown, murky, hot viscous liquid mercilessly slithers like a prehistoric reptile across the tiles on my kitchen floor. I’m about to scream but I hear the peaceful strains of “Silent Night” in the background.
I stand there. Defeated. I hear ripples of anticipation from buzzing dinner guests awaiting the anointed bird and its accoutrements.
Christmas magic?! I don’t think so!
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