“OK,” I told myself. “Let’s do this.”
I’d roasted a Thanksgiving turkey only once before, in that first year of newlywed bliss. Caught up in the romance of starting a new life together, Andrew and I had volunteered our new tiny gingerbread house for the occasion, assuring each other we could easily roast a turkey in our 1942 Magic Chef oven.
Thursday morning at 6 a.m., we stood over a cold, embarrassed bird, clutching cofee mugs, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
“I thought you knew how!”
“I thought you did!”
We’d struggled him into the oven—I’ve repressed the details—and for the next 16 years, I’d let my mom host.
Now it was my turn again.
I started pulling out cookbooks and surfing food sites. Julia Child directed me to “cut off the wing nubbins.” Epicurious suggested removing the final feathers with a tweezers or needle-nosed pliers. Joy of Cooking described sewing the skin shut with a long needle. Everybody wanted me to pluck out and boil the gizzard.
My gorge rose.
We would have a naked, eviscerated, oven-ready bird, I reminded myself. Andrew had ordered it fresh from Schneider’s, Waterloo’s family-owned meat market, so we wouldn’t even have to figure out how long to defrost it.
“Honey, did they say, does it have a pop-up thingie to tell us when it’s done?”
“I doubt it. This is a real butcher.”
Great. I picked up the phone. “Mom, can you bring your instant-read thermometer?”
“Don’t have one. Don’t worry, honey, the bird will have a pop-up thingie.”
I was on my own, sailing into uncharted territory. And after reading that the bird should be either 170 degrees (Bon Appetit) or 160 degrees (some chef online) when removed from the oven, and its stuffing should be measured separately at 165, and the leg should be a different temperature, and might get done slower than the breast, which meant the breast would dry out, so I should cook it upside down and flip it halfway through, I decided to just ... wing it.
“Twenty minutes per pound,” my mom repeated patiently.
But that was at 325 degrees, and Epicuous suggested 425 or 450, and somebody else said start hot and then turn it down, and besides, Mom was probably out of date; the world was changing rapidly, knowledge was everywhere; I needed more information to do this right.
Some of my new sources said basting would keep the breast moist; others said for God’s sake, don’t baste, it just gives you soggy skin. I was to use butter or never butter only olive oil or water or boullion or bird juice or lemons slid cruelly under my turkey’s goosebumped skin. Better, I should brine the turkey in salt water … for four days … in a bucket … in the refrigerator. THAT sounded easy—a 16-pound bird in a bucket would fill our entire frig, and I wouldn’t need to worry about side dishes. Use a cooler in the garage, another site said, or put the brining bird in a bag. Oh, and roast it in a bag. But never use a bag. Cover it with foil, loosely tented; cover it with a lid to steam it; never cover it with a lid or it will steam. Don’t truss it first or you’ll prevent the legs from cooking. I stared wistfully at the elaborate trussing diagram in the Joy of Cooking, reminded of intricate cat’s cradle games from my childhood.
Forget the evangelical Christian-progressive liberal divide; turkey cults were clearly the nation’s deepest division.
“All I care about’s the stuffing inside,” Andrew informed me.
“Well, that’s too bad, because everybody says to cook it separately on top of the stove,” I replied, miserable enough now to feel sadistic. I was surrounded by notes and blogs and cookbooks and more confused than ever.
I called my mother.
“Twenty minutes a pound at 325, and rub some butter on first,” she repeated steadfastly. But I still didn’t trust her—not with all those authorities suggesting I decapitate the turkey, cook only the breast, buy a deep fryer and stuff the turkey with a chicken … So I asked Lynn, who keeps our carpool salivating with descriptions of what she’s going to cook for dinner.
“Just cook it for 20 minutes a pound at 325,” she said.
Now I was really worried; this was too simple. So I asked Gregory, who cuts my hair, because he cares a lot about good food and keeps up with all the trends, and I knew he wouldn’t lie to me.
He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Cook it for 20 minutes a pound at 325.”
—Jeannette Cooperman, staff writer
