OK, just when you thought it was safe to forget about the overindulgence and caloric excesses of Thanksgiving day, here comes another post on Thanksgiving recipes. This one sticks to the basics: roasting the turkey itself and making gravy. It is my traditional holiday task to make the dim-witted bird into a delectable feast (and yes, I know wild turkeys are very smart), so this recipe has matured with age —unlike me. So grab your blunderbuss, put on your Pilgrims hat, and let’s get to it. First a few basic points: The Bird — I have a preference for fresh-killed turkeys over frozen — their water and fat content is lower (avoid pre-basted turkeys at all costs: the all-too-common Butterball is an abomination, if you must know, literally dripping with hydrogenated vegetable oil, the worst kind of fat). I have had a so-called “free range” turkey one year: excellent taste, but they are pricey, a bit dry, and relatively hard to get in my neck of the woods. We tend to have a lot of folks for dinner on holidays, so we usually get big birds — 25 pounds this year. The Pan — a large, heavy roasting pan is a necessity; the disposable foil ones are not only flimsy, but they seem to prevent browning to considerable degree, and definitely prevent the caramelization of the pan drippings and ingredients essential to making a good gravy. The Rack — a good sturdy adjustable roasting rack is also a must. Letting the turkey sit on the bottom of the pan causes it to stew, prevents proper cooking and reduction of the pan drippings, and generally leads to a sodden mess unfit for eating. The Oven — I have the good fortune to have a convection oven in my home, which is superb for roasting, as it cooks more quickly and at lower temperatures. The gas-or-electric dispute approaches a religious war in some circles; electric is easier to regulate temperature-wise in my mind — and besides, that’s what I have. Oh, and no foil tents — tin foil is ideal for conspiratorial hats and the like, but terrible for roasting, stewing the meat instead of roasting it. The Temperature — I like keeping the temperature relatively low — the bird cooks more slowly, and browns more evenly. I use 325 degrees throughout; without convection, I’d move up to 350. Rack low in the oven. I do sometimes brown the bird at higher temps — 375 degrees — for 20-30 minutes first The Saucepans — you’ll need two heavy sauce pans, one 4 quart (for the stock), one at least 2 quart (for the gravy). Of the two, the gravy pan is the most important, as even heat distribution with no hot spots is important when making the roux. The Ingredients — if you’re looking for exact quantities here, you’re outta luck: this is definitely an eyeball project. Use fresh ingredients and spices compared to the decades-old spice bottles on the shelf at your local supermarket. The project begins with the roasting pan — you must be thinking of the end when at the beginning. The key to a superb turkey gravy (or any meat gravy, for that matter) is in the pan drippings. The sugars caramelize to a dark brown, providing exquisite flavor and rich color critical for good-tasting gravy. I place the roasting rack in the pan, and surround it with sweet onions (Walla Wallas, Vadellias, or Mexican sweets) coarsely chopped, chopped celery, a hefty handful of whole peppercorns , and yes — your eyes aren’t lying — apple slices. I use a crisp, moderately sweet apple (Fujis here in the Northwest). During roasting, the apples disintegrate, adding both sugars for caramelization and lots of liquid for the gravy stock.Next comes the turkey stock, which will be used in addition to the pan drippings for the gravy. In the 4 quart stock pan, I place the giblets, the gizzard, and the neck, followed by celery and celery leaves (the leaves have much more flavor than the stalks), a large chopped onion, several cloves of garlic, some celery seed, a pinch of salt, tarragon, and more peppercorns. Fill the pan about 4/5 with water, and simmer slowly on a back burner while preparing and cooking the bird. Now on to the bird: I pat the skin dry (moisture prevents browning), place the bird breast-side down on the rack, and place lots of butter and a hefty sprinkling of pepper and tarragon. (If you’re on a low-fat diet, this is not the meal for you; for the rest of us, that’s why God created Lipitor). The breast-down approach keeps the breast moist as it cooks. As you may notice, this turkey is ridiculously large for the pan — kinda like an elephant wearing a miniskirt. It works — but just barely (a larger roaster is on Santa’s list for this year, so I’m being nice not naughty). The bird then goes in the oven. I baste it periodically with a butter-tarragon mixture, kept over the oven vent to keep just melted without burning. Cooking time? Anyone’s guess — it depends on the oven, the size of the bird, convection vs. non-convection. I generally give a bird this size about 1-1 1/2 hours breast down, basting every half hour and watching for the golden brown color of the skin. Now it’s time to flip the bird (I practice in the off-season while driving on the freeway). One heavy carving fork goes in the neck cavity, another in the tail, and a helping hand holds the rack down during the process. As you can see, the breast is very moist, and has not browned at all. It is basted with the butter-tarragon mixture, and popped back in the oven. Notice the red dot: this is a cooking indicator. When the meat reaches temperature, a restraining wax melts, allowing a red thingy to pop up. Problem is, it’s hardly foolproof: I’ve had them stick, resulting…
Category: Seasonal
Essays pertinent to seasonal holidays
The Celebration of Hope
The lady on the morning “news”, in her warmest and faux-sincere voice, said it sweetly: “This is the season of hope and joy” — and moved on quickly to tug at the heartstrings with some touching story of the downtrodden redeemed, a perfect production for this “holiday” season. I don’t really think she understands the things of which she speaks. I often wonder, when watching the scrupulously secular stars of media utter such banalities: what, exactly, is the basis of your “hope”? Is it the optimism of wishful thinking, the notion that in our oh-so-progressive world, things will simply get better and better, hurtling at light-speed toward an inevitable utopia? Is it the hope of new politics, new icons of power to guide us out of the wilderness of war and hatred with an enlightenment found nowhere else? Or is it simply the Big Lie, repeated ad infinitum until it becomes Truth, designed to deaden terrifying voices of angst and uncertainty which screech like harpies just beneath a consciousness deadened by frenzy, acquisitional obsession, and the myriad addictions which numb our fears and deaden our souls. Yet it is a season of hope — or more precisely, a season to celebrate a perpetual and profound hope, not the emotional hopiate mainlined by the hopeless, dragged out like some green plastic tree from a dusty closet to adorn a meaningless holiday, no longer called “Christmas.” So what is this true hope, this enduring and transformational power which we celebrate this season, yet abide in throughout the year? It is the hope of true harmony, God and Man in right relation, the only source for Peace on Earth. It is the hope, beyond reason, of forgiveness of the unforgivable, of acceptance of the rejected, of healing of sick and mortally wounded souls. It is the hope of conquest of the demons which drive us, enslaving us in what masquerades as freedom. It is the hope of deep joy, not mere shallow happiness. It is the hope of a purpose beyond self-satisfaction, of a meaning beyond random chance, of direction for the lost and aimless. It is about God becoming small that Man may become great, in Him. It is about sacrificial love, the emptying of self, the death of pretense and a life of humble dependence. It is about a Child who became Man so that men might reclaim the wonder and joy of children. It is about infinite love, abounding mercy, endless grace, transformational power. It is about Christ: humble in birth, extraordinary in life, sacrificial in death, glorious in resurrection. It is about our hope — the only true and certain hope — the hope of those who know, and serve, and rely on Him, and His gentle hands which lift us up, and cherish us, and carry us home. It is about Christmas, when Light entered the world and changed it forevermore. That is our hope, and nothing less. Have a most blessed and Merry Christmas, and may the peace of God rest upon you and yours.
What Brilliant Darkness
What brilliant darkness now descends To slay the weight which life doth rob To bear the anguish undeserved On frigid stone no glorious end. The blazing lanterns light the night As noble leaders drain the cup To toast the end of ghost not known And praise the triumph of blind sight. What brilliant darkness now hangs deep In hopeless end of fruitless dreams In upper room no brightness cast In lowered light a restless sleep. The blazing lanterns light the night As slumbered warriors wrap their cloaks And starlight bathes the tethered beam Where blood poured out in sacred rite. What brilliant darkness now breaks bright With light a sun can scarce reflect To roll the stone which triumphs death The lamps of countless souls to light. Have a blessed Easter filled with grace. He is Risen!
Three Men on a Friday
Three men on a Friday, condemned to die. Ensnared by Roman justice, convicted, and sentenced to a lingering death of profound cruelty and excruciating agony. The Romans knew how to do it right: execution designed to utterly humiliate its victims, and maximize their suffering — a public spectacle and object lesson to others about the foolishness of defying Roman authority. First used by the Persians in the time of Alexander the Great, and adopted by Rome from Carthage, crucifixion was so horrible and debasing a fate that it was not permitted for citizens of Rome. Victims hung for days, their corpses consumed by carrion. Our knowledge of these three men is incomplete. Two are described in ancient texts as thieves, the other a preacher run afoul of religious leaders, delivered to the Romans under pretense of imperial threat. There should have been nothing unusual about this event: the Romans crucified criminals often, sometimes hundreds at a time. Yet these men, in this spectacle, were different: on these crosses hung all of mankind. Two thieves and a preacher — an odd picture indeed. And even more peculiar: the most hated was the preacher. Taunted, insulted, ridiculed, reviled. A miracle worker, he, a man who supposedly healed the sick and raised the dead, yet now hung naked in humiliation and agony, unable to extricate himself from his dire circumstance. Even those convicted with him — themselves dying in unbearable pain and mortification — join the fray. Insulting the rabbi, demanding he set himself — and naturally, themselves as well—free. They know his reputation, yet selfish to the end, desire only their own deliverance. But one thief is slowly transformed, in frailty considering his fate and the foolishness of demanding release when his punishment is just. And he marvels at the man hung nearby — why? Why does this preacher, unjustly executed, not proclaim innocence nor demand justice or vengeance? Why does he — amazingly — ask God to forgive those who have so cruelly and unjustly punished him? Why, in the extraordinary agony only crucifixion can bring, does he seem to have peace, acceptance, perhaps even joy? His revulsion at the baying crowd, at the arrogance of his fellow convict reviling this man of character and grace, bursts forth in rebuke at him who ridicules: “This man has done no wrong!” Turning to the preacher, he makes a simple, yet humble, request: to be remembered. Only that. No deliverance from agony, no sparing of death, no wealth, prosperity, or glory, no miracles — only to be remembered. The reply reverberates throughout history: “This day you shall be with me in Paradise.” A promise of hope, a promise of relationship, a promise of forgiveness, a promise of comfort, joy, healing, peace. Three men on a cross. In these three men are all who have lived: two are guilty, one innocent. Two are justly executed, one unjustly. All three have chosen their fate: one thief to revile, ridicule, hate, blaspheme; one criminal to trust, to seek consideration and mercy from one greater; one man to submit to brutal and humiliating torture and death, willingly, for no crime committed — or for all crimes committed, everywhere and for all time. Yet only one promise given — to the one who, though guilty, trusted and turned. Who was this man in the middle, this preacher? A charlatan, perhaps but an impostor abandons his schemes when such consequences appear. Delusional, deceived zealot, or presumptuous fool? Such grace in agonal death is inconceivable were he any such man. What power did he have to make such a promise? What proof that the promise was delivered? An empty grave. A promise delivered by a cavern abandoned, a stone rolled away. A gruesome death transformed into a life of hope, meaning and purpose for those who also trust.