Mutant Turkey

by LJ Dovichi

In my defense, I’ve never actually cooked a turkey. Sure I’ve seen them done, I’m no stranger to the kitchen during Thanksgiving preparation, but I’ve never had to do it on my own. That is, until last year.

I have no idea what possessed me to blurt out, “I’ll cook this year,” when the family gathered around the table to strategize the holiday. I should’ve clued in it wasn’t as easy as I thought when there was a large collective sigh of relief and everyone readily agreed it was a wonderful idea. Instead, I was too busy imagining the glory of everyone telling me what a fabulous cook I was and how it was the best turkey they’d ever eaten. I began researching turkey recipes immediately, until I found “the one”. This recipe guaranteed your family would rave and insist you make it every year.

I was confident as I selected a meat thermometer for dummies, no pop-up timers for this girl, and the perfect turkey, a beautifully wrapped twenty pound behemoth. I’d done the math and decided that for six people a twenty pound bird was a must. I’d even talked turkey with a woman in line at the checkout, giving her pointers on what she should do.

The night before Thanksgiving, still dreaming of greatness, I prepared a brine to soak my fully-thawed turkey in overnight. I felt like a gourmet chef as I’d never seen my mother brine her dried out old turkeys. Everything I’d read promised that the salt/sugar solution would ensure the bird stayed tender, moist, and melt off the bone. I even remembered to take out the neck and giblets, I’d done a lot of turkey prep reading, and submerged the bird overnight.
The morning of, I rinsed the turkey thoroughly and stuffed the cavity with apples and onions, something else I’d never seen Mom do but the recipe called for it and after all it’d come with a guarantee. I inserted the thermometer into the thigh as directed, put the turkey in a cooking bag, and placed it in the oven — setting the timer for three hours per the directions.

The timer buzzed and I checked the thermometer. It showed the right temperature so I took out the turkey and it was a delicious golden brown. I mentally patted myself on the back as I cut into the bird and I swear it gobbled. It wasn’t done. No big deal, it happens, right? I put the bird back in the bag, reinserted the thermometer, and put it back in the oven for another hour.

My family waited with anticipation for the timer to go off. An hour later, the thermometer indicated it was again 180 degrees so I pulled it out and cut into the thigh meat. It gobbled again in protest, still raw. Back in. Back out. Still raw.

We played this game a little more, and then I sliced off some of the more done parts and nuked them in the microwave as the side dishes were getting cold and Three-feet-of-fun was starving. I put the turkey back in the bag, didn’t bother with the thermometer this time, it was obviously defective, and flung it back in the oven.
It baked while we ate, while we did the dishes, and while we ate pie. I took it out of the oven again and cut into it. Still raw, still gobbling. Fed up, I put it back in the oven and turned the temperature down. I told my husband to make sure it didn’t catch on fire and I went out shopping. My husband forgot about it and when I got back four hours later, I pulled it out of the oven and cut into it again. I couldn’t believe it, it was still raw.

I ended up baking that mutant turkey the rest of the day and night and it never did get completely cooked. My dreams were shattered. Maybe I’ll start cooking it on Halloween next year. That is if the family lets me.

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This entry was posted on Sunday, July 6th, 2008 at 9:20 pm and is filed under Cooking, Holidays, Humor. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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