Thankful

Over the river and through the woods...

Maybe not this year.

I can still feel the warmth of my grandmother's kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. 

When my family moved to Kentucky and settled in with my grandparent's on their remote rural farm, the notion of Thanksgiving was completely new to me. It just wasn't a thing in Austria, Germany, or Africa. There were no turkeys, dressings, or casseroles to share. No day after shopping. No football. Our large family was thousands of miles away. Thanksgiving never happened.

Life on the farm was a different kind of life. Big Sunday dinners followed long church meetings with a  rotation of relatives stopping by to visit. While I eventually grew accustomed to the large family gatherings, Thanksgiving was a whole other story. Unlike other family get togethers, Thanksgiving  was a hectic potluck affair. Most everyone had their time worn assigned and  beloved sides to tote over the river and through the woods to our grandmother's house. And only one person, the turkey aunt, was allowed to bring the turkey. There were no surprises. Ever.  

On Thanksgiving morning, my grandmother's demeaner changed. Through the flurry and hubbub, she'd quietly and serenely crank out countless sweet potato pies, chess pies, transparent pies, and pumpkin pies. As utterly contrary as she could be could be at times, her Thanksgiving serenity felt like an odd miracle. By midmorning, the family started piling in. Choreographed like a country version of Swan Lake, the array of sides and fixings were laid out over every inch of counter space, including a makeshift cover over the kitchen sink. Synchronized with clockwork precision, it was an absolute thing of beauty and smelled like heaven. Always feeling like an awkward interloper, I swooned with awe. How? Why? Yes!

After my grandmother filled her milkwood punch bowl with Cola Lemonade iced down with lemonade ice cubes, the Thanksgiving blessing opened the buffet. 

Those early Thanksgivings made me realize I had missed something that I didn't even know was missing in my life. Family, friends, and even Thanksgiving.

During these times, it's ok to miss all the hoopla when you hold close what is missing. There's a simple joy in knowing that our friends and family share the missing. No doubt, this year will be different than than any other. Although smaller, simpler, safer, and softer, this year can also feel the same as years past. Hold fast to the missing and embrace the present.

Roasted Turkey.

Simpler.

Heaven knows, over the years I've done just about anything and everything  you can do with a turkey. Depending on how fancified or low brow I wanted to go, I've deep fried, spatchcocked, brined, smoked,

braised, buttered, herbed, stuffed, unstuffed, deboned, and ruined quite a few turkeys. They've all been fantastic. Each and every method had its pros and cons. ALL of them were fussy and labor intensive....because...well....isn't that the point?  We go overboard for the sake of those we love. 

These days are different. Overboard is overboard. Simple wins.

Surprisingly, I snagged a very small 11 pound fresh turkey. Big enough to feel festive, yet small enough to feed a few close friends. With adjusted cooking times, this simple method works with any sized turkey.

Shots. Injecting is the way to go. With no buckets to fill, ice to chill,  or coolers to store, injecting is a great shot. 

After melting 1 cup unsalted butter and letting it cool, I added 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/2 cup white wine, 2 tablespoons sorghum, 2 teaspoons salt, 1 teaspoon finely ground black pepper, 1 teaspoon ground poultry seasoning, 1/2 teaspoon rubbed sage, and 1/2 teaspoon ground thyme. I whisked to combine, and loaded an injection syringe with the mix before carefully injecting the breasts, thighs, and drumsticks under the skin in several locations, pushing the marinade and pulling the needle to evenly distribute the marinade throughout the flesh. After liberally salting the skin of the turkey, I massaged softened butter over every square inch of the skin and slid it into the refrigerator (uncovered) to dry out and marinate overnight.

To keep things less fussy, I braised vegetables along with the turkey. Like any good roast, that method benefits from a 2 step process.

In leu of a roasting rack, I scattered 4 unpeeled carrots, 3 quartered unpeeled Madison County purple onions, 5 trimmed celery stalks 4 Scott County cleaned leeks, and 3 unpeeled parsnips into the bottom of a medium sized roasting pan. After stuffing the turkey with 1 halved lemon, 1 halved blood orange, 1 sliced celery stalk, onion, fresh sage, fresh rosemary, and 2 peeled garlic cloves, I tied the turkey legs together with kitchen twine, and nestled the turkey onto the vegetables. I poured 1 1/2 cups chicken stock into the roasting pan, let the turkey rest on the counter for 20 minutes to take the chill off, covered the breast with aluminum foil, and slid it into a preheated 335 oven.

The baste debate. I like to baste. It's hands on and allows ample opportunity to check on the browning

of the skin and level of pan juices, so I basted the turkey with the pan juices every 30 minutes or so. Midway ( 1 1/2 hours in), I added an additional 1 cup stock, removed the foil from the breast meat,  and  covered the legs with the foil to prevent overbrowning. At the 2 hour mark, I removed most of the spent vegetables before adding fresh peeled carrots, sliced fresh celery, sliced onions, and 2 seeded and sliced Casey County acorn squash. After basting the skin every 20 minutes during the last hour, I finished with a whisper thin glaze of 2 tablespoons sorghum mixed with 2 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon juice. When the internal temp hit 165 degrees, I pulled the turkey from the oven, tented it, and let it rest for 30 minutes before nestling it onto a bed of fresh sage and fresh bay leaves along with apples, blood oranges, pears, and  roasted acorn squash.

Simpler.

Smaller.

Always Thankful.