the story of a turkey

My dad's got a lot of aggression to take out - so why not something that's already dead. That's how I think of it at least. One minute he's cuddling with the grandkids, the next - he's violating the turkey like nobody's business.

Let's begin the discussion with a quick understanding of how much soap was used to disinfect the kitchen before and after the turkey came out. Wait, maybe I can't, though. It might reveal the depths of his germaphobia.

And really this isn't about my father; it's about the turkey. Who lived his life with pride as a heritage turkey grown on Tantre Farm, in Chelsea, Michigan - which as far as I can tell is the best gosh darn place on the face of God's green earth. (Hey, it's not the best website in the world, but that's why they're farmers not computer science majors. )

But what these farmers tell us is that the bird who has been ... shall we say, terminated... only two days prior to pick up, will need to be rinsed several times to be sure that any remaining blood is removed.

And next, we'll need to stuff the bird. There's so much discussion in the genre of lame women's cooking magazine - do I stuff or do I not stuff. I say "Stuff it! And put some in the turkey cavity too." Stuffing the bird must be done with great force as you can see here. This is no dainty business.

And so it goes...After a cheesecloth application -

Here's the final product. Juicy and delicious.


(this post sat as a draft in my blog folder for an embarrasingly long time. so i'm going to publish this without editing it. please forgive me.)