My 12-pound turkey endured a near-second-death experience on Walnut Street (hanging on for dear life out of my flopped-over bike basket), a significant bounce down a flight of stairs (broken plastic bag), and a half-pound of butter, six ounces of chopped bacon, and a fistful of herbs inserted under its skin before roasting.
Taste-wise, it was brilliant.
My first independently-hosted Thanksgiving day started at 11 am, when my alarm went off. To remind me to cook. Seriously the best.
The turkey went in around 1 p.m. (dinnertime was 6, so I left a prudent finishing window). I put in laundry, basted. Watched 30 Rock (a Thanksgiving tradition for all-day kitchen marathons), basted. And on until around 3, when Shane showed up to sous with cumin-fennel-brilliance butternut soup, sweet cornbread, and green bean casserole.
I took the bird, deep brown and crispy-skinned, out of the oven at around 4. The thigh registered far above its goal temperature of 175F, but the end result still proved moist. Rivers of butter had burst through the skin steeped in the bottom of the pan with the juices of an onion, an orange, and a li'l herb bouquet. A few glugs of cider and brandy, some tedious fat-skimming, vigorous whisking, and 20 minutes of simmering=gravy.
In the meantime, Toby (along with a healthy mix of guests -- friends and once strangers -- from a few sectors of my life) showed up with his carving skills and a carrot souffle with brown sugar-pecan crumble on top. Also making appearances: a vat of mashed potatoes, improvised stuffing (from Randy and Virginia), bacon Brussels sprouts, cranberry plum sauce, pancetta macaroni and cheese (Andy), and plum galette.
I wish I had snapped some pictures, but I was way too wrapped up in the amazing bacon: Brussels sprout ratio to play photographer.
A few bottles of wine, a few helpings, one ukulele and two couches. Dishes done by many hands.
Take that, holidays 2009. You can't freak me out.
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