The Rake Magazine

Tag: turkey

  • Subaru, Turducken, and Other Strange Birds

    A long time ago I was fired from the Byerly’s business (and later restated) for taking a picture of a model holding a Turducken. I depicted this Scandinavian babe in a Bergmanesque pose tortured by existential angst over what to do with the strange aviary object.

    Tres Lund, apparently, did not prefer realism in his supermarket. I can’t be sure, however, that he has ever tried to cook on Turkey Day. After all, what is one to do with a chicken that’s been stuffed in a duck then stuffed in a turkey? (or vice versa?)

    I am told the ad did end up selling quite a few birds.

    Which brings me to Subaru. The recent buzz on the company is the last second hiring of Carmichael Lynch–by all accounts, a great advertising agency. Subaru is going to need one, considering the inexplicable oddness of its new car line.

    For years, Subuaru was a proud and inconoclastic car maker . They claimed, rightly, that their cars were "inexpensive and built to stay that way." They were a poster child for fighting car-based commonism.

    That’s all changed. Their vehicles are now expensive for the money and downright ugly on the eyes. It all started when someone got the weird idea that Subaru could really fly high by paying homage to their history as an aircraft company. This resulted in the Tribeca B9, a bland beast with a grille that reflected their aircraft roots.

    It appears here that they were aiming for the elegance of an Alfa Romeo but ended up with a modern day Edsel

    Subaru’s strange behavior has now reached its zenith in the new WRX–-till recently their "halo" car. I’ve blogged about the previous generations of this car so much that I won’t bore you with the details. The latest generation of the WRX, however, looks like the designers have been overdosing on tryptophan.

    The photo here to the right is not a Mazda 3 or some other econobox but instead the once-sporty-but-now somnambulistic WRX. Hatchbacks never have and never will be true sports cars. Its as if someone told Subaru that all the gung-ho boy racers have matured into grocery-getters ready to put away their childish things. It looks bloated and over-stuffed and the road tests are exactly lofty either.

    Its time Fuji Heavy Industries (Subaru’s parent company) stopped thinking about airplanes and cooked up something like the previous generation WRX. It looked uncommon and flew like a bat out of you know where.

    Which is more than I can say for a Turducken.

    Or these Subies of late.

     

     

     

  • The Feast Index

    "Be not angry or sour at table; whatever may happen put on the cheeful mien for good humor makes one dish a feast."

    from the Shaker manual Gentle Manners.

     

    THE FEAST INDEX

    Estimated number of turkeys rasied in Minnesota in 2007: 46 million

    Rank of Minnesota in the top six turkey producing states: 1

    Estimated pounds of cranberries produced by Wisconsin this year: 390 million

    Amount by which that kicks ass over Massachusetts, the second largest producer: 210 million

    Average spoonfuls of cranberry sauce that someone under the age of 15 will put on their plate: .5

    Percentage of grocery store checkout ladies that knew what quince were: 25%

    Margin by which the vote swung against me and my whole wheat dinner rolls: 5

    Amount, in pounds, of potatoes I expect to be eaten: 10

    Amount, in pounds, of butter that I expect to use: 4

    Number of people eating The Feast at my house: 15

    Number who will wince as my diabetic mother-in-law goes in for her second piece of pie: 14

    Ratio of guests to matching silverware: 15:11

    Minimum hours spent laboriously pressing cloth napkins that will only get wrinkled and mashed up anyway!: 2

    Chances that my husband and his sister will get in a politically motivated "discussion": 1 in 4

    Amount of holiday cheer that I will need, expressed in ounces of Johnnie Walker Blue: 18

    Chances that a dessert will contain pumpkin: 2 in 3

    Chances that, as I’m eating the dessert, I will feel like a pumpkin: 3 in 3

    Minutes after the last guest leaves that the first turkey sandwich will be eaten: 27.3

    Maximum number of days post-feat that I will be deconstructing the night with some local ladies at McGarry’s Pub: 3

  • Trash Can Turkey With White Wine

    It’s been my experience that people under stress generally respond in one of two ways: they either shut down, sleep more, become lethargic and gain weight; or they become frantic, insomniac, impossible to calm and they lose.

    I’m a loser.

    When my first husband left our family — out of frustration and addiction and through little fault of his own — I was in my last year of grad school and I found myself, suddenly, the single, unemployed mother of three. Nights were particularly scary; I lay awake and panicked. Mealtimes made my stomach clench. So I paced and pushed the food around on my plate and ran miles each day in an attempt to burn away the fear.

    I dropped 20 pounds in less than 8 weeks. About half my hair fell out, I failed a bone scan, there was a long sore on my back from where my bones poked through my skin. It pains me to tell you that women would stop me on the street to tell me I looked fabulous and ask me how I’d managed to lose the weight. The men I knew, by and large, asked if I was OK and plied me with food. I suspect it is no coincidence that my son, Maxwell — a caretaker even at 10 — became a great cook that year.

    On Sunday mornings, he made authentic Irish scones, which he served with tea and cream. Evenings, it was vegetarian Thai curry, pasta stuffed with pumpkin, and once, an authentic Cuban meal of black beans, peppers, hot sausage, and rice. Max got so good, friends of mine would hire him to make appetizers or desserts for their dinner parties. He watched the Food Network and talked about his plan to attend either Johnson & Wales or the CIA.

    At Thanksgiving that year, it was just the four of us. I had no idea how to roast a turkey — this had always been my husband’s area of expertise — and it really wasn’t in me even to try. But before I could even investigate alternatives, Max announced he was planning to brine a 20-pound bird. He had me buy him a brand-new 5-gallon trash can, then filled it with sugar, salt, peppercorns, red wine vinegar and water, and slipped the turkey in. He set his alarm and at 4 a.m., he got up briefly to stir.

    "Because it’s an aqueous environment, the vinegar and salt get into the pores of the turkey," Max told me. "It helps moisten the meat." I have no idea where he learned to speak this way. . . .

    The meat was, indeed, excellent, as I recall. Though I’m pretty sure anything this stoic little boy had put on the table would have filled me with pride. And I remembered that November of seven years ago today, when I ran across a recipe for Brined Roasted Turkey Breast with White Wine Sauce from Chef Ethan McKee of Rock Creek at Mazza, in Washington D.C.

    For me, life got better. I found a job, bought a house, got my kids into a great school system, started dating again, and published a book. Thanks in large part to Max, I put the 20 pounds back on (plus a couple more); my hair grew back, my skin healed, and my bones somehow survived. More important, I watched my kids pull together and I learned that a brave ten-year-old who’s just lost his father can find the wherewithal to make a holiday turkey in a can meant for trash.

    Over time, Max’s plans have changed. When he leaves for college next fall, he’ll be pre-med rather than a student at a culinary school. But I’m struck by how similar theses courses are: he’ll be taking care of people one way or another — feeding them or healing them. It’s very much the same.

  • T-Day Seven Days Out: The Bird

    The bird is the word.

    We used to go to my aunt’s house in North Oaks for Thanksgiving. I clearly remember her perched on a chair next to the oven, heater and scotch in one hand, turkey baster in the other as she dutifully doused the bird every five minutes. From that chair she barked orders to the rest of the family to execute the remainder of the meal, I was in charge of rolling butter into pretty balls. Others can mash the potatoes or slice the beets, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t leave her post or her mission, all in the name of moisture.

    A dry turkey is a sin. You don’t build an entire feast around one main protein only to realize you’ve served a chew-toy. I can’t seem to get my mother-in-law to see that you don’t need to start cooking the bird at 6am for a 4pm dinner. Gravy needn’t be the real main course, there is another way.

    In the past few years, it’s been all about the brine. Brining a turkey involves soaking the thawed bird in a salt and herb solution. The theory is that the meat absorbs the flavorful solution and the proteins, when heated, lock the moisture inside. Although it does change the texture slightly, the resulting meat is ultra-moist, even when slightly overcooked.

    Change the flavor of your brine with the addition of cider or different herbs, just don’t oversalt. The first time I made my own brine, my turkey tasted like ham. There are a ton of good brines on the market, Golden Fig’s locally made brine mix is one of the best.

    If your bird is frozen, start thawing it in the fridge on Monday. By Tuesday, you should mix your brine solution and let it sit overnight. If you don’t have a big enough pot or bucket, don’t worry, there are plenty of giant bags meant for brining. I don’t even need to say that you shouldn’t use a scented garbage bag, do I? Get the bird into the solution by Wednesday and let it soak until you get it ready for the oven.

    I guarantee that any old-timers who haven’t had a brined bird will flip over the juiciness.

    Now for the ultimate question: to baste or not to baste? I’ve never basted a brined bird, and have yet to be disappointed. I have a chef friend that laughs at the basters, swearing that they only thing you have to do is slow-roast the bird at a low temp wrapped in parchment paper and foil, followed with a turn under high heat to add the crispiness.

    I’m sure I could have explained this all in detail to my aunt, but I fear not even a lecture from the turkey himself could have moved her from her perch.