A few years ago, Mama had a pacemaker put in, and that Thanksgiving I had to be the one to help her with the turkey since she was not allowed to lift anything. Well, I thought, this can’t be all that hard. I mean seriously I had watched Mama make a turkey a million times. And by watched I mean did other things and waited for it to be done so I could eat it.
So after she had thawed it in the fridge for the requisite 3 days, she instructed me to get it out of the fridge, and into the sink for a bath. I had no clear recollection of her having to bathe the turkey, but I hauled the massive bird up there and into the sink. The seemed harmless enough until I had to strip the thing naked. It then became painfully obvious that I had done the right thing all these years by being somewhere else at the beginning stages of turkey preparation. First of all, when you unwrap it, it’s covered in this unseemly liquid. Secondly, the feel of a giant raw bird is anything but pleasant. Finally I get the plastic off and Mama tells me to stick my hand in there and get out the bag of innards. Excuse me? Reach in where? I just got my nails done! Oh and don’t forget to get the neck out. The WHAT??? I thought maybe her painkillers had gotten the best of her and she had perhaps become delusional. But no, she honestly wanted me to reach into the bird’s butt and pull out that little bag of luggage.
So the luggage and neck get removed after much gagging on my part. Well, I thought, at least that’s done and I can chunk that crap in the trash. Oh no you don’t! Mama then tells me I have to OPEN the little bag of whatever, remove the heart, and toss it in the trash, then place all of the other goodies in the sink with the bird. I start looking around for the hidden cameras because I am then certain that I am on a secret episode of Fear Factor—Thanksgiving Massacre edition. But alas it was no TV show, it was real life, and my newly manicured had was elbow deep in a turkey fishing for guts. Now once the innards and neck were in the sink, Mama filled the sink with cold water and a cup of salt, and we let the bird take a nice saltwater bath for about an hour. Mama claims this pulls out any unnecessary liquids (i.e. blood) from the turkey.
So when the hour was up, I figured all I had to do would be scoop this bird up, toss it in a pan, stick it in the oven and be done. But no, of course it was nothing that easy. I had to get the turkey out, pat it dry with a paper towel, and then, I tried to put it in the pan. Mama stopped me, rolled her eyes and mumbled something about God punishing her with such a squeamish child, and proceeded to tell me I had to rub it down in butter. Ok, first I have to bathe this thing, then give it a massage. Why don’t we just put a hat on it and give a name for all this much trouble? So she produces TWO sticks of room temperature butter. She then proceeds to tell me to take the first stick, and “rub it all around the inside.” Well, I was not well with this at all, but I didn’t really have a choice, so there I went, elbow deep again, this time slathered in butter, rubbing all over the inside of this bird. Then for good measure I cubed up the last little bit and tossed them in. Then I had to take the other stick, and rub the outside of the bird down like it was getting a massage at Club Med. Now I should mention, I am still very unsettled and had begun to whine and sniffle all the while Mama was still mumbling about why the one child she had on hand to help her was horrified of sticking her hand up the business end of a giant bird.
So finally it was ready to be placed in the roaster, and so I put it in there, and Mama has me put about a quart of water over in there, and then, of all things she throws all those other pieces of innards and neck into the water as well. I was appalled and ask her why on earth she did that. She looked at me like I had just asked her what 2 plus 2 was. She said, “well Joy it flavors everything in there and what on earth do you think i make giblet gravy out of?” I was beyond horrified. All these years I had noticed that she would chop up a few pieces of dark meat and throw it into the gravy and I actually thought the word giblet was like slang for little tiny pieces of meat. I had no idea it was everything else that comes packed inside there. Finally after the shock wore off, I gathered myself and was able to cover the turkey in foil and put it in the oven. (In case you’re wondering Mama puts it the oven set on 325 for around 4 hours depending on the size, and periodically she opens the oven and bastes the turkey in its own juices.)
4 hours later after it was done, I pulled it out and salted and peppered it to her liking. Then it was time to make the giblet gravy. All I can say about that is thank goodness the giblets weren’t too heavy for her to lift and she was capable of doing that without my assistance. Sometimes good food is like a magic show and I really don’t need to all the secrets of what is going on behind the curtain.
