Spatchcock???

“I think I might spatchcock the turkey this year” I said to Mom, with a false air of nonchalance. I watched her reaction from the corner of my eye as I leafed through my Food & Wine Thanksgiving issue. “Spatchcock? Spatchcock the turkey? No. Absolutely not.” I tried to engage her in a discussion about this idea to absolutely no avail. “We are going to have a traditional Thanksgiving. You can spatchcock all you want after I’m gone.” She literally told me “over my dead body.” Now I think I will never spatchcock a turkey as this might be a mandate that emanates from the grave.

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Thanksgiving preparations in my household have always been eventful. The last few years of Dad’s life, we watched as he went from semi-able to handle turkey prep to saying “Merry Christmas!” while raising his glass of Grand Marnier at the Thanksgiving table. The turkey was always his and it was one of his proudest yearly accomplishments, always rising super early to “put the bird in”, all disheveled which was unusual as he never descended the stairs prior to his daily grooming routine aka his “toilette”. He owned that process and was meticulous about it from the brine to the pound of butter he would rub on its skin. He even had a special carving knife just for the occasion and was, always, an excellent carver.

It was hard to watch his skills slip away with his memory. The more he changed, the more I took over the turkey. I have always stressed over whether or not I did it right. I just don’t want anyone to get botulism from my main course, that is all. So far, so good. No one (to my knowledge) has gotten violently ill. Over the years, I have tweaked my preparation and cooking. Last year, I rubbed the entire bird in pork fat and said an Our Father before putting it in the oven. It came out beautifully if memory serves correctly. Something about the fat of an animal coming to aid the roasting of another. I know it’s pretty savage but, hey, I am decidedly unsavage in all other areas of my life so I allowed myself that one slip. This year, I am dry brining as opposed to wet brining. It is a bold move and I have looked up at least 13 recipes to ensure I’ve got the right one. Another Our Father and perhaps a Hail Mary will be said this year. I will certainly keep you posted.

Over the past few weeks, I have taken a deep dive into writing through difficulties and have come up, often, with something in hand that I am less than proud of. As a writer, you just have to get used to that and move on to the next thing because life goes on and words continue to swirl. Although I have been tired, maybe even a touch exhausted lately, I continue to look around me and see so much good in all the people that I love and care about. We forge forward, raise a glass or two, share a meal, and indulge in both rich desserts and conversation. We do this because we know that what we have is special. Gratefully we close out this November together and quietly pray that things will improve not just for us but for all. Happy Thanksgiving to all the turkeys I love out there. I am grateful to have you in my life, even if one of you won’t let me spatchcock the bird.

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