All Kinds of Turkey
And alternatives to consider for those not fond of tradition.
You marry another family when that little wedding band fastens on your finger. Every parent has probably revealed this to their child at some point during the engagement: you’re not just getting a partner whom you’ve hopefully spent a considerable amount of time getting to know; you are hitching your wagon to a slew of people you don’t know at all but get an inkling of during the party afterward.
There was a great deal of wonderful things about my husband’s family, but cooking and food in general was not among them. The ramifications of this hit hard right before our first Thanksgiving, which happened to fall almost precisely two months into our marriage—a point where things could go either way. In consideration of my mother-in-law’s cooking loathing, I was placed in charge of the dinner and took for granted that they would appreciate all the incredible components of my mom’s feast.
My husband’s exact words uttered when I came home with the turkey, and recorded in a journal I kept at the time to help push me over the newlywed hump, were, “We never have turkey.”
My response, “You’re joking?,” followed by, “Well, that’s what we’re having.”
Turns out, Thanksgiving had been the breaking point of his mother’s skills. A cardboard-dry turkey haunted the family’s holiday memories. She blamed it on the quality of the bird and wasn’t half wrong, given that this was a time before all our current flock of heritage, naturally raised, coddled-to-a-gentle-death birds landed in our markets. The family’s ritual of mixing a pitcher of martinis after lunch didn’t help. They certainly softened any guilt she had—which was none at all—about not tending to whatever the hell was supposed to be happening in the kitchen.
The family dealt with this by cooking other meats—such as a suckling pig, which, according to family lore, at one point in the numerous basting steps, slid out of its pan, skidded across the kitchen floor, and crashed into the living room. My father-in-law nonchalantly picked up the pig, put it back in its roasting pan, finished the basting, and mixed another pitcher of martinis. It continues to be a funny story told almost every year around the Thanksgiving Day table.
Nevertheless, I stubbornly followed my family’s customs: slow-roasted turkey, herb-rich stuffing, whipped potatoes, pumpkin pie. My mom’s famous string bean casserole with those packaged fried onions on top was the only dish I wouldn’t make.
I forget what my in-laws’ reception was to my family’s habit and didn’t record it in the journal, unquestionably a result of his family’s habitual pitcher of martinis shaken after lunch.
The art of compromise is one of the lynchpins of a harmonious marriage, and it seemed the least I could do to keep ours together. By now, I have served every other category of meat for the holiday to the point where our sons question what we’ll be eating. They don’t care, so long as my mom’s stuffing and pumpkin pie are the constants.
For this Thursday, I thought about a standing stuffed pork roast, but prices being what they are, I decided we should make the month’s mortgage payment, instead. Or, duck—we all love duck—but I’d need at least four and, again, there’s the mortgage coupled with my desire not to cook multiple ducks. My oldest son reminded me of the capon he and I cooked two Thanksgivings ago. That was fun but somehow shouldn’t be repeated.
This morning’s batch of e-mails brought an intriguing suggestion for Thursday’s dinner in the form of an article on turkey tails, aka: parson’s nose, pope’s nose or sultan’s nose. In other words, the bird’s rear-end. It’s the one part of the turkey that hasn’t made it to the American table since we stopped shooting the birds ourselves and came to rely on commercial specimens. The decision not to include tails seems to have been made by the companies’ marketing departments. Probably after a long discussion, some focus groups, and their own prejudices, they determined that Americans just don’t take to weird parts of animals.
I need to write another story about how the exportation of all the tails from the millions of turkeys eaten on Thanksgiving each year affect the health of the countries where they land. Samoa, for instance. The island nation became so enamored of turkey tails that the population eventually believed it was a traditional native dish. Unfortunately, the tails very high fat content soon contributed to an astronomical rise in obesity among the population, so much so that the government banned it in 2007. Unfortunately, the ban didn’t last long.
….under World Trade Organization rules, countries and territories generally cannot unilaterally ban the import of commodities unless there are proven public health reasons for doing so. Samoa was forced to lift its ban in 2013 as a condition of joining the WTO, notwithstanding its health worries.—Michael Carolan, “Why Don’t We Eat Turkey Tails?” Smithsonian Magazine, November 14, 2017
Obviously, one has to put aside pressing work to pursue such information, and it was easy to discover that many people are fond of turkey tails. Yes, it’s very fatty, but so is pork butt. One source instructed to trim most of the fat off, fry the meat right up and you have yourself a crispy, sweet-tasting treat that goes well with ice-cold beer.
The one full recipe for tails I found appears at soulfoodsoutherncooking.com. Sounds pretty good. Regrettably, further research did not lead to a place where I could buy some for our dinner. Walmart offers the popular smoked butts but only in stores and none around me. Local farm-to-table stores in my area acted like they couldn’t believe what I was asking for. I then reached out to the one dear dear friend who raises chickens and, therefore, may know about poultry butts and perhaps could overnight me some. Her reply:
“NO. It gets cut out when we butcher our chickens. Otherwise, what the heck is a turkey butt? It sounds like a joke. LOL.”
My husband and sons continue to ask what we’re having. The rub is both sons are seriously involved with women who could soon become permanent family members. Our oldest just suggested we have ham and make it look like Predator’s head. His partner has been around us long enough to be okay with that. Our youngest will be introducing his girlfriend to our table for the first time, and I believe that’s a little too early. I’ve babbled to them all day long about the possibilities presented by turkey tails. It’s been a lot of fun leading them to believe I could run down the street and grab a few. Instead, I went out and bought a very nice naturally raised, (but not heritage) coddled-to-a-gentle-death turkey minus its butt. And, contrary to what the news has been screaming about, a lot of my weekly grocery money was left over to pay our mortgage.
Just now my husband complained he didn’t want any surprises and demanded to know what he was going to face on his mother’s turkey platter. I revealed that it will be an all-out Willard family menu. He says he’s thrilled, relieved. Can’t wait, actually!
Be sure to come back on Saturday for some ideas about what to do with leftovers, including a very reviving drink by Salvador Dalí that will sooth all your indulgences. He would have approved of our Alien Facehugger/Predator dinner but I promise his—actually his wife Gala’s—recipe will be closer to this side of normal.
My son was slightly shocked I agreed to it. It actually was pretty damn good, especially the potatoes. Guests were a little appalled, tho
TDay at your table is so creative. We might have to try the Facehugger this year.