I’ve had a thing about raw fowl flesh for as long as I can remember. We used to have chickens when I was little and THE worst job in the world, even worse that collecting the green horned tomato worms, was getting stuck doing the chickens. The chopping their heads off. The blood. The smell of the boiling water on their feathers and the plucking, plucking, plucking. Makes me sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
Every time Thanksgiving rolls around, I have a few uncomfortable moments while I think about how gross it is to touch the turkey and then Joe looks at my face and says he’ll take care of it. Phew. Ok. Crisis averted.
This year, I watched non-stop cooking shows on TV for about a month leading up to Thanksgiving and I kept watching how it was no big deal, this touching the raw turkey thing. Those television people just toss it around like it’s no big thing and salt it and butter it and put their fingers under the top layer of skin and put herbs in it and stuff the butt cavity with whatever and I almost had myself convinced that I could do it this year. Almost.
And then it was 9am on Tday morning and Joe was upstairs sleeping and I didn’t want to wake him and the turkey needed to get in the oven and I grabbed that organic, free-range 22 pound turkey from Whole Foods out of the fridge and tossed it in the sink. I looked at it. Considered it. Poked it.
And then the most amazing thing happened. It was like I was watching the TV. My Primal Cook skills came out and I rinsed, dried, seasoned and trussed that sucker like nobody’s business. Then I popped it in the oven and by the time Joe got downstairs it had already been cooking for an hour.
Amazingly, it turned quite delicious. I’ve decided the answer is to always watch more television.