Yay! This year my Thanksgiving turkey contribution was roast rib eye. There you see it, in its medium rare splendor. Roast beef with onion, carrots, parsnips and Brussels sprout.
It was my least stressful Thanksgiving hosting in a while. No more arguments over the doneness of turkey!
Since returning to DC, our family have always celebrated Thanksgiving with friends who were stationed with Ted in our first tour overseas in Guangzhou in 1981! We have also always invited new friends made over the years.
And since it’s in our home, I’ve traditionally roasted the turkey. For decades I’ve used the method from Joy of Cooking which, according to my edition, required me to cover the turkey with cheesecloth and slather below and above the cloth with melted butter during the roast. I know no one else who does it this way and everyone thinks it’s nuts, I’m nuts, but it has worked for me.
Several years ago, I tried America Test Kitchen’s Braised Turkey. I brined the bird, separated the turkey legs, wings and breast and braised it over vegetables with chicken broth and wine. It looked quite elegant. But then I forgot about that success in the years after.
Last two years I took the easy route and cooked it in an oven bag. I took the roast turkey out when the temperature in the breast registered the National Turkey Federation recommended 165-170 degrees and the thighs to 175-180 degrees, adding a further 5 degrees for good measure. I tented it and waited for guests to arrive to present to them the turkey Norman Rockwell style. The turkey looked beautiful.
And when I sliced it, Ted and my family were very happy with it, but a few guests–no names mentioned–balked in horror that the turkey was “too pink!” One person alerted another who looked at it and proclaimed: “It’s not cooked! It’s not cooked!” “It is. The temperature was right,” I insisted. “Put it back!” “Just microwave it!” Suddenly my kitchen had many chefs. Or chiefs, since it’s Thanksgiving.
I had already read up on this, people. Everyone–every expert, that is–says not to judge a turkey’s doneness by its pinkness. GO BY THE TEMPERATURE! But no, my friends feared I was going to poison them. “It’s still raw!”
What’s a host to do? Google ahead and pass out authoritative literature? Tell them my turkey passes USDA guidelines?
Instead I bowed my head and against my own wisdom, and for the sake of family harmony, returned the poor bird into the oven, bringing it out after it was dried and there was no more squawking around me.
Actually this happened probably two years, or more, in a row. It was becoming Thanksgiving tradition to fight about whether the turkey is cooked enough or not. It was stressing me out. I ended up with turkey that was overcooked that I didn’t like. Heck, I told Ted this time, I ain’t cooking turkey for Thanksgiving anymore. End of story.
And so I made roast beef with chimichurri sauce (America’s Test Kitchen One Pan Prime Rib). Our friends, the Krawitzes, roasted, carved and brought their perfect turkey. Chi brought starters and John brought pumpkin custard.
No more complaints. Everyone loved everything. Bliss.
This was an added bonus especially since I had been anticipating food fights over politics, following Nov 8. Thankfully, we steered clear of it, safely discussing airplanes, Special Forces, old work mates, apartment costs in Taipei, birthright trips to Israel, and film making in Myanmar. The closest we got into an animated discussion was over cats, Burmese and Siamese cats. I said cats were ornery and one feline lover took exception. Ah..this kind of catfight I can live with.
A happy Thanksgiving indeed.
