The Perfect Turkey (Or Why You Should Never Knock Martha)
My mom has been making the same Thanksgiving turkey recipe since I was in middle school. It isn’t a family recipe that was handed down through the generations. Neither of my grandmothers have ever been good cooks, and I doubt that either ever took much pride in the annual roasting of the bird. But in a way, my grandma, Trader Joanna, is responsible for introducing the recipe into the annals of our family tradition. It all began one Thanksgiving morning when Trader Joanna and I were sitting on the curved leather couch in the family room of our beach house on the Oregon coast. We had been watching the Macy’s parade on TV. After the last float went by, Trader Joanna scanned the channels, stopping when she reached the Martha Stewart show. Despite not being a cook, Trader Joanna had always valued the hostess-with-the-mostest skills Martha Stewart imparted. Like Martha, Trader Joanna has also made a name as a savvy businesswoman, although her empire extends roughly to the borders of the town of Cannon Beach (plus a few pocket fiefdoms in Portland).
Trader Joanna and I watched as the perfectly pasteled Martha showed us how to make a turkey that came out evenly browned, moist and flavorful every time. Martha’s trick involves draping the salted, peppered and stuffed bird with a length of cheesecloth that had been plunged into a pot of hot butter and white wine. She then puts the turkey in the oven to roast, opening the door every 30 minutes to paint the cheesecloth with more butter and white wine. On TV, Martha’s turkey emerged from its cheesecloth sheath looking like the cover of a magazine. “That seems like a good recipe,” Trader Joanna said. “We should do it that way.” As everyone in my family has learned over the years, when Trader Joanna says “we,” she almost always means “you”—in this case, my mother. Luckily, Mango Mama is not the type to brine in advance. She bought some cheesecloth and followed Martha’s instructions, producing a bird that exceeded all our expectations.
This year, my mom made Martha’s turkey (second photo) at her Thanksgiving dinner in Cannon Beach, and my aunt, Auntie Pasti and I made it (top photo) for our east coast feast on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. I convinced Auntie Pasti to order a heritage turkey from Robinson’s Prime Reserve in Louisville, Kentucky. They were having a 20% off sale on Gilt Groupe (my “gilt-y” pleasure), so I emailed her to see if she was interested. She went for it—all $130 of it. I covered the additional $30 shipping and handling fee that brought the 22 pound just-killed bird to her apartment on the Tuesday before turkey day. Mango Mama, on the other hand, secured her 20-plus pound Butterball for free. The Portland grocery chain, Fred Meyer had a deal where you got a free turkey by purchasing $200 worth of food.
Needless to say, Mango Mama and Auntie Pasti had already spoken on the phone and compared notes about their respective turkeys by the time Empanada Boy and I arrived on the Upper West Side Thursday morning. “I can’t believe I spent so much money,” Auntie Pasti said. Later when I talked to Mango Mama she said: “Free is a good price. I don’t mind a few chemicals in my turkey.” Two sisters on opposite coasts, so alike you can’t tell them apart on the phone, yet still so different.
In addition to preparing our turkey to the letter of Martha’s instructions, Auntie Pasti and I made a delicious green salad with snow peas, beans and lemon zest; a brussels sprout hash; buttery mashed potatoes and cubed sweet potatoes. And before I even arrived, Auntie Pasti made two kinds of cranberry sauce—one a tart relish and the other sweeter with cubes of pear mixed in—and two kinds of stuffing—one with currants and pine nuts and the other packed with smoky Spanish chorizo. Every 30 minutes, a timer went off, and we would drop what we were chopping to open the oven and baste with butter and white wine— she with a baster, and I with a brush.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, closely rivaled by Passover, because I can think of almost nothing I would rather do all day than be in the kitchen making and tasting delicious food and chatting with my mom my aunt, my sister or anyone else who has been put to work. In recent years, Auntie Pasti has done more of the work, and I have been responsible for my traditional task of making the desserts. This year, I made my desserts— a pear tart with Poire Williams glaze and an apple-cranberry pie— the night before and the always resourceful Empanada Boy figured out how to carry them on the subway the next morning so I could help with the bird. It was a treat to see the meal through from start to finish.
The rest of the relatives and guests arrived, and Corn-y Uncle poured us some pre-dinner Champagne. As we toasted to the host and hostess, I thought to myself: “Martha Stewart would be proud.” Indeed, the turkey emerged from the oven about a half hour later, looking perfectly burnished and moist. Cousin Ketchup, the family expert on poultry carving after watching a New York Times instructional video last year, set about his task. I snuck a taste of the dark meat, and I have to say, it was the best turkey I have ever tasted. As Auntie Pasti put it: “It had better be.”
As I’ve said before on this blog, there are very few restaurants that I think are worth visiting for brunch. The wait is usually long, the options are usually overpriced and most don’t taste as good as what you can make at home. But, not only would I go to brunch at 
The last time we were there, EB’s cousin Vegemite was visiting from Australia with her husband and two young sons. We all piled into the big booth near one window. The kids ordered delicious banana nut pancakes and eggs and toast, while Spanikopita and Vegemite veered toward lunch with the salmon salad. Iceberg ordered what he always does: the Smokehouse omelet made with hickory smoked bacon, peppers, onions and cheddar cheese, served with hash browns and onions. EB went for the chorizo omelet with potatoes, and Vegemite’s husband Biscuit ordered another omelet. I got “Judge Malone’s Corned Beef Hash”—something I could never make at home— served it a skillet with fried eggs and toast.
As most of you know by now, I am still in mourning over the 
When the weather turns colder and the rain starts to fall, it’s easy to turn nostalgic about the summer. That’s how I felt when I was scrolling through my photos and came upon the ones I took when Empanada Boy and I were in Cape Cod with Auntie Pasti and Corn-y Uncle. We went over Labor Day weekend— not exactly the height of summer, but while it was still warm enough for ocean swimming. I had not stayed at Corn-y’s mom’s place in Eastham since I was a kid. It was hard at first to recall all of the traditional Cape activities, but they quickly came back to me through Auntie Pasti’s descriptions. We ended up doing many of them. We rode bikes to the beach and along the paths; we watched the sunset over the bay and ate perfect tomatoes in the screened in porch. But one Corn-y family tradition I hadn’t yet experienced was the pilgrimage to 
Auntie Pasti and I ordered the classic lobster roll— a ton of lump tail and claw meat with a tiny bit of mayonnaise in a soft white hot-dog-type bun. (I’ve read that purists consider it sacrilege to add anything more to the meat than a touch of mayo. Scallions? No way!) The meat was tender and rich, with more retained moisture than lobsters I’ve had in the shell. Corn-y Uncle got a delightfully crispy-briny fried oyster sandwich in the same kind of bun. The bun seems unappealing at first, but as you eat one of these sandwiches, you realize that it is basically only there to create a proper pedestal for the proteins. Eat it in a lobster- or oyster-filled bite, or don’t bother eating it at all.
Never one to pass on the dish, EB got the fish and chips. I though this dish was disappointing: the fries were generic and somewhat limp and the fish could have been crispier. To me, the best fish and chips has the crackly exterior and a soft, flaky interior. The exterior of this was light, leaving me without that satisfying moment of breakthrough from the crust to the fish. 
The anniversary celebration continued, a week after Empanada Boy organized a mystery weekend trip. All he told me before we drove out of the city was that I needed hiking clothes and something a little nicer to wear to dinner. As we drove, and I read the directions, I gradually learned that we were heading out to 
The ever-thoughtful EB had also made us a dinner reservation for that night at the local 
The next day, after a huge and filling breakfast, we went for a nine-mile hike in Sam’s Point Preserve, part of the Shawangunk Ridge. We ate our leftover lasagna for lunch, as we sat overlooking a stunning waterfall. On our way back that evening, we stopped in the hippie town of New Paltz for dinner. EB had done his research on the town’s top restaurants, and we had selected 
EB’s main course was a Guinness Pie, which was only so-so. My main course, on the other hand, was a confit duck leg and thigh, which was super-tender on the inside and perfectly crispy on the outside. The meat came atop a bed of squash and alongside a savory, garlicky white bean stew. It was the best meal I had eaten in quite some time. The desserts at The Village Tea Room also looked delicious. EB got rice pudding, but I decided to pass. After all, we had a whole chunk of anniversary cake waiting for us back at the inn.
I’m sighing as I make the trek back to New York after a lengthy vacation in Wisconsin and Oregon. Empanada Boy came home a few days before me because he had to work. I wanted to stay in Portland for my grandma, Trader Joanna’s, birthday. This is probably the last time I will be able to take advantage of a student’s long winter vacation, so I relished every minute of it. EB and I flew into Chicago and spent the night with Sous Chef, Slim McDinner and family in Evanston. The next morning, we hitched a ride up to Madison. As soon as we pulled up, we were shuttled into another car by Tofutti Cutie and Popover to make the four-hour trek up to EB’s family place in northern Wisconsin’s Eagle River. We had a lot of fun, despite the snowy, sub-zero weather. But we headed back to Madison earlier than expected to escape an oncoming blizzard. On the way home, we stopped for lunch at 
The Cookery is a classic roadside café with lacy curtains, hearty food made from scratch and plenty of regulars. It’s actually located just down the road from Eagle River in the town of Sugar Camp. Snowmobilers park outside and head in for a sandwich or a homestyle plate of food. The Cookery was closed when we tried to go there on our last visit, so EB was excited to get me to try it this time. We stomped in wearing our winter boots and sat down at a round table. Popover ordered a grilled cheese sandwich from the regular menu, but EB and Tofutti Cutie were tempted by the special of the day: liver and onions with a side of rye bread. I wanted something warm and filling. Nothing seemed to better fit the bill than a bowl of house-made chili. 
For dessert we shared a dried cherry crumble with a scoop of ice cream. The topping was made with oatmeal and could have benefited from something to hold the clumps together more effectively and from more spices, including salt. The dried cherries were nice, though, and the dish was definitely homemade. 
Hello again, dear readers. I know I have been M.I.A. in recent days. Let’s just say that the first month of graduate school has taken its toll on my blogging time. Luckily, even graduate students have to eat, and eating cheaply is an even higher priority than ever. I have a number of New York City recommendations to relay to you soon. But first, I’ll tell you about the trip Empanada Boy and I took to Westchester a few weeks ago. We were visiting his aunt and uncle, Spanakopita and Iceberg. They had kindly allowed us to have our wedding gifts shipped to their house, so we spent the afternoon opening them. After our strenuous present-opening session, a juicy burger sounded like the perfect thing. Spanakopita and Iceberg agreed to take us to the 
The Blazer Pub is housed in a quaint old white colonial with reddish shutters. The interior has dark wood paneling and is decorated with random antiques, mostly connected to equestrian activities, sports and Irish themes. The restaurant is named after the Galway Blazers, a fox-hunting club in Western Ireland. Tables are covered with red cloths, and the menu is filled with pub specialties like sandwiches and chowder. Burgers are the main show. Iceberg, Spanakopita and I ordered the regular burger, which only comes with pickles for toppings. We specially requested grilled onions, but even lettuce and tomato would have meant another extra charge. EB ordered the Blazer Burger, a more elaborate concoction, which came with cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles and grilled onions. The burgers were thick and almost spherical, making for a very high sandwich. We all ordered them medium-rare, but were disappointed when they arrived medium to well-done. The meat was still flavorful, but it was missing the essential juiciness we had been expecting. Iceberg assured us that this was not the norm and that the cooking sometimes suffers on a busy Saturday night. Our server gently scolded us later for not sending them back, but we confessed to being too hungry to wait.
Sides to go along with burgers must also be ordered separately. We got a small order of the Blazer’s massive hand-cut fries. Needless to say, the small was more than enough to serve the four of us. These were a little thick for my taste, but they had a good crispy exterior and a soft, warm interior. EB wanted to try another of the restaurant’s specialties— the Blazer Onion. This is a whole onion’s worth of fried onion rings. He couldn’t find enough support at the table and was warned against attempting to eat a whole one himself. Hopefully, he and I can go back to the Blazer to try them sometime soon. We’ll try to go on a weeknight to avoid the crowds and the burger casualties. I have a feeling the Blazer’s burgers can get a lot better than the ones we tried.
Empanada Boy and I spent Thanksgiving in Cannon Beach with my grandma and immediate family and his parents, sister and brother-in-law. It was just the ten of us through most of the visit, but the Thanksgiving dinner at our family beach house was attended by nearly 30 of our closest friends and family. Needless to say, one turkey would not be enough. Mango Mama made a 20-lb bird using her traditional preparation (courtesy of Martha Stewart), which involves wrapping the bird in a butter-and-white wine-soaked cheesecloth. Another friend made a slightly smaller organic bird. These would have been enough to feed us all, but Daddy Salmon provided another interesting twist this year. About a week before Thanksgiving, he took his traditional longbow hunting in Lebanon, Oregon. He came back with the first bow-caught food of his archery career: a wild turkey.
The bird looks big in the above photo, but once Daddy Salmon had plucked its feathers it shrunk down to a sinuous 10 lbs. Daddy Salmon got up early on Thanksgiving day to brine the turkey in garlic, salt and a variety of herbs. After about eight hours of brining, I pulled it out and placed it in the roasting pan. The wild turkey didn’t get nice and browned like its supermarket cousins during the 2-3/4 hours of roasting. Each time I checked in on it, I was surprised to see the taught, greyish-brownish skin looking just as alien as ever. When I finally pulled it out, I noticed a purple-colored area on the top of the breast. This likely came from the blood vessels broken by the pierce of Daddy Salmon’s arrow.
This photo of the wild turkey waiting to be carved illustrates where the arrow hit. The meat was distributed to guests separately from the farm-raised turkeys to those interested in trying their free-ranging relative. The white meat turned out to be very tender, but it was far milder than the familiar store-bought birds. Daddy Salmon found whole acorns in its gullet, so we can only assume that this is part of what gave the meat its flavor. The dark meat was tough and very muscular, more like red meat than poultry. It was also difficult to get much dark meat off the bone. Daddy Salmon reminded us that there was less meat and more muscle on the wings and the thighs because wild turkeys actually fly. 
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