Happy Thursday again, and Happy First Day of December, you wonderful Scribe fans! Suze here. It’s great to see you all again after the long Thanksgiving weekend.
Before we get to the “meat” of this post, some business. If you’re a writer and you haven’t entered CTRWA’s Write Stuff contest, what are you waiting for? There are still a few days left. First prize in each category is a hundred bucks, which you know you want. Go for it! Click here for details.
Now, I know you’re all dying to find out what happened last Thursday at my mom’s house. Remember? The turducken? Click here for a link to last week’s post so you can get yourselves up to speed if you missed it.
Mr. Suze and our son and I spent the morning at our remote woodland cabin, alternately watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and an awe-inspiring trio of bald eagles circling not too far overhead — two golden brown juveniles and an adult with a snowy white head and tail. Once the parade and the aerobatics show were over, we headed over to Mom’s.
She wasn’t home. We knew she wouldn’t be there yet, because she was doing volunteer work at her church. So we brought in the box of turducken, and I set about preparing it for cooking. Hmmm. A frown creased my forehead. A distinctive aroma permeated the kitchen, and it wasn’t coming from my still-raw Turducken. A tiny orangey light caught my eye. Not a Faulknerian Light in August, but a very suspicious Light in the Oven.
I investigated further. I strode to the oven. I threw open the door. A blast of hot air hit me in the face as I discovered — you guessed it — a 20 pound turkey, skin brown and crispy, hissing poultry steam from the vent holes in the old blue enamelware roaster pan.
Nearly four hundred years of family Thanksgiving tradition simply could not be denied. Mr. Suze just shook his head.
I pulled out the cooked bird and replaced it with the turducken, prepared according to the package directions (leave it in the cooking bag and place on a baking sheet in a 400 degree oven). Mom came in the door shortly afterward.
“Oh, good,” she said. “My turkey’s done.” She had the grace to look a little sheepish (pardon my mixing of farm animals here). “I had to cook the turkey. Ooh, is that the turducken?”
She never did say why she “had” to cook the turkey. Was it because the turkey was about to spoil and “had” to be cooked? (unappetizing, but entirely possible) Or was she simply compelled by a force greater than herself to cook that bird on the fourth Thursday of November? The world may never know.
As for the turducken, reviews were mixed. Like most prepared foods, this bizarre hybrid concoction was overly salty, or at least the rice stuffing was. Maybe a “homemade” turducken would be better, but I can tell you that personally I will not be deboning and stuffing three birds anytime soon. The turkey layer was judged to be fine. The duck layer was generally not hated, but not really liked. As for the chicken core, it tasted pretty much like the turkey layer, which is probably why chicken and turkey are never mixed together in recipes.
The other turkey ended up being sliced up for sandwiches the next day, and I made my famous Black Friday Stew with the carcass. (I’ll give you that recipe soon).
What about you? Do you have habits that you just can’t break, no matter how hard you try? Inquiring Scribes want to know!