Tselani
I wrote this story several years ago, before I attended Le Cordon Bleu Paris. After reading article after article about brining a turkey, I was eager to give it a shot. It’s funny to read the story now after I’ve been through cooking school. I’ve been humbled (and humiliated) by French chefs so my ego is not what it used to be. And of course my techniques and methods have changed drastically. Enjoy!
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that when it comes to cooking, I have a bit of an ego. I find myself bragging in the office to my colleagues about the numerous delicacies I’ve prepared in the kitchen. I’ve even gone so far as to declare myself a barbecue maven after I mastered succulent, fall-off-the-bone ribs on a charcoal grill. So how hard could it be to cook a turkey? After all, it’s the ultimate turkey recipe encoded into our genes as Americans?
This is my first Thanksgiving turkey. At the age of 33, you’d think I would have mastered the challenge years ago. After all, I’m a great cook, right? But alas, I’ve been relying on numerous friends and family members to handle the seemingly “simple” stuff while I whipped up fancy nibbles like smoked salmon mousse in endive and shrimp poached in their own stock.
I earned the dubious honor of turkey chef this year for one simple reason – my great grandmother’s china. I recently inherited a beautiful set of hand painted Wedgwood china that has been in my family for a century. What a way to welcome it into my home by debuting it at the Thanksgiving table.
Armed with my Cook’s Illustrated and Bon Appetit Thanksgiving editions (my cooking bibles), I set out on what I assumed would be a simple walk in the part. Every piece of turkey literature I’ve read celebrates the brined turkey. So against the advice of my well-seasoned turkey cooking friends, I dove in headfirst.
Most recipes for brining suggested immersing the turkey in a large bucket or placing it in a cooler. Since I have neither nor a refrigerator big enough, I opted for the bag method. An ever-so-helpful sales clerk at my neighborhood culinary store suggested using two large oven roasting bags to contain both the turkey and the brine. It sounded simple enough, so I diligently dissolved the Kosher salt in the cold water and poured the mixture into the bag with the turkey, propping the whole thing up in the sink.
Thank goodness I chose the four-hour brining recipe as opposed to the overnight, 12 – 16 hour one. It’s at this point that I learned turkeys don’t balance on end very well. Not do they have a lot of traction when coming in contact with a porcelain sink. I barely managed to get the brine into the bag when the whole package tiped over and the turkey played slip-n-slide in the bottom of the sink.
I finally managed to get the second batch of brine into the bag with the turkey and tie the whole thing closed. As I wiped the brine off my cheek, I looked down into the sink. There was my $40 investment swimming nicely in a cloudy, pink liquid of love. I had done it and only suffered one setback. Or so I thought…
I work out and life weights. But no exercise could have prepared me for the next task at hind – lifting the bathing beauty out of the sink, across the room, and into the awaiting roasting pan. I think I might have pulled a muscle. Maybe I should have lifted with my knees first.
I gingerly placed the pan in the refrigerator to the brining beast could get started on its four hour swim. An hour later, I yanked open the refrigerator to get the turkey parts for stock. As I was rummaging around, something cold and wet dripped on my sock. As I looked down, a horrifying sight awaited. The soft pink turkey brine had somehow escaped the bag and leaked over the edge of the roasting pan. The bottom of the refrigerator was a miniature lake. Standing there frozen, all I could envision was the guests for tomorrow’s feast sitting around the table in tears because I had botched the dinner’s main course.
“Think,” I told myself. I carefully lifted the overflowing roasting pan out of the refrigerator and to the sink, slopping generous amounts of brine on the floor. Upon further inspection of the turkey, I found a small hole in the outer turkey bag that spouted copious amounts of brine into the pan. “What in the world am I going to do?” I wondered out loud. And then genius struck. Okay, maybe not genius, but close enough.
I maneuvered the bag around the turkey so the hole was at the top where there was a generous pocket of air. I stood at the sink eyeing the bag to ensure there was no more leakage. After what seems like an eternity (probably only three minutes), I was satisfied that my brining beauty was no longer leaking. Back into the refrigerator it went.
I admit to peaking every 15 minutes or so just to make sure the brine wasn’t creating another Lake Michigan in my crisper drawer. I’m pleased to say the rest of the brining period passed uneventfully.
Once brined for four hours, I rinsed my sufficiently plump and clammy turkey, patted it dry, and plopped it back into the roasting pan. Leaving the bird uncovered in the refrigerator overnight dries out the skin and leads to a crisper, browner skin during roasting.
The following day, a gorgeous, perfectly brown, unbelievably fragrant turkey emerged from the oven. I eyed the breast as we made the first slice. It looked juicy and tender. I took a bite. A chill ran down my spine. It was the perfect bite – just the right amount of salt penetrated the meat. I felt like I was standing on the summit of Mount Everest. I had done it, and done it well.
As we sat down at the table and gave thanks, I said a silent thank you to all the generations of turkey chefs who paved the way. I am eternally grateful for all those who have come before me and have equally great stories to tell about cooking their first turkey.
Happy Thanksgiving!
I’m a little embarrassed to admit that when it comes to cooking, I have a bit of an ego. I find myself bragging in the office to my colleagues about the numerous delicacies I’ve prepared in the kitchen. I’ve even gone so far as to declare myself a barbecue maven after I mastered succulent, fall-off-the-bone ribs on a charcoal grill. So how hard could it be to cook a turkey? After all, it’s the ultimate turkey recipe encoded into our genes as Americans?
This is my first Thanksgiving turkey. At the age of 33, you’d think I would have mastered the challenge years ago. After all, I’m a great cook, right? But alas, I’ve been relying on numerous friends and family members to handle the seemingly “simple” stuff while I whipped up fancy nibbles like smoked salmon mousse in endive and shrimp poached in their own stock.
I earned the dubious honor of turkey chef this year for one simple reason – my great grandmother’s china. I recently inherited a beautiful set of hand painted Wedgwood china that has been in my family for a century. What a way to welcome it into my home by debuting it at the Thanksgiving table.
Armed with my Cook’s Illustrated and Bon Appetit Thanksgiving editions (my cooking bibles), I set out on what I assumed would be a simple walk in the part. Every piece of turkey literature I’ve read celebrates the brined turkey. So against the advice of my well-seasoned turkey cooking friends, I dove in headfirst.
Most recipes for brining suggested immersing the turkey in a large bucket or placing it in a cooler. Since I have neither nor a refrigerator big enough, I opted for the bag method. An ever-so-helpful sales clerk at my neighborhood culinary store suggested using two large oven roasting bags to contain both the turkey and the brine. It sounded simple enough, so I diligently dissolved the Kosher salt in the cold water and poured the mixture into the bag with the turkey, propping the whole thing up in the sink.
Thank goodness I chose the four-hour brining recipe as opposed to the overnight, 12 – 16 hour one. It’s at this point that I learned turkeys don’t balance on end very well. Not do they have a lot of traction when coming in contact with a porcelain sink. I barely managed to get the brine into the bag when the whole package tiped over and the turkey played slip-n-slide in the bottom of the sink.
I finally managed to get the second batch of brine into the bag with the turkey and tie the whole thing closed. As I wiped the brine off my cheek, I looked down into the sink. There was my $40 investment swimming nicely in a cloudy, pink liquid of love. I had done it and only suffered one setback. Or so I thought…
I work out and life weights. But no exercise could have prepared me for the next task at hind – lifting the bathing beauty out of the sink, across the room, and into the awaiting roasting pan. I think I might have pulled a muscle. Maybe I should have lifted with my knees first.
I gingerly placed the pan in the refrigerator to the brining beast could get started on its four hour swim. An hour later, I yanked open the refrigerator to get the turkey parts for stock. As I was rummaging around, something cold and wet dripped on my sock. As I looked down, a horrifying sight awaited. The soft pink turkey brine had somehow escaped the bag and leaked over the edge of the roasting pan. The bottom of the refrigerator was a miniature lake. Standing there frozen, all I could envision was the guests for tomorrow’s feast sitting around the table in tears because I had botched the dinner’s main course.
“Think,” I told myself. I carefully lifted the overflowing roasting pan out of the refrigerator and to the sink, slopping generous amounts of brine on the floor. Upon further inspection of the turkey, I found a small hole in the outer turkey bag that spouted copious amounts of brine into the pan. “What in the world am I going to do?” I wondered out loud. And then genius struck. Okay, maybe not genius, but close enough.
I maneuvered the bag around the turkey so the hole was at the top where there was a generous pocket of air. I stood at the sink eyeing the bag to ensure there was no more leakage. After what seems like an eternity (probably only three minutes), I was satisfied that my brining beauty was no longer leaking. Back into the refrigerator it went.
I admit to peaking every 15 minutes or so just to make sure the brine wasn’t creating another Lake Michigan in my crisper drawer. I’m pleased to say the rest of the brining period passed uneventfully.
Once brined for four hours, I rinsed my sufficiently plump and clammy turkey, patted it dry, and plopped it back into the roasting pan. Leaving the bird uncovered in the refrigerator overnight dries out the skin and leads to a crisper, browner skin during roasting.
The following day, a gorgeous, perfectly brown, unbelievably fragrant turkey emerged from the oven. I eyed the breast as we made the first slice. It looked juicy and tender. I took a bite. A chill ran down my spine. It was the perfect bite – just the right amount of salt penetrated the meat. I felt like I was standing on the summit of Mount Everest. I had done it, and done it well.
As we sat down at the table and gave thanks, I said a silent thank you to all the generations of turkey chefs who paved the way. I am eternally grateful for all those who have come before me and have equally great stories to tell about cooking their first turkey.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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