Static Zombie

Fowl Play

This week I carved a turkey for the first time. And by "carved" I mean "committed brutal acts of post-mortem dismemberment to forcibly remove meat from a dead bird's carcass." There was nothing pretty, elegant, or civilized about it. The turkey had been lovingly brined in a mixture of salt, brown sugar, bourbon, cloves and peppercorns, then seasoned with care and roasted to succulence. Nothing in the bird's culinary journey could possibly have prepared it for the oafish brutality that awaited it on my cutting board. Except, perhaps, that one fateful moment as the axe-- or whatever mechanized equivalent Frank Purdue's people employ-- cleaved its head from its neck.

It's not like I didn't come prepared. I came armed with a sharp, quality Sabatier chef's knife which, all my sources assured me, would be ample for the task. I had my laptop nearby, the step-by-step illustrated carving guide from Cooks' Illustrated's turkey site loaded and ready. But that guide assumes the user earned a certificate of merit from an AP turkey anatomy class, and my education was mysteriously lacking in that department.

It seemed so simple. Separate the legs and thighs, then do the same with the wings. Slice down the middle of the breast, then slide the knife under the breast meat and separate the breast from the rib cage. Slice on a bias across the grain and presto: elegant, picturesque slices of delectable holiday goodness. A Martha Stewart moment.

So. The leg bone's connected to the thigh bone, but where the heck's the joint? I knew it had to be there, somewhere beneath the dark meat slowly dripping its juices onto my hand, but I'll be damned if I could find it. Once I did, I had no doubt the Sabatier could cleave it in twain in no time. But a hammer's no good without a nail. I flipped the bird over, turned it forwards, backwards, and on its side, examined it from every possible angle and would have called Mr. DeMille in for a close-up if I thought it would help. I wedged the knife in where I thought the joint should be, only to meet solid bone. Even with great leverage I wasn't going to cut through that; with the knife twisting in my now-thoroughly-lubricated-with-turkey-juices hand, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Even with no salmon mousse on the menu, death lurked outside the door.

Frustration mounted. Flayed pieces of turkey were beginning to pile up, and I still hadn't carved a darn thing. So I punted. I grabbed the leg with one hand and gave a mighty twist, popping out the leg joint. From there I twisted some more to uncover the elusive thigh joint. It only got uglier from there as, emboldened, I got medieval on the turkey's carcass. In a thought bubble above my head, Alton Brown looked down disapprovingly. "Now that is definitely not good eats." But in the end, I got the job done. A platter of respectable white meat slices and... irregular dark meat chunks made it to the table. And the meat was, in fact, flavorful, moist, and tender.

This is why I don't eat lobster. I love the process of cooking. I love the process of eating. Foods that throw up obstacles between those two steps are more trouble than they're worth. Next time I'll just slap the turkey on a platter, bring it to the table with a few sharp knives, and tell people to carve their own damn dinner.

Posted by Peter at November 29, 2004 12:08 AM