Wednesday, November 27, 2002
So the pressure of Thanksgiving is starting to get to me. This year Melle Mel and I are hosting. A slew of Meades are coming over (including Bloggites Painkiller and Jack) and B&A are making the trek up from SF. Promises to be a hoot and a holler, etc.
But the responsibility of roasting the turkey lies squarely on my shoulders and I'm starting to crack. It hit me yesterday: ten people (or thereabouts) are counting on me to deliver a perfectly cooked bird, one that's juicy and yummy and gorgeously golden brown and is not, oh no, not at all.....dry. That's my worst fear, that I'm gonna cook the bastard to death and foist a tasteless, moistless carcass on our unwitting guests.
So I'm facing my fear and researching, researching, researching -- finding the best way to cook this 15 pound free range baby. Last night Melle showed me a recipe in some magazine (I forget the name) that she described as “Martha Stewart for Hipsters.” Brined turkey – heard of this? You fill a big-ass stockpot with water and dissolve tons of salt in it, stick your bird in, and refrigerate the whole thing for 12 – 24 hours. Pull it out, pat it dry, stuff or not, roast for 2 hours. They didn’t really explain what the point of it all was – to reduce cooking time perhaps? Anyway, never having tried it before, I didn’t feel comfortable risking oversalinating the turkey so, you’ll be glad to know, I’ve rejected this concept.
Then there’s Joy of Cooking, which a co-worker assured me was the way to go. You cover the fucker in a “heavy woven cloth soaked in melted butter or oil” and baste over AND under the cloth. Whatthefuck? Fannie Farmer, the cookbook I trust more than any other, says to start the thing out breast down then turn it after an hour or so. It occurred to me that my mother does it this way but I couldn’t remember for sure.
Anyway, today I’ve been surfing turkey recipes online and holy fuck! there’s a lot of them and each one contradicting the other and I was really getting panicky and whatnot so I picked up the phone and called emergency – Mom. Sure enough, she does the ol’ breast down, turn it after an hour method, and swears by it, and since her turkey is always yummy that’s the way I’m gonna do it. She did offer this sage advice that helped calm me down: “Everyone is so overstuffed and overdrunk that no one is going to notice anyway.” She also said, “I’ve already hung up on a Holocaust survivor today,” but that’s another story.
But the responsibility of roasting the turkey lies squarely on my shoulders and I'm starting to crack. It hit me yesterday: ten people (or thereabouts) are counting on me to deliver a perfectly cooked bird, one that's juicy and yummy and gorgeously golden brown and is not, oh no, not at all.....dry. That's my worst fear, that I'm gonna cook the bastard to death and foist a tasteless, moistless carcass on our unwitting guests.
So I'm facing my fear and researching, researching, researching -- finding the best way to cook this 15 pound free range baby. Last night Melle showed me a recipe in some magazine (I forget the name) that she described as “Martha Stewart for Hipsters.” Brined turkey – heard of this? You fill a big-ass stockpot with water and dissolve tons of salt in it, stick your bird in, and refrigerate the whole thing for 12 – 24 hours. Pull it out, pat it dry, stuff or not, roast for 2 hours. They didn’t really explain what the point of it all was – to reduce cooking time perhaps? Anyway, never having tried it before, I didn’t feel comfortable risking oversalinating the turkey so, you’ll be glad to know, I’ve rejected this concept.
Then there’s Joy of Cooking, which a co-worker assured me was the way to go. You cover the fucker in a “heavy woven cloth soaked in melted butter or oil” and baste over AND under the cloth. Whatthefuck? Fannie Farmer, the cookbook I trust more than any other, says to start the thing out breast down then turn it after an hour or so. It occurred to me that my mother does it this way but I couldn’t remember for sure.
Anyway, today I’ve been surfing turkey recipes online and holy fuck! there’s a lot of them and each one contradicting the other and I was really getting panicky and whatnot so I picked up the phone and called emergency – Mom. Sure enough, she does the ol’ breast down, turn it after an hour method, and swears by it, and since her turkey is always yummy that’s the way I’m gonna do it. She did offer this sage advice that helped calm me down: “Everyone is so overstuffed and overdrunk that no one is going to notice anyway.” She also said, “I’ve already hung up on a Holocaust survivor today,” but that’s another story.
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Again from Rick:
That doesn't count Korak. You gotta say sump'n to the peoples.
Jesus, it's hard enough to find time at work to blog let alone finding the words to say sump'n to the peoples. Fact is, I got nothing to say right now, so stick that in yer pipe and smoke it, Jack.
That doesn't count Korak. You gotta say sump'n to the peoples.
Jesus, it's hard enough to find time at work to blog let alone finding the words to say sump'n to the peoples. Fact is, I got nothing to say right now, so stick that in yer pipe and smoke it, Jack.
Monday, November 25, 2002
Rick sent me this charming e-mail this afternoon:
Update yer stinkin blog Korak. No one cares about how much you loved your job
last Tuesday.
"Korak", in case you haven't ever clicked on that link next to the archives, is part of my email address, korak89@hotmail.com. I forget if there actually were 88 other koraks when I signed up. Anyway, Korak was the son of Tarzan in a comic book that I read when I was a kid. I don't know if he was actually an Edgar Rice Burroughs creation or not. Can't remember why I chose it as a name.
Update yer stinkin blog Korak. No one cares about how much you loved your job
last Tuesday.
"Korak", in case you haven't ever clicked on that link next to the archives, is part of my email address, korak89@hotmail.com. I forget if there actually were 88 other koraks when I signed up. Anyway, Korak was the son of Tarzan in a comic book that I read when I was a kid. I don't know if he was actually an Edgar Rice Burroughs creation or not. Can't remember why I chose it as a name.
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