Giving Thanks: Tender Cranberries, Braised and Roasted Bird, and a Good Life.

The ritual of cooking is an act of giving thanks, whether on Thanksgiving day, or any other time for that matter.   This year thanksgiving was simply for us as we had no company, leaving extra time to play and experiment.  I started the day by making aebleskiver.  I stuffed them with jam.  Although it seems like a great idea at first, it makes flipping the buggers a bit of a high stakes proposition lest one leak.  That, and the jam is absorbed into the cake, leaving more of a purple spot than a filling.  Still, it was fun and tasty.  Over all, I managed a better ball by having the batter at room temperature.  I warmed the eggs and buttermilk in a hot water bath.  Having room temperature batter reduced the differential in temperature in the ball during cooking, and made it easier to manage the browning.  I have my temperature and my technique, but I still want to fill some.  That will have to wait for another post.  Just like the sriracha noodles, one can’t get it right the first time out.

As soon as the dishes from breakfast were away, I parted out our little hen, carefully dis-articulating the joints and cutting the limbs free, then separating the back from the breast.  The breast of our farm raised turkeys is much narrower than those you buy in the store.  Over all, the bulk of the meat is in the breast and thigh.  The thighs have a lot more connective tissue, and there is scant meat in the wings.  My plan was to braise the dark meat and wings, while roasting the breast.  As the proud owner of a single oven, this meant that I had to do one, then the other.  No big deal.

One of the things that I have from breaking down my parents house in Detroit is a beautiful terracotta goose dish that had never been used.  I don’t know if it was a gift, or if my mother purchased it, but I have been eager to use it.  Something about a shaped dish just says “holiday”.  The braise started with an onion and some celery.  I deglazed the pan with some champagne.  I did the same after I browned the joints, and I placed everything in the clay pot, along with some cranberries, olives, and a cup of apple cider.  I put the entire affair in a cool oven, set things at 250, then 325, and let it go for a couple hours.  I set the temperature in two steps to reduce stress on the clay pot.  I also left my baking stone on the rack just bellow the rack I used.  All of this shielded the goose from too much differential heating as the oven warmed.   I knocked the temperature back down to 225 for the last hour so I could go on a bike ride with Trigger, lest he be a noodge all afternoon.

One thing I did not bank on was how much fat was in the back.  If I had to do it again, I would have put it in the pot with the rest of the trimmings destined to become gravy.  The stock was remarkably clear of fat, and my poor goose was laden.  So much so that I ended up removing everything from the goose, separating it all, and removing the fat.  While I was at it, I stripped the meat from the bones and tendons, just to make it easier to eat.  The meat was delightful–good flavor, and good mouth feel.  Braising did the trick for sure.

Working with our own fowl has been enlightening.  I feel like I understand the American preoccupation with breast meat now.  I can imagine a time before modern breeding and farming techniques where the thighs and legs would have seemed inedible to many.  Similarly, I realize how lean modern breeds of fowl are.  That an animal can grow so large and so fast, with so little fat is truly amazing.  If one were to judge turkeys simply on the quantity of meat and universal tenderness, there is no doubt that a bird raised by modern means would win.  Similarly, if you took a heritage turkey from a farm like ours and placed it in the hands of someone who had never cooked a bird the results would probably not be good.  It drives home for me the degree to which our tastes and cooking techniques are intertwined with the way we farm.   Turning back the clock and farming as we did eighty years ago won’t meet the tastes of most Americans.  If things are to change, cooking and farming will need to evolve together.

Returning to our Bourbon Red hen, the breast was a sheer delight.  I roasted it with nothing more than some salt on the skin.  Following family tradition, I tented the breast in a brown paper bag, and simply cooked it at 375 until it was golden brown, and the internal temperature was just shy of target.  The interior of the bird continues to cook during the time you rest the bird after cooking, and stopping shy ensures that you don’t over cook.  The meat was moist and flavorful.  Taste is one place where modern birds have nothing on our little hen.

Since it was just Amy and I, I stuck to traditional sides.  One thing I wanted to be sure of was that the cranberry sauce had some texture, and was not gloppy.  I feel like cranberry sauce of late has become an exercise in flavorings, ginger, spices, all manner of zinger added to what is in itself a very flavorful berry. Much of the time, the poor little berry is simply obliterated.  I should also note here, that if I hear Susan Stamberg’s cranberry relish recipe one more time I am going to toss my radio from the window.  So, in light of my cranberry distress, I started by browning a small onion.  I deglazed the pan with a champagne, and a cup of apple cider.  Following that, I added a couple spoons of bakers sugar.  The picked and rinsed cranberries went in last.  I did not stir despite all temptation!   I just backed the heat down, and let the buggers simmer until they were tender.  The result, a crisp slightly sweet sauce with tart balls of cranberry goodness.  On the bird, potatoes, and other things a real joy.  I am going to play with this recipe in the coming months. . . today after all, is the day where I go to the market and buy the cranberries that will invariably be on clearance so that I can stock the freezer with a few.

The gravy was traditional, starting with a rue of butter and flower, heart and liver chopped, and stock, reduced in a broad pan.  Mashed potatoes the same, butter and salt through the food mill.  While it all was good the first time through, the wheels were turning, and I was looking ahead to making shepherds pie with mashed potatoes, gravy and dark meat.  Shepherds pie is one of Amy’s favorites. Good thing she’s a shepherd.  Lastly, I rounded out the meal with Brussels sprouts fried in a little butter, then steamed in turkey stock.  I slit the sprouts so they would take up the flavors of the pan, and cooked the stock off entirely–leaving firm tasty sprouts.  We skipped the pie, and opted instead for a baked apple apiece.

With the candle light, there was hardly a chance to get a picture of the spread, so we just ate, gave thanks and enjoyed the meal.