Thanksgiving 2011
I've roasted ducks in Thanksgivings past, but this is the first year I've had company. I roasted a bird for ScatterKat; afterwards, we slow-danced to George Winston's version of Vince Guaraldi's "Christmas Time Is Here"; a little early, sure, but Guaraldi's Charlie Brown music is synonymous with the winter holidays (especially if you're a certain age), and that song was meant to be danced to.
This was the bird at various stages of its evolution prior to its eventual demolishment by nom. I was worried because, y'know, screwing up a bird for yourself is one thing, messing it up for the girlfriend is another. But I done good. It was a damn good eat.
It was a simple roast: the bird was stuffed with apple, pear and celery; the outside was rubbed with garlic, paprika, kosher salt and cracked pepper. I went for a slightly crispier skin this year (which was one of the things that made me nervous), and so poked some holes in the skin to let more of the fat run off. About a half hour cooking time per pound at 350 °F (oven preheated to 400 °F), so two-and-a-half hours; I was worried I'd overcooked it when the thermometer ran high when I pulled the bird out, but the meat was as moist as it ought to be.
None of which is important except insofar as I fed my woman, which is a biological imperative going back to when Thag One-Hand stuck a handful of fresh wildebeest into the tribe's open flame to impress Gah-Daughter-Of-Ug; about a week later, natch, Shkoo Under-Your-Nose won away Gah's heart by repeating Thag's one-time trick except with the radical innovation of using a pointy stick instead of his hand, but that's a different story (and has a tragic ending, as Thag One Hand shortly thereafter discovered The Heavy Rock That Causes Sleep-No-Wake, but I digress).
I have to confess, at the risk of disgusting my regulars, the best part of dinner was dancing to George Winston, a point I make only to say: love, as William Goldman once wrote, is the best thing in the world except for cough drops. Okay, I think I had some other thing I wanted to say that didn't involve cough drops and did involve dancing, but I'm having a bit of a hard time getting the words in the right order. Maybe you got the point already, or knew it before I tried to make it. Anyway, I'm thankful.
This was the bird at various stages of its evolution prior to its eventual demolishment by nom. I was worried because, y'know, screwing up a bird for yourself is one thing, messing it up for the girlfriend is another. But I done good. It was a damn good eat.
It was a simple roast: the bird was stuffed with apple, pear and celery; the outside was rubbed with garlic, paprika, kosher salt and cracked pepper. I went for a slightly crispier skin this year (which was one of the things that made me nervous), and so poked some holes in the skin to let more of the fat run off. About a half hour cooking time per pound at 350 °F (oven preheated to 400 °F), so two-and-a-half hours; I was worried I'd overcooked it when the thermometer ran high when I pulled the bird out, but the meat was as moist as it ought to be.
None of which is important except insofar as I fed my woman, which is a biological imperative going back to when Thag One-Hand stuck a handful of fresh wildebeest into the tribe's open flame to impress Gah-Daughter-Of-Ug; about a week later, natch, Shkoo Under-Your-Nose won away Gah's heart by repeating Thag's one-time trick except with the radical innovation of using a pointy stick instead of his hand, but that's a different story (and has a tragic ending, as Thag One Hand shortly thereafter discovered The Heavy Rock That Causes Sleep-No-Wake, but I digress).
I have to confess, at the risk of disgusting my regulars, the best part of dinner was dancing to George Winston, a point I make only to say: love, as William Goldman once wrote, is the best thing in the world except for cough drops. Okay, I think I had some other thing I wanted to say that didn't involve cough drops and did involve dancing, but I'm having a bit of a hard time getting the words in the right order. Maybe you got the point already, or knew it before I tried to make it. Anyway, I'm thankful.
Comments
And hi ScatterKat! You do realize that half the internet has a crush on your guy, right, but in the nicest platonic sort of way? We *know* he rocks. :) And we're happy for the two of you.