*Mother Turduck-er

Stop me if you’ve heard this one…

A girl walks into a butcher shop.

Her boss tells her he’s just taken two orders for turducken, that mythical Cajun creation of a stuffed chicken placed into a stuffed duck, placed into a stuffed turkey. “Great” she replies, sauntering past him. “Who’s your turducken person around here?” she asks, grateful that there is a skilled professional on hand to fill the order. “You ever make one before?” he asks. She halts, her chin wants to drop to her chest but she stands tall, stock still in mid stride. “Let me guess… today is the day I make my first one.”, she thinks. He has a shit eating grin on his face, she can feel it.  She keeps walking through the workroom. “You’re gonna be GREAT!” he shouts.

And so it came to pass that I got to make my first turducken from the ground up. Scrambling like an idiot in the back room of the shop, I launched my Blackberry’s browser and happened upon some gloriously crazy bastard’s website called The Road To Turducken. Thankfully, someone was sicker than I am and they photo-journaled the whole ordeal beautifully. If I ever meet this guy, I am going to fall at their feet and offer my perpetual servitude.

Googling the shit out of formulas and recipes, I came up with three different stuffing concepts. My only required obligation was that there was a desire for pine nuts. The recommended turkey and duck layer was repeatedly calling for pork, which, hey- was absolutely right up my twisted little alley and just happened to be copiously piled up all around me. The rest was up to me. I was so swept up in the stuffing prep process that I did not even worry about the assembly insanity until later.

Brian, the co-owner of the shop, makes a gorgeous bacon. He maple flavors it and as soon as it hits the pan, I reach for a drool towel and start having visions of pork pairings dancing in my head. Apples for sure, I’ve even done hominy, poblanos and squash hash with it. A grown-up pannini with arugula, sauteed apples, gruyere and fig vinegar has crossed my tongue before- its the bacon that can launch a thousand ships. I finally got to show Brian that I can make some good eats after all and I set to work. I belted out a basic cornbread version with fresh herbs, celery and onions, just like Mom used to make (only better) to stuff the chickens. For the duck, I toasted pine nuts, zested lemons and poached sultanas to go into a blend of white and cornbread bases. The turkey layer was set to go with sauteed lardons of bacon, Fuji and Granny Smith apples, gobs of fresh thyme and a nicely herbed white bread base. The guys out in the front of the shop came floating into my makeshift kitchen as if hooked up the nostrils by some invisible tendril of fragrance on the air, bearing forks for a taste of everything.

I must confess that I had a little help, thankfully, or I’d have been at it all damned night. Robert, my most ardent taste tester, boned out the birds through the back for me, plopped them down into a big lugger tub and wished me luck.

I stood there, up to my elbows in poultry slime like an idiotic geek, Blackberry in hand, frantically reading the scripture from the turducken master, hoping to die of a massive myocardial infarction at that very moment. Its one thing when you are screwing off in your own kitchen for the first crack at this beastly undertaking, but a whole different ball game when there is a price tag, a customer and an hourly wage attached.

Trying to look as undaunted as possible at my need to improvise, I sought out Brian for a closure solution for my birds. As I walked into this blindly, I was not prepared to install a zipper like I could at home with #3 silk suture on an XLH needle (which I happen to have stashed in my kitchen drawer for just this occasion. Thanks to Ethicon for helping me suture up my poultry in the name of furthering my skills over the years!!). Brian held up his tool. I gasped anf flushed. Long, menacing, medieval looking. It was an eyed sewing needle the diameter of a stick of jerky, about 10 inches long and it looked like what you’d use to sew an elephant to a rhinocerous. I gulped, hitched up my big girl panties and marched forth. With my bale of butcher twine and a pair of trauma shears, I took this harpoon and retreated to the farthest corner (read: hid like a weenie) to get to work.

What Turducken Guru fails to illuminate brightly enough on his amazing post is that it takes five hands, a bottle of bourbon and three Valium just to get this game on. I am hugely grateful for the lack of surveilance cameras in the smoker room of the butcher shop. Since you have a lack of damning evidence of my efforts on You Tube, here is how it shook out:

I laid out and seasoned the biggest bird first, the turkey. Scooped a shovel of the pork and apple goodness onto it and chased it with the duck, pine nut stuffing and the chicken and its pairing. I had a mound of meat and bread facing me that was not going to be forgiving in any stretch of the imagination whatsoever. Resisting the urge to cradle this monstrosity in my bosom like a greased watermelon, I attacked with fistfuls of twine, flailing fingers and my blunt shears. It kinda looked like a monkey trying to screw a football, actually. After what seemed like an eternity, I had one bird precariously baled and ready to somehow close. My face and hair were full of fallout of the attack, but my overstuffed friend was hog-tied and not going anywhere. I did a victory lap around the smoker room like a rodeo finalist just for my own morale.

So there it was- I had a pile of flesh and food in front of me that looked like a fucked up multiple trauma victim tended to by a girl scout getting her macrame’ badge. It took me the better part of 30 minutes to figure out the best line of attack for this bastard. Learning from general and orthopedic surgical greats, I employed a horizontal mattress suture technique to give some retention to the skin. I closed the middle, then half of the middle, then half of the half and so on until I had evenly spaced sutures along the back. Closing the neck and belly cavities was a lot like a tummy tuck on steroids, but I pulled it off. I hoped like hell this little beastie was gonna stay closed in the oven. Thankfully, through the magic of netting and Cryovac plastic, three little birds got a price tag slapped on their asses and off they went.

(I’d like to take this moment to thank Dr.I., general surgeon extraordinaire in the old Prov OR #1, for inadvertently teaching me the art of suturing. In my time at his operating table, I had the pleasure of being lulled into childlike captivation at the very fluid motion of his hands as he would sew and tie knots. I learned by watching him across from me, doing that delicate suture dance. I, unfortunately, can only do it left-handed like him, but that’s beside the point. I got mad suture skillz and I’m not afraid to use ‘em!)

What Jen Thought Of The Whole Thing

If there is one thing this whole experience teaches, it is to exactly what you are most afraid of doing and haul ass through the fear like a screaming Marine. And be ready to look completely stupid, so wear something totally obnoxious, toot your own horn and make sure you buck really hard for your own TV show. Its how Rachael Ray got started…

Holiday Trimmings

My thanksgiving? Brian and I hiked the local peak all afternoon with the dog and watched the valley glow as the sun hung lower in the sky than what I had seen all summer long. Hungry and mentally cleansed, we returned home to a simple meal of duck breast, pomegranate gastrique, a little wild rice and a nice, warm DVD on the old laptop.

Some of you may say that I was a total heathen for ignoring the institution of Thanksgiving in the traditional sense, but I was saved from the pit of hell by that hottie at The Endive Chronicles. Two years in the blogosphere, Erin kicks ass in the kitchen and in cyberspace. She and her hubby Phil happily volunteered to bring Brian and me traditional Thanksgiving leftovers. We met for lunch in Red Bluff, CA, the halfway point between Medford and San Fransisco.

With a complete meal in a bag including a lovely bottle of sparkling beverage, we were bowled over by her generosity. Brian and I giddily snarfed it all down for dinner that same night. Her stuffing was nothing short of a fluffy miracle. We handed over a pound of the butcher shop’s maple smoked bacon and a pair of gorgeous locally raised Oregon grass fed beef rib-eye steaks for her to play with. I still think we got the best end of the deal.

I have to do the ridiculous “I’m thankful for…” bit here.

Get your barf bags handy.

I have grown fond of some of the people I’ve stumbled upon in the culinary realm, be they line cook, blogger, caterer, cake decorator, restaurateur, or teacher. My education brought me closer to people I have more in common with and what brilliant people they are. In the popular sense, I suppose, I am blessed. I am, in all sense of the word, thankful for the lives I have been included in.