Dear Gordon Ramsey,
After seeing your clever U-Tube post on how to roast a turkey, I decided this year to follow your advice to the letter. I’ve seen you on Hulu with your “at-home” show where you make some of the most lovely family meals. I was hooked and ready to become a student of all things Gordon.
What follows is my experience in this quest and the outcome of Thomas Turkey. I hope it enlightens you to new thoughts on the subject. One is never too big for his britches to learn how wrong your advice can go.
It started out two days before the big turkey day. Brining was on the calendar and the husband and I planned this out. You said to brine in a one cup salt, one cup sugar solution with bits and pieces of herbs and spices thrown in. Check. A two day brine was suggested. Check. In went the bird in a bucket that has been designated as the “brining bucket” for four years now. On went the lid and hopefully Tom turkey was comfortable. I know I wouldn’t be but then I like Hawaii weather.
As I re-watched your turkey program you counseled taking Tom out of the oven to rest the same amount of time he had been in the oven to roast. What??? So, Gordon, does this mean I get to have a turkey just hanging out on my kitchen counter for three and a half hours? Not doing anything but resting? I wanted to lie down on the counter and rest but no, not in the cards for this Magical Mess. And by the way, doesn’t this plan fly in the face of everything we’ve ever learned about contaminated fowl? Is tainted turkey different in the UK? My twenty pound turkey needed three and a half hours to roast. Does three and a half hours on my counter top sound like a good hygienic idea to you?
I’ll tell you, Gordy, I had to shorten that time to two hours … and at that I was worried. I prayed that my party favors wouldn’t include e-coli with a side of diarrhea. I did have a back up plan, though. Had the above symptoms transpired I was going to send you the emergency room bills.
As per your tutelage, I stuffed it with lemons and onions and sage and thyme. I made a compound butter and reached in between the skin and meat and placed a buttery layer there. I massaged the remaining butter into all parts of the turkey so lovingly I should have been paid and tipped for the experience. In he went, all 20+ pounds of him to bathe in butter and herbs and roast to a golden brown.
This next miscalculation I take full ownership of as I was neglectful and was a terrible turkey sitter. In years past I have placed an oven-proof thermometer in the thigh area and checked it every so often. Last year that little gadget gave up the ghost and I tossed it. My goof came when I didn’t immediately replace it and in the ensuing year, forgot all about it.
When I placed the turkey in the oven I promised myself I would check him every hour or so. As I so often break promises to myself, I did so again and that proved to be fatal. Well, for Tom, at least.
My new oven doesn’t ding when something is done, it plays a little tune. So, at 12:30pm the oven song went off and I opened the door to check, for the first time, the temp. There he sat with a thigh temp of 195 degrees. Don’t get me wrong he looked beautiful, all golden and glossy from all that butter. I lugged the roasting pan over to the counter and at last had a good all-over look.
Poor, poor Tom turkey had splayed out with lemons and onions spewing out of him, juices dripping, looking like he’d stayed too long in the sun. My fault, Gordon, for not checking earlier. I’ll own that but oh boy. As I transferred him to his two hour resting site, I could hardly keep him in the vessel. Tom had no shape left to him, so he slipped into a large, lumpy puddle of turkey. It was like watching molten lava slowly pool. Only his legs were still standing as I gently covered him with tin foil and a heavy towel to try to keep him moist. At that moment I felt like I had put him to rest permanently. I prayed I wasn’t going to have to dump him in the trash compactor. Yeah, I had enough sides to get by but the star of the show needed to made a grand appearance.
Two hours later it was time. The family gathered, the rest of the meal was displayed and the husband took hold of the electric knife. Over cooked Tom was going on stage, for good or ill. Fortunately the husband has the ability to carve up a bird and make it look like a professional presentation. No one realized that minutes before that poor fowl looked like an inebriated mess.
Gordon, you did me wrong. Yes, I helped along the way what with not monitoring his temperature, but really Gordon, that’s way too long to have a turkey lazing about on top of the counter. He turned out in the end, the dark meat was delicious. The white meat was dry but with enough gravy it turned out. But that whole idea of cooling his breasts was idiotic. I know I wouldn’t enjoy it, would you?
After dinner the husband carved the rest of him up and he now resides in a turkey broth bath tub in the fridge in the hopes that will juice him up. Lesson learned, Gordon. Obviously you Brits can’t handle a good old American turkey. Long live our Thanksgiving and my quest for the perfect turkey.
In conclusion, I still have a fondness for your family cooking show, but I believe you should stay within your scope. Don’t mess with American classics.
Sincerely, your disillusioned viewer,
The Magical Mess.
magicalmess 