The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [73]
“I really want you in on this,” he went on. “We’ll plan the menu early, so nobody will bring the same things. There should be lots of variety, like a Thanksgiving spread, only better.” I wrote back, letting him know I was definitely in.
The Fall Harvest Feast would be held at Matt’s friend Maia’s apartment. Maia’s specialty was Southern fare, and she planned to make biscuits and pie for dessert. Karol was also bringing pie, and when one other friend insisted on bringing her famous sour cream apple pie, it was clear that my pie-making expertise, passed down from Dad, wouldn’t be needed. Instead, the general consensus among my friends had my name on the turkey
We all agreed that the meal wouldn’t be complete without a roast turkey But no one knew the first thing about what to do with a whole, dead bird-actually, everyone else was frightened stiff about the notion of transforming it into a stuffed, thoroughly cooked main course. In their eyes, I was the only one qualified for the job.
How hard could it be, I thought? At Thanksgivings with my family, my dad was the designated turkey handler, from stuffing to carving. To feed a houseful of our extended family, and often guests, and have enough for leftovers for the next day, he generally cooked a thirty-pound bird. In recent years, he’d picked up the habit of brining the bird the night before, and this required a massive bucket and the space to keep it cool throughout the night. I had neither of those elements. But then, we weren’t going to roast that big a bird.
“How big should it be?” I asked Matt a few weeks before the feast.
“I’d say at least twenty pounds,” he said. Our guest list was still a little uncertain at this point, and besides, it was always better to have more than less. Plus, we had a huge advantage on our side: The restaurant where Matt worked prided itself on serving only free-range, pastured, grass-fed meats and poultry from upstate farms. Since he was friendly enough with the staff and their suppliers, he could order a bird wholesale, for the same price the restaurant would pay Not only were we all thrilled about getting a free-range whole turkey for the first time, but it would be at a bargain price. We placed an order for the bird two weeks in advance, settling on a twenty-pounder.
At the same time my friends and I were planning the Fall Harvest Feast, my own family was figuring out what to do for our “real” Thanksgiving dinner, which would happen about a week later. Every Thanksgiving since I had been born, my father and his three siblings brought their families to their parents’ home in upstate New York. Two years before, my grandmother had passed away, and earlier that spring, my grandfather had also passed, at ninety-two. Their big house in a sleepy suburb was on the market, and the four siblings were spread among three states. Between the funeral and taking care of the estate, they had seen each other several times that year already. So my parents decided to host Thanksgiving dinner at their house, in New Jersey. My aunt Ellen and cousin Phoebe, who lived in Connecticut, would come to our dinner. The New York contingent of the family would spend the holiday together at one of their homes. So this year’s dinner would be a smaller-scale affair. But I didn’t expect it to be any less extravagant a feast, since my parents always held court as the chefs of the family.
There would be another missing piece to our Thanksgiving that year. My uncle, whom I’ve always simply