Turkey, Crackly As A Potato Chip

 It’s back. Thanksgiving. That holiday least burdened by guilt, longing, sorrow and disappointment. It’s about food. Just food. There’s no worry about measuring up, pleasing people you love and satisfying people you like with perfect presents. It’s easy. There’s just food. Lots of it.

Still, it is a holiday bound by tradition. Break the rules, surprise people, strive to cut new ground at your peril.

I know.

Like the year when our boys were 10 and 12, and I thought lobster would be fabulous for Thanksgiving. I bought four of them, big bruisers who skittered about the kitchen floor. Our offspring. They were not amused. They ate their dinner politely and the next day I bought a turkey, jelled cranberry sauce with ridges along the side, Pepperidge Farm bread crumbs for stuffing, little onions for creaming, potatoes for mashing and probably Brussels sprouts, which seem to appeal at this once-a-year event only.

Then there was the year my mother came to visit. Striving, preposterously, to outdo the queen of Thanksgiving dinners, revered by friends and extended family alike throughout my lifetime, I thought roast goose would be grand. It took more time than I figured. We ate at midnight and the oven was awash with goose fat. My mother was not impressed. Nor were Tony and the kids.

So. I am chastened. Almost. My son Jeremy is bringing his wife, Lee, who is leery, perhaps even a tad negative, about Thanksgiving dinner deviations, and our beautiful grandson, Ivan Anthony Wilbur Ulysses, who is 9, to dinner this fateful Thanksgiving.There will be jelled cranberry sauce with ridges around the middle, potatoes mashed with garlic, cream and butter, Julia Child’s creamed onions, maybe Brussels sprouts, maybe spinach, ladles of gravy, of course, and turkey.

A Portuguese turkey.

Yes. I found this recipe in “The Food of Portugal,” by Jean Anderson and now there’s no going back. What I like about this turkey recipe is that after brining the bird the stuffing is pressed between the skin and the breast meat, protecting the white meat from overcooking while the legs are getting done and making a skin that, according to this book, is “crackly as a potato chip.” Also, no worries about flavored bread and fats sitting undercooked and teeming with bacteria in the bird’s cavity.

Of course there’s no way of knowing if this will sail, but I am certainly giving it a go.

My husband, who thinks he wants to move to Portugal, gave me this book. It’s lovely and you can get a used copy in good shape from Amazon for $1.60.

As for me, instead of our moving to Lisbon, I am moving a Portuguese recipe for turkey to Lime Rock. I hope it works.