TurkeyQuest—An Ambivalent Journey.

My alternate family (you know, good friends you choose to spend time with, not just Crazy Aunt Belle from Anaheim?) gathers in Ojai, CA each year for three days of Thanksgiving communing. The group includes writers, journalists, artists, and entrepreneurs—serious readers all: a thoughtful crew of critical thinkers and foodies. There’s an inordinate amount of conversation and cooking, interspersed with hiking, gnoshing, good wine, more hikes, and fortifying naps. But discussion of the menu starts months in advance.

We’re traditionalists to greater and lesser degrees so with the exception of the year we tried turducken (to mixed reviews), classic turkey is the centerpiece of the meal. But we’re experimental when it comes to preparation. We’ve done brined and no brine (brined is better); smoked and roasted (no deep frying, yet). The bird has been stuffed with apples and sage gathered on a hike; quinoa and organic figs from Farmer’s Market; wild rice and artichokes, pomegranates and cranberries and we’ve tried all manner of marinades. We pick Meyer lemons from our host’s tree to make lemon pie. And the emails flying back and forth as we plan the meal are almost as satisfying as morning in the kitchen on Thanksgiving Day.

This year we decided to try a Heritage Turkey. If you’ve been down this road you’ll recognize the journey, but for the uninitiated, Heritage Turkeys are ancestors of the industrial breed of turkey that make up 99.99% of supermarket turkeys sold today. Heritage breeds were developed in the U.S. and Europe over hundreds of years. Standard Bronze, Bourbon Red, Jersey Buff, Slate, Black Spanish, Narragansett and White Holland—are all Heritage breeds. And because these lucky birds dine on fresh grass and insects and get plenty of exercise they’re known for rich tasting meat, more flavorful than the mass-produced large-breasted turkeys of today. (Fair warning: no hyped up hormones means less meat on the bird. Not a bad trade-off, but worth planning for when you buy a bird.)

We knew from the experience of friends that reserving a turkey was crucial (limited supply, increasing demand), so on September 21 I sent an email to Joan, our host and designated procurer, listing two websites offering Heritage turkeys locally:

o http://www.localharvest.org/farms
o http://www.marysturkeys.com/storelocations3.htm

Unfortunately, Joan discovered that by late September there were no Heritage Turkeys left in Southern California. None. Period. This was a setback. We strive to ‘eat local’ and a turkey delivered by Big Brown wasn’t part of the plan. But Beth, who had inspired us to ‘go Heritage’ this year, visited the Serious Eats website (www.seriouseats.com) and found some out of state sources. “Next year,” we vowed, “we’ll order in July.”

Finally, on Sept. 29, Joan reported that, “We got one. He’s grazing in a verdant meadow (I saw the photo) in Kansas at the Good Shepherd farm where they've been raising the same turkeys since the 18th century.” Beth emailed back: “Shall we send him (her) pictures of ourselves so he gets to know us before he comes to dinner…or rather, for dinner? Hope these last days are happy ones.” (Frank was dubious, ‘The 18th century, really? Would that be Cheyenne or Sioux?”)

We laughed. The adventure was part of this year’s story. But suddenly it was impossible for me to think of our turkey as anything other than a real strutting Tom, no longer a mere featherless thing delivered in a box packed with dry ice for travel.

I’m a flexitarian, not yet committed to life as a strict vegetarian, but not as cavalier an omnivore as I used to be. A tasty rib or a perfectly prepared filet is more like an exotic vacation now than a routine trip downtown. Haunted by the knowledge of hungry people lining up at ever longer food bank lines here in the US and fighting over bits of bread in the Sudan, I am forced to consider all arguments—moral, environmental, economic, political—against eating meat and specifically against eating a turkey I have now ‘met’. Here he is in fact, on that Kansas farm, fattening himself up for us. I have misgivings.


And yet, come Nov. 22, I will relish our Tom—feeling guilt and gratitude in equal measure. I am loathe to give up the comfort of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, the fragrances of childhood, tastes evoking deep memories. When I was a child, my father, grandfather and uncles hunted-- for food, not sport. A deer in the fall provided venison all winter. I didn’t, then, feel any moral discomfort when I ate my grandmother’s mincemeat pie, rich with the meat of the deer, at our Thanksgiving meal. Nor did I give thought to the knowledge that the Tom on the table had been recently executed by my grandmother (we didn’t buy Heritage then, we just nabbed the guy out in the yard—who knew?).

It is only now, in a different time, with a deeper awareness of what sustainability means that I weigh my personal pleasure against the larger needs of the planet. Nobel Prize winner Murray Gell-Mann describes sustainable practices as “living on nature’s income, not it’s principal.” There is something that feels right about that vision. I am uncomfortably aware of what effect the indulgence of my omnivorous pleasure has on land use and water policies—and oh yeah, the life of that turkey. Clearly I am conflicted. Still…give up turkey? Maybe next year. Maybe next year we’ll try tufurkey. I’ll let you know.

MEYER LEMON PIE:
Here’s the recipe for our lemon pie. There’s no ambivalence with this (unless you insist on no dairy. I grew up on a dairy farm. The eggs, butter, cream and milk are staying. My karma may be at risk, but not the cheese soufflé.) We pull the lemons from trees in the backyard and the eggs come from the layers living in my friend Joan’s chicken condo (really, it is so much nicer than the coop on my grandparents farm—and that was not a bad place for a barnyard chicken). Note: You don’t absolutely HAVE to use Meyer lemons, but you will taste the difference when you do.

Ingredients:

o Pre-baked pie crust (this can be done a day before if you like. See directions below).
o Pie filling:
o 1-2-1 cup Meyer lemon juice (7-10 lemons)
o 1/3 cup cornstarch.
o 1/2
o 3 to 4 eggs (3 of they’re large)
o 1 cup whipping cream


Grate 2 tsp. lemon zest from lemons, set aside. Squeeze lemons for juice—you want 1/2-1C depending on how intense you like your lemon.

In the top of a double boiler put: 1/3 C. cornstarch; 1/2. C sugar (I actually like a little
less then this—maybe ¼ C. and a Tablespoon); and the juice. Stir over the simmering water in the double boiler until mixture is thick and shiny.

In a separate bowl whisk the eggs to blend. Add ½ cup of the of lemon juice to blended eggs. Then return to egg mixture in the double boiler and stir until very thick (about 5 minutes.)

Remove pan from boiler and place in a bowl of ice to cool. Stir mixture.

Whip cream until stiff. Fold into cooled lemon mixture. Spread in pie crust and cool in refrigerator at least two hours. No topping needed—it is simple and elegant.


o Pie Crust: You can buy a pre-baked crust. But your guests will be knocked out if you
make your own—and it is so easy it’s embarrassing:
o Sift 1 1/2 C flour, 1T baking powder, 1/2 tsp. salt in a bowl.
o Add 1/3 c. of cold butter and 1/3 C cold Crisco (or 2/3 c. lard) and cut into the flour mixture with two knives or a flour cutter until small bits.
o Add 4-6 T ice water. Mix quickly and shape into a ball with your hands.
o Put the dough in the refrigerator for 20 minutes. Roll out and place in a pie plate.
o Bake at 425 for about 12 minutes or until golden brown. (Don’t forget to add pastry weights to keep the dough from bubbling up!)

Set aside until cool and ready to welcome the pie mixture. Indulge. But if you must know: 361 calories per serving; 4.6 grams protein; 19 grams of fat; 15 grams of carbs.














For comments and questions, email jolinegodfrey1@mac.com