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Tag Archives: stuffing

salivations…

cooked turkeyMy mother was a good cook. She loved recipes, which she read like salacious novels, but understood ingredients and was creative with them to positive effect.

A couple of times a year, Thanksgiving or otherwise, she would cook a turkey, which, except for the one that memorably fell on the kitchen floor on the way to the table, would be handsome as well as delicious: crisp and golden on the outside and juicy and tender on the inside, just the way a cooked turkey should be.

She packed the bird with her homemade stuffing, which was later mounded into a bowl as part of the feast, but it was her stuffing balls that incited riots. Finding, always, as if by accident, that she had made more than the turkey would hold, she would shape this ‘extra’ stuffing into tennis-ball-size globes, which she then placed in the pan beneath the turkey in its rack. There, for three or four or five hours, they would be extravagantly marinated in turkey drippings until they achieved a dark, chewy crust.

These little pucks of fat-drenched stuffing would vanish as fast as they were served — delectable, dangerous, divine.

Gobble gobble, indeed!
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turkey photo