Leftovers are, arguably, the best part of Thanksgiving. My family struck extra gold this year because a) due to a minor misunderstanding, we prepared enough food for three more people than actually came, resulting in half-full platters at the end of the night, and b) we had the privilege of roasting a heritage bird that was pasture-finished on the land of Dylan's family's farm in Vermont.
At first my parents--used to the factory-farmed birds bred for plump breasts--expressed a lack of faith in our thirteen-pound free-ranger. Deeply concerned about having enough meat for dinner and leftovers, Dad bought an extra turkey breast (to be deep-fried). I tried to empathize with his last-minute decision: The long trunk and legs of the turkey certainly exhibited a lean quality. "This is one athletic bird," Dad kept saying as he moved the legs back and forth as though the dead animal was a toy. "Look! There's not a scrap of fat on this guy!"** The enviable shapeliness of the turkey, however, caused one of those dreaded last-minute-and-the-grocery-store-is-closed problems that could not be ignored: gravy. With so little fat to drool from the corpse into the roasting pan, my parents rushed to the nearest gas station to find some cheap canned chicken stock as a means of beefing up the anticipated meager drippings.
As these things always do, everything worked out in the end. We did use the chicken stock to ensure a healthy (or unhealthy) serving of gravy. But we never needed the extra hunk of meat. Even if everyone expected had come, the store-bought turkey breast would have been unnecessary. Our farmed athlete surprised us with its hidden reaches of edible tissue. And who needed more white meat anyway? The unusually deep-brown legs, thighs, and wings of the turkey so excited the palate that for the first time on Thanksgiving, I filled my plate with dark meat instead of white. And I had many more opportunities in the coming week to relish the otherworldly meatiness.
Over the next few days, Dad and I ruled the kitchen counter at lunchtime, enlisting a cohort of condiments, supplemental veggies, and cheese to make the quintessential Thanksgiving leftover meal: turkey sandwiches. Sadly, the meat dwindled quickly and soon enough we were left with nothing but the carcass. Never before had we utilized the culinary potential of the bones, but this year Dad declared, "We're making stock. Then we're going to make soup." He quartered an onion, sliced a few carrots, trimmed some stalks of celery, added water and the turkey remains, then let it simmer.
Later in the week, I took the lead on the soup. I didn't do anything extravagant--for about four quarts of stock, I added a large chopped onion, five medium coined carrots (from Early Morning Farm, incomparably sweet), three diced stalks of celery, and two cans of white beans. After generously salt-and-peppering, I stirred in a thin layer of fresh parsley, a generous sprinkle of dried rosemary (harvested this summer from Dad's garden), and roughly two teaspoons of fresh thyme. The soup simmered for forty-five minutes. Nearly forgetting, I added a bag of frozen kale (aside from red peppers, the only item I managed to preserve from the farm's bounty, disappointingly, but that's another story) just before serving with steamed broccoli and homemade spaghetti in a sage butter sauce with crushed red pepper. It was one of those meals that reinforced the savoriness of ridiculously simple cooking; with quality ingredients, a little foresight, and the increasingly rare attitude of thriftiness that encourages one to use as much of anything as possible, tasty food comes with little effort. Many days after the holiday itself, I remain thankful for the animal itself, for the people who ethically raised it in a manner that imparts superior flavor, and for our ability to enjoy it.
**A short story to serve as a humorous reminder that our Thanksgiving feast was once a living being with its own interests and quirks:
In addition to fluttering about the sweeps of pasture, the Black Spanish turkeys of Common Crook Farm enjoyed climbing cars, a hobby that undoubtedly gave way to their toned muscles. Typically, this leisure activity remained confined to the vehicles in the driveway. But one day a cop pulled someone over in front of the farm. As the officer approached the parked car in front of him, the turkeys spotted the blinking blue and red--a new climbing opportunity!--and bolted for the cruiser. When the officer turned back to his car, several turkeys perched contentedly on the vehicle. He laughed and took a picture as Dylan's mom rushed to lure the troublemakers away with bread scraps.
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