I’m sorry for misleading you. This article is in fact not about turkeys gone wild – whatever that might have looked like in your dirty, dirty mind – but rather about turkeys that spent quite some time in an oven till crispy, crunchy and juicy. It’s about the Christmas Turkey!
As you know, Christmas comes every year, as comes my obsession with documenting the feasts these special days always are (I don’t of course care about any of the religious ramifications, like the birth of one baby jesus in a shed, guarded by his father the carpenter and his mother the virgin. I do care about the proven fact there were an ox and an ass present, because I like me some oxtail soup and ass salami I find quite agreeable as well).
Anyway, that turkey was prepared by none other than my father and my sister, who have proved to be a great team for the preparation of dead birds in the course of the last decade. It was stuffed with mixtures of white bread, pinolia, apples and a whole list of other things, which I currently cannot recall and which isn’t exactly elementary to this tale.
Now, I would love to tell you all about the taste, but my vocabulary – as usual, but also due to an illness-induced taste impairment – fails me here, so all I can describe is the texture, which varied from crispy to juicy to chewy (some fat). Now, I know that’s not much of a description, but currently there simply isn’t anything you can do about it. Mainly because I don’t feel like writing a whole lot more at this point in time.
Let me just assure you though, that I was eating turkey for at least two days after the initial Christmas dinner. Which should be a testament to its quality and abundance, but could also be misconstrued as a statement about the speed at which I eat. You decide.
