It’s been many years ago now, but I remember it clearly. I woke up early to get the turkey in the oven. Everyone in the house was still asleep so I crept softly into the kitchen, turning up the heat on the way. The icy floor shocked my bare feet and I took a minute to slip into some warm woolen socks. Then I wrestled the huge turkey out of the fridge and proceeded to reach up into his hind end, encountering crystals of ice intermingled with his innards. Cold pain shot through my hand, but I soldiered through, distracting myself with the view out the window of the last remaining oak leaves, shining russet against a deep blue November sky. It would be worth it all, not only at the moment when we served this savory bird, but on the day after when I could turn his doomed carcass into a perfect turkey soup.
Dinner was nearly perfect. The delicate slices of turkey, fluffy mashed potatoes drenched in gravy, green bean casserole, candied sweet potatoes, jeweled cranberry sauce, buttery rolls, retro Jello salad. Even the stuffing approached moist perfection. I reminded everyone again of my Uncle Jim’s yearly comment that he hated stuffing and didn’t see why the bird had to eat it in the first place. But no one agreed, and it was readily consumed. Then the pies, apple and pumpkin topped with whipped cream, and hot black coffee! My favorite part of the meal.
So it went. Everyone eventually waddled happily away. My husband and I looked at each other, knowing that one task remained, and it could not wait. The cracking of the carcass. He got out a plethora of tools and went to work until a lovely pile of bones filled the soup pot. Water was added, along with savory veggies and leftover juices, and on the back burner it went, simmering happily for several hours. At bedtime, we put it on the workbench to cool. A work of art for sure.
In the morning, I took on the last phase of this process. I would catch all of this goodness and create a superb soup. I set the colander in the sink and oh so carefully poured the golden broth from the pot into the colander. Then I paused, puzzled. Where had all that broth gone?
My garbage disposal, if it could taste, must have been elated at that moment.
