THE GURGLING COD

Turkey Postmortem

By now, if you hosted Thanksgiving, the increasingly wizened cartilaginous projection on the sternum of the turkey begins to remind you of Mr. Burns. Throw the damn thing in a stock pot--while it simmers, help me figure this holiday out. The phenomenon of holiday meals with Thanksgiving -- the best part is that it is about the meal, not X-Boxes, candy, or making a rare appearance at a house of worship. As a result, Thanksgiving is to cooking what New Years Eve is to going out and getting drunk -- a time when amateurs feel the need to compete with experienced pros. As a result, it seems to me that Thanksgiving offers a window into the way many Americans feel about cooking in general -- a tedious chore, fraught with peril. I was fortunate enough to grow up in a family where cooking and family meals were the rule, rather than the exception -- this year, like most, the process was relatively smooth. However, it appears to be a jungle out there:  I imagine a survey of a decade of  pre-T.giv food sections in the Times and in other papers would reveal a persistent theme of the turkey as the football Lucy holds, and Charlie Brown as the chef. "This time, it's gonna be different -- everyone will love my turkey." Witness the recent brining phenomenon: in 2003, de rigeur, in 2005, passe as a pashimina. That turkey fryer from 2001 is gathering dust in your garage next to the Razor Scooter.  I cannot think of another pursuit where a major corporation has set up a toll-free number to talk you through crises, and yet we have the Butterball Hotline. (BTW, are the people who answer the phone Canadian, or do they have Thanksgiving dinner there?) You are expected to make it though The Corrections on your own, but if you hit a snag cooking a bird, something our species has been doing for millennia, just call 1-800-BUTTERBALL. Three possible hypotheses: 1) Cooking a turkey is difficult. 2) Americans, as a rule, cannot cook. 3) The turkey is a convenient receptacle for projections of family agitas. Codland?
 

Lower Peninsula, cont.

Still sorting through the mental ziplocks and tupperware of the recent Thanksgiving foray. Lest I forget, in a perfect world, every neck of the hood would have a place exactly like the Jefferson Market. It looks like one of those vanishing neighborhood groceries, but somehow they have managed to shoehorn in a kitchen, which warmed a snowy pre-T.giv afternoon with a sensational open-faced pot-au-feu sandwich with horseradish cream, not to mention devastating homefries with romesco, and an amuse-bouche of risotto-chevre hush puppies. The place has the feel of having been drawn by Maria Kalman, but not in an oppressive Two Boots or Gopnicky way. And they sell sleds.  Other highlights included a tour of Elmore Leonard country with OGIC, though our efforts to get our lunch on suggests that Super Bowl XL attendees might be well advised to brown bag it. Better yet, OG brought us to Pistachio Mecca, and I imagine one of these Germack sacks would meet your snacking needs for the postseason and beyond.

 

Hittin' the Mitten

Anchower, frreals. Hope all in Codland had an outstanding holiday. The D and neighboring A2 were all  hoped for and more, including a visit to the Heidleberg Project, and breaking BBQ bread with Grambo, and The First Lady of Whatevs, aka the Senator. The Eastern Market gave me that Newmarket feeling I miss from trips to Lord Jeff's in TLOTB&TC, and I enjoyed the staggering irony of having first opportunity in my life to buy raccoon meat happen during a trip to a big city. Kitchen-wise, not much to report--I made mashed potatoes, which is to say I added enough potato to butter and cream to make it possible to eat with a fork. Some buttermilk, too, like Zuni says, but I am not entirely persuaded it is a difference-maker. 

Speaking of difference-makers, here at TGC, we are commited to maintaining our thorough coverage of the world of vanity celeb sauces, while we turn a newly vigilant eye on  unlikely celeb bloggers. Imagine putting these pieces together in one package. Imagine no more--TGC is proud to present blogger/sauce pimp/Steeler QB Ben Roethlisberger:

Hey BBQ fans, Ben Roethlisberger here, the QB for the Pittsburgh Steelers, but there is another "Q" I am passionate about... BBQ!

That's why I am introducing the Big Ben Line of Barbeque Sauces. Whether it's a tailgate party or a family dinner, go with what the pro's use-Big Ben's BBQ Sauces.

Guess they did not cover apostrophe use in Ben's section of  MPF 111 at Miami of Ohio! The blog is nothing for Jim Bouton, or even P.J. Stock to sweat:

Hello again to everybody, I am writing again to let you know how everything has been going in my crazy life...figure I could take a few minutes out of my day to talk to you, the fans...well we just got done beating the Bengals and boy did it feel GREAT!!!! 

Interesting that a second-year QB with one postseason victory under his belt has a blog and a sauce, while other, more successful QBs in the same conference have neither. Guess all those rings make it hard to stir  or type.

Modest Thanksgiving Proposal

If you read the Cod  this regularly, you are likely  either interested in a convenient source for news of improbable hockey blogs, or someone who cares about food. This is the first Thanksgiving here at TGC, so a word of admonition: Even if you just know you could take Alton Brown, don't go all Martin Luther on Thanksgiving dinner. There are 364 days a year to innovate, so let Gramma put Bacos in the salad if that's the way Gramma rolls. Order a homeshchooled suckling pig from Niman Ranch to make next week for your friends if  it makes you feel better.  More than any other meal Thursday is about the asses in the seats, and not the dishes on the table. Enjoy your meal, and travel in a safe manner.

Also, it is too late for this year, but for next, they should sell the Beaujolais Nouveau with the T.giv weekend football TV schedule in the label, and with a bendy straw. How about it, Mr. Duboeuf?

Bruni digest update

A pearl from the best food blog that is not a blog, and thus has no feed, and thus is easy to overlook:

Apparently I’ve missed my 15 seconds. An AP reporter interviews me on the brunidigest phenomenon and somehow passes up my brilliance to produce a straightforward report on the mega-brilliance behind the savage spoof Panchito says he barely knows. (Sorta like his relationship with food, no?) All my attempted Parkerisms get left on the editing room floor: “If he read it, it would make him write even worse -- he would turn into a parody of a parody, and then you’re spinning into infinity.” Or: “You read it and you feel the same way you do when you get a Chimp joke in your email -- you laugh, and then you want to weep, because we’re still stuck with the guy.” But I was thrilled to be wordless when I saw the quotes from Ruth and Biff. If his predecessors are reading, you know they’re laughing, too.

If you need a breather from this week's festivities, toddle over to Gastropoda.com. The turkeys, feathered and otherwise, summon the bile.

Free advice for Flea

Don't quit your day job. Makes Elisha Cuthbert look like the reincarnation of Grantland Rice.

Peg Bracken is playing at my house

Well, actually not, but she is alive and well in the NYT Mag. First the Menard Quixote, now the Hesser Tetrazzini. What makes this offering really baffling is that it refuses to do one of the two things it ought to do, by the standards of the genre. It is neither a reinvention of a dreary staple from the Brady Bunch era, ie green bean casserole--with truffles,  nor is it a self-conscious embrace of old and unfashionable favorites a la Jackrabbit Slim's. Speaking more broadly, the noble turkey seems to bring out the worst in food writers. First, agonies of to brine or not to brine, and then what to do with the remains, as above. Is this dinner or Fredo?

C-H-I-C-K-E-N

That's the way to spell chicken. Thanks to Mr. Hurt for the spelling lesson, and go Tigers--you know who you are.

E, I'm near the end

This post goes up at the exact moment of my birth, several years ago. As a treat to myself, an image in this ongoing series certain to infuriate OGIC, BK, and all other right-thinking readers. Also, I want one of these:

 

Season, roast and remove in less than 30 minutes. Enjoy the same taste as oven roasted garlic with this electric garlic roaster. The auto shut-off, easy clean up and compact design makes this a convenient appliance for your kitchen.

Check that. I want three of these: one for the car, and one for the den, so I can roast a clove while I watch television.

 

K, is the killing him

As we work our way closer to the shattering denoument of the week, more good news for people who love bad news for swine. 101 Cookbooks delivers with a cookbook adventure:

So, my goal in eating a whole entire pig is two-fold: to not waste any part of the animal (as much as my stomach and wallet will allow for) and to learn how to cook a pig from head to tail. And leave nothing but the oink behind.

Hungarian pig kidney stew I am skeptical of, though it is more sound than the followup of buying a pig head at a Mexican market and throwing it away. Yes, Virginia, heads have eyes.  Culiblog has a different take on the whole everything but the squeal thing:

"Everything but the squeal" is a quote attributed to the meat-packing industry and it was first signalled in Upton Sinclair's 1906 novel, the Jungle which described the vile and unhygenic working conditions under which meat was reaching American consumers 100 years ago. If we can believe PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals), and Eric Schlosser's Fast Food Nation (and I do), not a whole heq of a lot has changed. I do not recommend visiting this site if you plan on eating any part of any animal, wearing fur, leather and even wool, or even drinking the fruits of an animal's existence, any time soon. The PETA organisation is all about the squeal, and I have to say, the practices that they document are abhorrent.

Actually, The Jungle is about the vile and unhygenic working conditions created by capitalism, wherein meatpacking is simply a particularly, um, visceral example, but it is a common mistake.

Also, lest  we forget,

Basically, it’s hard to feel like you’re really in Kyoto when you’re eating miso-glazed Cheez-its off Robert Downey Jr’s lap.   

Word.