Turkey Wars

This Thanksgiving we had a contest to see who could create the juiciest, most flavorful turkey. 

This is Turkeyboy and his brother Paul (with their side-kick Jimmer) 

And this is their turkey-cooking weapon: 

Their competition? 

Me. 

 Chef Extraordinaire.  Creator of Mouthwatering Cuisine. Food Genie. 

Need I remind anyone that I have cooked every day for the past 12 years? That I have perfected apple pies, cinnamon rolls, crepes and homemade bagels? That when my children and husband come home from a strenuous day at school and work they are greeted by the aromas of cinnamon, fresh bread and apple cider?  

And Turkeyboy thinks he can out cook ME? 

Let me try to hide my smile.  

(Doesn't my kitchen look like a happy place? It is.) 

Of course I decided to go for the more traditional, tried-and-true method.

Paul's wife Shelly was there, too, but she decided to play Switzerland and make raspberry jello.

The night before Scott made a brine of salt and sugar and about a dozen random spices and herbs he found in my kitchen cabinet. He soaked the turkey in this brew all night.

I, however, used olive oil and a select grouping of simple spices: salt, pepper, garlic powder and Herbs de Provence. 

All morning we cooked our turkeys. Finally the moment had come for us to lift the lids and discover  which turkey was the juiciest of them all.

Here is Turkeyboy slicing up his "masterpiece."

 He didn't comb his hair the entire day.

Meanwhile, the girls set the table and played piano music.

Our turkey slices were then laid side-by-side on a platter, known simply as A (Scott's dutch oven turkey) and B (my indoor oven turkey). 

And what was the unanimous verdict by our children (and, grudgingly, the adults)?

Who wore the blue ribbon?

Which turkey was victorious?

Neither.
They were both dry.

In the end it was decided that the real champion of our Thanksgiving feast was Shelly's raspberry jello.

But Scott and I did have a fun time, and it was one way to get Scott to help with Thanksgiving dinner. :)

There was one minor calamity. . .

Terra cotta planters are not sufficient protection from the heat of charcoal briquets. Mental note for next year.



Oh, and by the way. . . it is a boy.