A Thanksgiving experiment
Most of us had mashed together at Caldwell, Idaho, at the home of our youngest son for Thanksgiving. His wife Bethany expressed wanting to try a deep-fried turkey that year. Something new to me is always interesting. So, we geared up to deep-fry a couple of turkeys, since it was a big crowd.
I had read up on the “how-to's” and “how-not-to's” for this. The one warning in every article I read was an explicit directive to do it outside and away from anything of value that could be harmed by flames. We set up in the driveway, away from the attached garage, vehicles and any plant growth.
Oil at 350ºF was the universal recommendation, so we used a thermometer suitable for hot oil and proceeded. We had a bar long enough so that two of us, one on each end, could lower the bird into the hot oil without anyone being directly above the cooking vessel. As we slowly lowered our main course for cooking, the oil began a vigorous roiling boil but remained within the kettle.
I adjusted the propane flame below to raise the oil temperature back to the suggested 350ºF, and when the suggested cooking time for our 12- to 15-pound bird was up, we raised it partway and probed it with a long meat thermometer. Trying for the thickest part of the breast, it read just above the safe temperature for a cooked turkey, so we removed it, positioned it so it would not roll off the table and then went for the second turkey.
We attached our lifting hardware and proceeded to the cook site. We raised the bird to clear the top of the kettle and slowly lowered it, matching the procedure from the first one. As the bird touched the oil, the expected sounds of sizzling, boiling oil began. Then, without warning, as about half of the turkey was immersed, it all changed.
Boiling oil rose up and escaped the top of the cooking kettle and ran down into the robust flames of the propane. We got an instant understanding of the oft-repeated warnings to never attempt this inside or near anything of value that could burn. Thankfully, the two bar bearers were as quick-witted as they were young and strong, and before I could say anything, the turkey was jerked out of the oil and away from the fireball.
The cooking pot ceased its boil-over, and the spilled cooking oil quickly burned itself out, not needing any intervention from the now-wide-eyed fry cooks.
Wondering why there was a difference between the two turkeys, I noticed that the cooking oil was over 450ºF. I throttled the propane back to a healthy pilot flame. We estimated the amount of oil we’d lost in the flaming boil over and added more. When the temperature was again at 350ºF, we tried again, this time immersing the bird without incident. All present made mental notes about the behavior of cooking oil at 450ºF versus 350ºF.
The meat was cooked to perfection and moister than remembered from other roasting means.
College turkey wrangling
During my early college years, I ended up helping to vaccinate turkeys. Probably because I was the most gullible, I ended up inside the crowded pen with the chore of catching the turkeys by the legs and handing them to the guys across a partition who would vaccinate each bird and then release it to freedom behind them.
With the birds bunched tightly together, the plan was to reach under them and grasp one bird by both legs. I would hand each off, and someone else would take the bird, now hanging upside down, by the legs. When it was somewhat controlled, the needle man would take the bird by the head and give the vaccine shot. This was fairly simple.
Unless the two legs I blindly grabbed belonged to two birds. Or I'd grab an extra leg, now having an extra bird squawking and flapping its wings. The worst part was grabbing three legs, each belonging to a different bird.
Even with the provided dust mask, everything I smelled or tasted for a month both smelled and tasted like turkey manure. I promised myself that any further activity with turkeys would only have to do with cooking and eating them.
The great discount of ’65
During the Thanksgiving of 1965, I was working for a dairy farmer. His friend was a butcher working for one of the “good food, not cheap food” supermarkets in Boise, Idaho. He got enough of an employee discount on the premium brand of turkeys that he could get some for family and friends. My boss wanted one, and I asked if there were enough available so he could snag one for me. There were. Delivery day was just a few days before Thanksgiving, so I announced to my parents that I had arranged to provide for that year’s turkey.
I had never before and have never since seen such a “say what?!” expression on anyone’s face. Shell shock? For a few minutes, I was wondering if I had done something wrong.
