From my seat in the machine shop, I observed the turkey fryer a safe distance away with one recurring thought: There’s got to be a column in here somewhere.
It started five days earlier when I found a Butterball turkey in the bottom of the chest freezer. It was a holiday gift from a farm supplier just last year, so the bird was still fresh and, better yet, free.
Several days later, the husband set out to try deep-fry cooking.
To be fair, the process was my idea, since we still had a “turkey fryer” that we borrowed for sweet corn preserving last summer.
“We should see what it takes to cook it in the turkey fryer,” I suggested.
As it turns out, “we” indeed looked into it, purchased three gallons of cooking oil for $25 (so much for the free turkey) and fired up the propane tank (borrowed from the Weber grill) to heat the oil.
It was at this stage of the process I arrived home to find steam shooting from the lid of the large pot on a propane tank in the middle of the yard.
“Oh. You deep fried the turkey!” I greeted the husband. “When will it be ready?”
He wasn’t sure.
“What time did you put it in the pot?”
It wasn’t in the pot yet. The oil needed to reach 400 degrees.
“How hot is it now?”
He shot a laser beam at the pot with a gadget that registered at 97.6 degrees.
I sat down next to my husband on the tailgate next to the cold raw bird.
It was 8:30 p.m.
By this time, curious neighbors showed up for a taste. Finding nothing edible, they, too, sat down and watched the pot.
After a beer and discussion about the boiling point for oil, the bird entered the pot for a cook time also to be debated.
Google said it should cook 3 to 4 minutes per pound (our bird was 14 pounds) in 400-degree oil.
We watched and waited. And had another beer, this time with crackers.
At 9:30 a promising aroma wafted from the pot, and a meat thermometer speared in a golden brown breast measured 189 degrees.
So we hauled it out, declaring it “done,” and headed in to set the table.
But when red juices began pooling under the bird, it was returned to the oil for another round.
And we watched and waited.
And the neighbors went home.
At 10:15 the turkey was indeed done, and our masterpiece meal arrived at the kitchen table, (with the gizzard packet and neck still tucked inside) minus potatoes and gravy and stuffing.
The kid in his pajamas gnawed on a drumstick and a night-owl neighbor returned for a taste of what was deemed a success, even at 10:30 p.m.
Watching the hungry crew gathered around the turkey in the tinfoil pan, it occurred to me again: There’s got to be a column in here somewhere … even if it’s submitted half-baked.