Last Sunday in this space, I may have mocked my sister, The Sister. As part of my to-do list before family arrived for Thanksgiving, I included the following:
Make sure to get the can of whole cranberry that The Sister does not think is available in Upstate New York
You see, for the week or so in advance of her arrival, she repeatedly asked if I could get access to cans of whole cranberry sauce. The Sister was bringing her significant other with her and his family serves cranberry at dinner. This is not something we do, but whatevs, we can add another bowl to the buffet line. She had never seen cranberry sauce at Wegmans before and apparently thought this was some sort of Long Island phenomenon. I assured her that we, the unwashed masses in Central New York, could lay our hands on the fruit and that I would procure some for the holiday.
I whiffed. Not only did I forget to buy it, I didn’t even put it on my list. The Sister, after delivering a well-deserved death stare, made her way to Wegmans on Thanksgiving morning to pick up two cans. Apparently, it was widely available in Syracuse, even at that late hour.
More surprisingly was that the cranberry sauce was consumed by everyone. I’m not sure if this means that a) The assembled masses liked it, or b) I’m related to a pack of gluttonous mammals that will ingest anything placed on the buffet line for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m inclined to think that it is choice A, as a few years ago I made an edamame succotash that The Wife and I enjoyed, but flopped with everyone else.
Thanksgiving was rather hitchless with the exception for my missing half-fingernail. The Sister, who was supposed to peel veggies, disappeared (probably to buy cranberry sauce) and left me to do it. I got about halfway through the bag of Yukon Gold potatoes that were to be mashed when I unconsciously/mistakenly decided to remove a significant portion of the fingernail on my left index finger. It bled (a lot), so I boiled the potatoes extra long to kill off whatever may have been transferred, and moved on. I will have you know that typing is quite an interesting activity when one of your primary working fingers is an open wound (it is healing nicely; the photo at right was taken today, some 72 hours later). It was for the best that I had done the butter-rub portion of Tom Colicchio’s herb-butter turkey prior to maiming myself.
That said, the turkey (and The Sister’s significant other, come to think of it) were both well-received by the assemblage. It was my first time fiddling with the meat underneath the skin — I was a pretty loyal dry-briner to that point — and I was pretty happy with the way it turned out. The Mother-In-Law dropped her fork when I told her how much butter was used for the turkey, between rubbing and basting (about 3 1/2 sticks for a 19-pound turkey). And The Sister’s S.O. handled the interrogation well, particularly the questions posed from The Aunt.