A Tale of Turkey, and Dogs

This is one of the “Sunday Story” series.  No Politics today, just a story of Thanksgiving – sort of…

Empty Nest

Jenn and I got married later in life, just eleven short years ago.  But we quickly developed our own Thanksgiving traditions, mostly revolving around kids, food, turkey and tenderloin.  Our son Joe was always there, and often some of his friends and some of the kids I “adopted” from the school.  But Joe moved to California with his love, Lauren, this year; and I’ve  been retired from school for almost a decade.  The “kids” are all grown up, with their own turkey day traditions.

So this was our first Thanksgiving on our own.  Maybe we should have taken the “hint”, and ordered pizza (there is a “Thanksgiving Pizza” with turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce, whew).  But I am nothing if not a traditionalist.  And besides, in retirement I have become a “smoker”.  No, not my “beloved” cigars that for medical reasons I had to give up a few years ago.  I’m one of those guys with a big black box outside, and bags of woodchips in the garage.  And there’s really nothing that “smokes” quite as well as a full turkey.  So while we dropped the tenderloin (that comes at Christmas), I insisted that we still put on a full feast, if only for just the two of us.  A “romantic” Thanksgiving was my thought.

For Two, at 2?

To start with, I swear Jenn said she wanted to eat around 2pm.  You see, the other part of this Thanksgiving is, surprise, a dog story.  Jenn is in the middle of persuading a stray dog to go into a trap.  They’ll be a lot more about “Bruno” later, but I figured we’d spend Thanksgiving evening “working” on the dog.  So two o’clock sounded right.  

We had a small turkey, about thirteen pounds, and according to the “Masterbuilt Smoker Bible” it should cook for about four and a half hours.   Add a half hour to “rest” before serving, and the usual “smoker variables”, and I figured it needed to go into the smoker somewhere around 8:30 am.  So I got up at 6:30 (our dogs were up anyway), and got the turkey out of the refrigerator to “come up” to room temperature.  Meanwhile I fed our guys breakfast.  The first problem was, that Lou, our rescue from Louisiana, was much more interested in the turkey on the counter, than his breakfast on the floor.  It took a lot of effort to “redirect” his attentions to the dish (he never did eat it all).

But the gang ultimately got fed, and I followed the simple recipe for smoked turkey.  I remembered to find the “giblets” this year (last year, they smoked almost a full hour before I removed them), and got the neck out of the bird as well.  However, I completely forgot about the “traditional injection” of marinade, instead just going with butter, salt and pepper as a seasoning.  I got the smoker warming up by 8, and by 8:30 the neighborhood was fragrant with hickory smoke.  The turkey went in at 8:45.  I was pretty much on time, on schedule.

Stretching it Out

That was, until Jenn got up, and said that we should eat later, maybe around six.  When I suggested she said two, she gave me that look, the one that says I don’t pay proper attention to her when she’s talking. (I know, sixty-seven, and maybe my hearing is failing.  But the audiologist says it’s fine, then murmured under her breath something about “selective deafness”). But there wasn’t an argument, we agreed that four would be a “perfect” time for Thanksgiving dinner.  

Smoking is more of an art than a science anyway, so instead of heating at 275 degrees, I just went down to 240 for a while.  That should stretch things out, though there’s always the threat of the number one disaster – dry turkey.  And now, I would have to keep the turkey in the smoker for another two hours, a total of seven.  So I was sweating the afternoon, worried about keeping a turkey “hovering” at 155 degrees, ten-short of the bacteria killing safe 165.  I managed it, and around two-thirty I turned the smoker back up to the max 275 to finish up the bird.  Whatever else, it was going to be 165 before I brought it out.

But three passed, and then three-thirty.  No matter how hard I stared at the wireless thermometer, it never went above 156.  All of a sudden, the smoker was holding up Thanksgiving.  Everything else, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh steamed green beans, stuffing, cranberries, and the “traditional” Hawaiian rolls,  couldn’t start until the turkey began its thirty minute “rest”.  And there’s no rest for the bird until it hit 165 – no matter what. 

Panic 

Finally about three-thirty, that’s seven hours in, I hit the panic button.  We have a 1929 (that’s the year it was built) Magic Chef “restaurant class” gas stove, one that can easily cook a traditional turkey.  So we heated it up, pulled and “tented” the turkey from the smoker, and “finished” it in the oven.  And it still took another half-hour, to reach the “golden” temperature.   Then there was a rush, getting everything else ready.  Meanwhile I braced for the worse:  slicing into the turkey and feeling the coarse “dryness” in the meat.  But there was no rushing “rest period”.  Julius Caesar said it best:  “Alea ictea est”, the die is cast.  Whatever the turkey was to be, it already was.

I found the electric carving knife, and faced my fate. But when I pulled out the thermometer probe, to my surprise, the juices flowed out behind it.  I made the first slice:  it was incredibly juicy, (moist as Joe would say), and the first test bite was amazing.  After all of the waiting, all of the hickory smoke, all of the desperation:  it was a great turkey, even if I say so myself.  So much for science; we “winged” a smoked turkey, and it came out perfect.

We had a lovely Thanksgiving repast – just the two of us.  The cranberry contrasted perfectly with the stuffing, the dark meat was as good as the white, and the Meimoi Pinot Noir that Lauren got us hooked on, was perfectly matched.  It really was a quiet Thanksgiving dinner, quiet and perfect.  

 Bruno’s Story

We finished up, with time for a turkey-coma nap before we headed out to help Bruno.  This dog has been wandering a mobile home park about thirty minutes south of here for almost a year, likely abandoned by someone moving out.  He won’t go inside, won’t allow himself to be corralled, but has developed relationships with two people.  The mailman who comes through every day and gives him a treat. Bruno will eat it from his hand. But he won’t let the mailman pet him, shying back away from reach. 

And the other is a resident, who has fed Bruno since last February.  She can pet him, and he’ll follow her around.  But he won’t go inside, even in the worst weather.  And unfortunately, the resident is terminally ill with cancer.  She reached out to our group, Lost Pet Recovery:  what could we do to help Bruno because she won’t  be around to help him anymore.

Training

So Jenn’s trying to convince Bruno to go into a trap.  We’ve got a foster home all lined up, if only we could get Bruno to “come in”.  But he won’t.  He’s “trap smart”; the local dog warden already tried.  And he ignored our much larger trap, even with the “magic” McDonald’s double cheeseburger as the bait.  So Jenn’s trying a different kind of trap, a panel trap, one that looks like a fence instead of a wire crate.  And Bruno is slowly easing into it, stepping farther into the doorway each time.  He eats at 9:30 pm, so Jenn shows up to leave plates (paper, not Thanksgiving finery) with a mix of roast chicken and dog food.  On Thanksgiving night, there was a portion of hickory smoked turkey as well.

Bruno’s eating well, but he isn’t going all the way in yet.  There’s more “training” to do, and maybe even a bigger panel trap to install.  When he finally goes all the way in, the automatic door will swing closed.  Then maybe we can get Bruno “safe”, into that foster home.  He’ll have a  warm place to live, a couple of acres to run, and other dogs to play with.  And the resident will know that he’s taken care of, even when she’s gone.  Jenn’s almost got him there.  

I’ll let you know how it ends.  I hope that, like the turkey, it will be a “happy” Thanksgiving story.

If you’d like to donate to our group, Lost Pet Recovery – here’s the link – hit the Donate button when you get there: Facebook – Lost Pet Recovery

Or if you’d like to send a check –  

  • Lost Pet Recovery
  • PO Box 16383
  • Columbus, OH  43216
The Sunday Story Series

Author: Marty Dahlman

I'm Marty Dahlman. After forty years of teaching and coaching track and cross country, I've finally retired!!! I've also spent a lot of time in politics, working campaigns from local school elections to Presidential campaigns.