Wine 5 min

Thanksgiving

On the noble bird, the indignity of dry turkey, brining as revelation, and raccoons

Ahh the noble bird. That fair feathered fowl. That jewel of Benjamin Franklin's eye. That stately avian creature with the fierce intelligence and the grace of a queen — that's irony, they're stupid and clumsy. Each year as Americans we faithfully buy our frozen block of turkey and dry it thoroughly until it's the texture of a roofing shingle.

The first year we tried brining we prepared a brine with spruce boughs and juniper, placed the whole thing in a five-gallon bucket and put it outside on the deck. First it rained, then it froze, then the raccoons found a giant spruce-flavored turkey popsicle and helped themselves to an early Thanksgiving feast of their own. That was the last time I tried to brine a turkey at home.

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