December 2006 Archives

For the uninitiated, every year Julie and I throw a massive party for an ever-increasing number of guests somewhere around the second Saturday of December that resembles many other holiday parties except for one main and important feature: we cook up a couple of turkeys, one of which is infamous in its appearance and flavor -- the 'Black Turkey'.

I first discovered Black Turkey (t d) on an alt.recipes post back in the early nineties, and the entertaining narrative of the recipe immediately captured my imagination. I had to find some reason, some excuse, to try out this recipe. It's hard to justify such a massive undertaking for just yourself, or you and your wife, so I knew I had to invite over a collection of my more adventurous friends and give this a shot. Worse came to worse, I'd throw it out and order in Chinese. But as it turns out, the meal was a success. The recipe did not fail to deliver on its promise of a bird that was black as charcoal and appeared as if I had truly screwed up and created an inedible mess, and yet once the egg-mortared skin was removed and the tender, juicy flesh was revealed beneath, there was no question that this was indeed the best turkey I or anyone else in the group had ever tasted. I knew I had the beginnings of a great tradition on my hand, and every year since we've thrown this party to larger and larger crowds. Soon the crowds became too much for a single turkey, so we added a second (now class) bird to the mix, marinated in a brine solution for at least a day, and cooked / smoked on the weber using indirect heat and lots of apple wood chips. This we've dubbed 'the drunken squab' (not actually a squab), and its sweet, smokey, spicy flavor is as renowned as the original bird.

Last night we had our tenth annual Black Turkey party, and by now we've become quite the experts, knowing what we need to buy or rent, how to set up shop, get the birds on and off in time, and server a group of 40-50 people with relative grace. Last night we were missing a number of our long-time attendees (Jason, Jen and family, Chrys and Shawn, Chris H., Matt, and others that couldn't make it), but we saw a number of new faces in their stead (Lyn and Rich, Vincent & Bev, Angela & Luke and Luke's mother straight from Australia, and strangely Jai has never been to a Black Turkey until last night). We had to contend with rain and wind, but we managed to all stay inside and stay dry and warm. After the food was consumed I pulled out the last of the stash of my bottled mead (don't worry, there's more on the way!), and shared with many a brew that they had never had before. I so love sharing my creations, and it was much appreciated by all. Of course, I had more than my fair share of the mead and woke up today with the telltale signs of excess. No matter, that's all part of the experience.

Today I'm spending the day processing the remains of the meal, making turkey stock, and taking stock of what needs to be cleaned, packed, put away or returned. The day after is as much of the tradition as the day of. I do know that I couldn't do it without Julie, who does so much of the decorating, arranging, and most importantly, cleaning. Although I'm the one behind the apron, she's the one behind the rest of the event. It's definitely a team effort.

So thanks everyone who came and made it another great year for all of us. For those that missed it this year, I look forward to seeing you at next year's Black Turkey.

Anyone who has known me for a while, and has been privy to my conversations of how my own father let me down in one circumstance or another has doubtless heard the story about little league, and how for three years in a row I was interested in joining up with the local little league (all my friends were doing it), but each time sign-ups came around, my dad never got it together. Each time my dad blamed it on not having my birth certificate, but I also have a feeling it might have had to do with the monetary pressures, as we had to live on a limited budget in my youth. Nevertheless, I was given a repeated experience of disappointment that definitively discouraged me against organized sports for the rest of my life.

This year, Eli is old enough to start little league (as I find out, he was old enough last year), but this year I was determined to get him signed up. Normally I wouldn't bother with organized sports until he was much older, but in this case, Eli has shown some serious aptitude for baseball, mostly through his exposure to the game through Julie's Uncle Lou. He's not only fallen in love with the game, but he shows some serious aptitude in both catching and hitting. I've seen the kid hit wiffle balls over the back fence -- he's the real deal. In any case, I have been waiting for him to be old enough to try him out on the game, and see how he likes it. I personally don't know the first thing about baseball, but I'm willing to learn for him. And more importantly, I'm willing to get my crap together and make sure he makes the sign-ups.

Sign-ups were Wednesday night.

Over the last week I've been putting together all the document and information needed for sign-ups, and it's a little intimidating, with the birth certificates of course, but also a utility bill to prove you live in the zip code, mandatory volunteer forms, and a commitment to all sorts of parental involvement and contribution of time and effort... but this is for Eli, and I'll do it. Of course this week has been nuts, and the last thing that I put together was the actual birth certificate, which I was certain that we had gotten the boys' birth certificates at some point, but the night before I went search for it and couldn't for the life of me find it for hours. I went into a panic. I felt in my gut that I was destined to repeat the pattern of my father, to fail in exactly the same way he failed me, and all after I've talked with Eli about playing the game, and all after I've promised myself I'd never let my son down in the same way. I was distraught, to say the least. I looked online to see how quickly I might be able to replace the birth certificate, but the estimate was 3-5 days, too late to get Eli signed up.

Thankfully, I found the birth certificates buried in a box that was earmarked for filing. Man, do I need to finish that project. In any case, I was saved and my self-respect is intact. I breathed a sigh of relief and tucked in for the night.

The next day, I came home, ate dinner, and around 7:15 I hopped in the car with Eli, as we drove down to St. Vincent's school just across the freeway and walked all the way to the back of the campus to the cafeteria, where we joined in the fray of fathers and sons (and mothers and daughters, but they were vastly outnumbered) and turned in all our paperwork, money, etc. It took all of maybe 10 minutes to finish up, and other than committing myself to some indeterminate volunteer action in the future, it was pretty smooth.

Walking back out to the car across the courtyard, with the beautiful fountain flowing, and bedtime quickly approaching, Eli stopped me to say 'Daddy... I love you.'

I've broken the cycle. Who knows if Eli will enjoy the activity, if he has any clue what he's in store for, or if I do for that matter. What matters is, I've done my part, and I've not fallen down on the job. Raising kids is a hard job, in which you're always second-guessing yourself, wondering if you've done the best you can do, if you've screwed up this or that opportunity, if you've just been lazy and let a moment pass you by.

In this moment, I've hit a home run, and won the game for the team.

Let's play ball.

I'll post a real blog entry later, but for now, take this!