My husband’s idea of Dante’s Inferno is being forced to smell a turkey cooking. It’s not that he’s allergic to it. He just doesn’t like it. He will consume some white meat once a year on Thanksgiving. After that he may be convinced to down a little stir fry with leftover meat. Pretty much the rest is for me. I happily make myself a big pot of soup from the carcass and slowly consume it, remarking every few days on the delights of real turkey soup.
For the time being, I’m the supper-cooker in our house. My husband is a good cook, but his work is over-the-top right now. So, temporarily, I’m anointed. As long as nobody complains, I don’t mind. Y’all remember the Moose-Turd-Pie joke, right? (Good though!)
Last week, when I was feeling no end special recovering from my root canal, nothing suited me but turkey soup. Real evocative-of-my-childhood turkey broth, made from the bones of the fowl. OK, I make it in the microwave which never seems quite as real as the way my parents did it in a pressure cooker. My husband ate other things during my root canal recovery stage.
The challenge is that having made myself turkey soup with real bones, I have leftover turkey meat. I was MUCH too special to chew the meat while my mouth resumed it’s functions. And, being the children of depression-era parents, we can’t bear to feed the cats entirely on cooked turkey, not that they haven’t benefited.
There is one other thing Dave will eat made from turkey. That is turkey pot pie. I make it like a savory cobbler with a biscuit topping. He is quite partial to the buttermilk biscuit recipe ( substitute a little parmesan for the sugar and cinnamon) I use. In fact, I bet he would happily consume the substance my father delicately refers to as “horse pucky”, if it had a biscuit crust on top.
Being as it’s not actually Thanksgiving, Dave can’t bear the thought that he is eating turkey. So, tonight, we are having CHICKEN pot pie.
Hold the chicken.
