Biggers is better —  right?

BY SARA PITZER
SALISBURY POST

Back when I ordered my organic turkey from my organic farming ladies, I saw the whole flock on the hoof, so to speak. They were big, but I assumed a lot of that bulk was feathers. And I knew perfectly well that getting a turkey this way wouldnıt be the same as rooting through the freezer case in the grocery store to find a size that suited me. I knew it would not have fake basting sauce injected into the flesh. I knew no little plastic pin would pop up to tell me the meat was done. 

But I had no idea the turkey would be so big or that it would cost almost as much as a ticket to a Bruce Springsteen concert. 

My kid said every time the turkey subject came up, it got bigger. At first I told her I thought I was getting a 20-pound turkey. Then I had to tell her it was actually 22 pounds. Where we had been worrying about a roasting pan big enough to hold the bird, now we were afraid neither of us had an oven big enough. 

My kid said, "Jeez, Mom, every year something happens with our turkey. Leave it to you to keep the tradition going." I am not sure what sheıs remembering, unless itıs the year we decided to roast the turkey on the outside fireplace grill. Iıd read that oven roasting is really not roasting in the old-time sense, it is cooking with moist heat, almost steaming. 

Roasting is better, the article said. The heat sears the outside of the bird, sealing in the juices. 

No reason for us not to do that, I thought. We built a good fire, let it burn high, heat the rocks and settle down to glowing coals. I rubbed the turkey with garlic and rosemary and olive oil and gave it to one of the men to put on the grill. I gave them a dish of olive oil and garlic to baste with. After that, I didnıt give it another thought. I had potatoes to mash, pies to bake, gravy to simmer. 

As it got closer to dinner time, I asked who was going to bring in the turkey and as soon as I saw all the men look at each other, I knew we had a problem.

"Whoıs been watching it?" 

"I thought Marlin was."

I canıt remember which male worked up the courage to go out and retrieve the remains, but I remember the charred, black lump they brought in clearly. In fact, I took a picture of it. 

Under the charred layer, we salvaged some pretty good meat, and Thanksgiving went on, except for limited seconds. 

We definitely preferred the over-charred bird to the smoked turkey the year before. I had read that smoking cooked the turkey at a cool temperature, which left the meat moist and tender. 

My son-in-law fired the smoker about 3 a.m.with charcoal and water. The thing looked like a mini-version of a space shuttle ready to launch. For 12 hours, smoke floated in the atmosphere, into the house, onto our clothes. By dinner time the meat was still not quite done, but nobody cared. We could not stand the notion of eating anything that tasted like smoke anyhow. 

By the time you read this, I will have roasted the king-sized turkey. Iıll tell you one thing —  if it doesnıt work out, next year Iım going to spend all my turkey money on Bruce Springsteen records for Christmas.