In an ongoing effort to introduce more readers to the online edition of Working Waterfront, we will feature two, new monthly columns in the Working Waterfront E-Weekly starting this week. Today we introduce “Objects in Mirror,” Island Institute President Philip Conkling’s personal reflections on life along the Maine coast. Next week marks the start of Rob Snyder’s new column, “Field Notes.” Snyder, the Island Institute’s vice president of programs, will write about innovative ideas to keep Maine’s coastal and island communities vibrant and how these ideas connect with what’s going on in rural communities across the country. We’re also going to offer Anne Hayden and Philip Conkling’s “From the Town Landing,” column from National Fisherman, and Conkling’s “Long View” column from the Working Waterfront newspaper. Let us know what you think of these columns.
I am part of a group of six runners who have been running together on weekend mornings for about 15 years now. One is a contractor, another owns an HVAC business, another runs an international consulting business, another is a yacht captain, and our youngest-not yet 50-is a left-brained filmmaker. I am the oldest at 61. As we run different routes through the mid-coast towns of Camden, Rockport and Lincolnville, often before the sun is fully up, we swap stories about raising children, “communicating” with our beloved wives, how our jobs are going, religion, politics (carefully) and our views of how the economy is affecting each of us. When we can get our tongues out of our cheeks, we call ourselves the Mustangs.
Because we are beginning a month of turkey marathons, we have been comparing notes on the poultry festival just celebrated as we contemplate another shortly to come. For several years, our filmmaker has pioneered the deep-fried approach to the Thanksgiving turkey, an idea that has not generally impressed the other runners’ wives. But I convinced my family that, in the spirit of our pioneering forefathers and mothers, we ought to give it a try-albeit with a second small turkey so all our feathers would not all be in one basket. I got up at 5:20 a.m. to get the main event- all 23 pounds of her former organic glory-out of the fridge, completely washed and into the roasting pan when the A-team cook came downstairs to prepare the cheesecloth and basting sauce that the Food Network had convinced her was the only way to get a golden result. We got the turkey in the oven minutes before I left for the morning run to discuss the holiday with the Mustangs, several of whom had decamped for extended family celebrations out of town.
After returning from the run, I basted the main event every 30 minutes through its cheesecloth covering that looked more and like a cowl with each successive application of wine and butter froth. I prepared the green beans, retrieved the creamed onions and Harvard beets, crumpled bacon over the Brussels sprouts and was as cooperative a sous chef as I could be before three of the four Mustangs reconvened at the filmmaker’ house at noon to participate in our new bonding ritual around an outdoor apparatus that resembled a rocket launcher.
It was oddly reassuring to reflect that the only instructions (in bold type) in the booklet that accompanied the rocket equipment, bought on the Internet, read: Do Not Drink While Using This Fryer. But we had already concluded during the run that, if we going to bond like proper cavemen around an outdoor fire not all that long after the autumnal equinox, we needn’t slavishly follow instructions.
When we had a quorum, the filmmaker mounted my little pale goose-bumped bird-the second bird on the frying docket-on an aluminum plate with a center shaft that came up through its body cavity, then pulled down his safety goggles and, with a pair of huge leather gloves holding a long-handled tong, lowered Thanksgiving dinner into an enormous pot of bubbling oil perched on the propane burner. The entire scene was uncomfortably close to the second act of Macbeth.
You might think this sounds a bit primitive, but you would be wrong. We needed to perform some higher-level math to calculate exactly when the bird that had been lowered in the pot at 12:18 p.m. would have be removed if the oil were boiling at precisely 350 degrees Fahrenheit, given that we were dealing with a 12.71-pound bird-from which approximately two ounces of giblets had been removed-that needed to cook 3 minutes, 20 seconds per pound. The filmmaker being an artist, and I being a scientist, we disagreed on whether we should add two minutes to the total to allow for the fact that the oil had cooled slightly between turkeys, but I was the rookie caveman and ceded to the pro.
Exactly forty-two minutes later, with gloves and goggles, the little turkey came out of the bubbling oil. Immediately the HVAC contractor started snickering; easy for him since he had nothing at stake. I have to admit I needed to conceal my shock at the first sight of a deep-fried turkey-or at least of this deep-fried one. It looked wizened and shriveled. The skin had shrunk around the bones, which stuck out at odd angles from the main part of the turkey body. But I didn’t have time for ill-timed humor or aesthetics, since I was already late for the time when neighbors and grandparents were supposed to be assembling back at house, where I quickly repaired with my contribution to the festivities.
Thankfully it was my job to carve both the main event along with my effort at meaningful participation, so no one had to view and comment on the bird from the cauldron. It also happened that, when I returned with my little turkey, the temperature in the house oven had spiked to 600 degrees. I assured my beloved that the oven thermometer had malfunctioned, but the meat thermometer confirmed the bird had overstayed its welcome in the oven.
Shortly thereafter, when both birds were carved, both the oven-basted, roasted turkey, suffused with a delicate white wine aroma, and the backyard-fried bird, which was tastily crunchy-were each triumphs. No fowl balls and no one left on base.
Philip Conkling is president of the Island Institute.