Today’s turkey

I’ve been having fond memories of how our village came together to help us celebrate our first Thanksgiving in town in 2012 when we were living in the small apartment in the convent. We may be in a different house now, in a pandemic, and not celebrating with family and friends, but some things remain the same. I went to the butcher today to pick up the bird I’d ordered for the two of us—”the smallest turkey at the farm, please”—to find this behemoth waiting for me. (At least the butcher refrained from asking me any personal questions. He recently asked a group of women customers, all 80 and up, “How’s sex, ladies?” They were delighted to be asked. More moments with the butcher here.)

I carried my bird through town, legs sticking out from the large plastic bag the butcher had wedged it into, to the wonder and amusement of most onlookers. It was market day and I went to my favorite cheese stand where they were fascinated by this little-known, foreign tradition—there are very few Americans in town. “How long to cook it? What is this “stuffing” thing you do? Do you really eat squash for dessert? How do you say ringraziamento again in English? Leave it here with us while you get a coffee—it is too heavy for you.”

Now for the brining.