To fry a turkey, is a scary thing. This is why they sell those outdoor fryers. A big pot of boiling oil on your stove top could burn your house down. I have long wanted to fry a turkey, if only bec I always had an extra turkey in my freezer, after the holiday season, and I didn’t want a second Thanksgiving dinner in springtime. But it was one of those dreams that I kept putting off. I’d tried borrowing a fryer in a FB neighborhood group, from friends, but I couldn’t bring myself to buy a turkey fryer for $129 at Target for one dang turkey. The only reason I had the turkey is bec they are insanely cheap after the holidays, and I can’t resist 28-cents a pound. So, to throw out that cost-benefit by adding $6.45 per pound to its ultimate cost, made zero sense. If you’ve done the math, you can tell I have a 20-pound turkey in this story problem. (Thank you, Third Grade.)
I was determined to fry this turkey. I defrosted it without realizing my husband would be out of town when it was ready to cook. But, come Friday, I was committed to a thawed turkey that had bled a quart of bloody water into my crisper and cheese drawers. (I know, ewwww… but that’s a different story.) That turkey was fully and obviously thawed. And I was on my own.
I went to the Target, once again, determined to buy the fryer, knowing in advance it would cost $129. And my little Home Economics student took control of my cart, and I left again without the fryer. I decided instead to go to the new business Costco and buy a 20-quart stock pot, and fry it on my stove. I watched a bunch of videos on Youtube and they made it look easy, though by and large, they recommended buying a Salton electric hot plate. I didn’t realize exactly why. It’s an “Open-Flame” thing. Once again, my A-student home ec girl nixed that expenditure, and was very pleased to have a pot big enough for a dang 20 lb turkey for $24.95.
By 5:30, I was boiling oil. (Not a sentence I ever thought I’d write.) Again, I’d had good advice from a Youtuber. I’d placed the plastic wrapped bird in the pot earlier and filled it with water. That way, when I removed the bird, I could see how much water it had taken to cover it. You don’t want your boiling oil to massively overflow when you gently lower the turkey in. I needed 4″ of oil in the bottom of the pot, and I’d let the Archimedes principle take care of the rest.
As the temp of the oil rose, so did my anxieties. I rinsed and seasoned the bird with Emeril Lagasse’s cajun rub. My 24 yo daughter was home. When the thermometer reached 350-degrees, I asked her to come in to the kitchen, just in case. I skewered the turkey with two big forks intended for that job, specifically, and lifted it from the counter near the sink, and tried to carry it across to the stove – a distance of about 3 feet. It was heavy, and the forks were ineffectual. (Sure, blame the forks.) At any rate the turkey slid off the forks, banged on the edge of the counter, sliding down the drawer fronts and landed squarely onto the dirty floor mat. Cajun rub and salmonella were everywhere and a vat of boiling oil was beginning to smoke.
Oh, and side-note, clean your stove before you do this (if you still plan to do this) because yesterday’s rice spillover was charring and smoking now, too. Enough. I picked up the turkey with my bare hands, and plopped it into the oil. I intended to be slow and gentle, but apparently, that’s not my strong suit. Sploosh. Hot oil on my shirt, and into the stove pan. It immediately ignited. A homegrown oil slick.
And it’s boiling like Mount Vesuvius. Less than an inch from the top of this huge, heavy pan. But it had to move. My daughter and I kept our wits about us, and gently slid the boiling oil geyser to the opposite burner, and went to work putting out the fire on the oil slick, and cleaning the stove pan, all in the direct vicinity of this stainless steel pot that is 2 square feet of pulsing heat.
It was to cook for 71 minutes. In that time, I paced and took to FB to brag about my ambitious weekday cook. My older daughter came home from work. Good, we needed reinforcements. Ding went the cheery timer. I solicited their help. Armed with potholders, oven mitts and forks, we all three went in to assess how to get this bird out of its hot oil cauldron.
I had no choice but to try the freaking forks again. By now, however, it was MUCH heavier, because its cavity was filled with boiling oil. And I was pulling it out of tight spot. As Winnie the Pooh can attest, it is easier to get in to a tight spot, than it is to get out of one. We all stood around the pot, mitted hands at the ready, tensed for action. I began to tug the carcass out. Oil spilled forth like a lava flow from the turkey’s cavity, and I panicked. I dropped it back into its vat. We all jumped back with involuntary cries.
My daughter ran to get a big mixing bowl to catch the flowing oil spill. We began again. I tugged and emptied the bubbling oil into her waiting bowl. My eldest daughter held the pot steady so it wouldn’t come off the stove. She also had the temerity to turn off the flame. Long story short, we got that bird out in two parts (bec it broke into two parts) and onto the tray with only about 20 minutes of tense problem solving, and trial and error.
In the end, I wish I could say it was delicious. It was a little undercooked. But I could cross that particular adventure off my list of hopes and desires.
You’ve read this far, and aside from laughing at my hopeless optimism and misfortunes, you probably seek some kind of moral. So, I’m trying to hone in on what was satisfying about it. Here’s the moral: I did my scary thing. And it turned out okay – not excellent – but pretty good. I risked, I was rewarded and eventually, I’ll be equipped and experienced to do it again with greater success. Do your scary stuff. Not just the physical things – like tackling an ambitious recipe – but the emotional things, like writing something true. And sharing something scary. Act imperfectly, but act.