A
few years ago, I decided to smoke our Thanksgiving turkey. Roasted
turkey was fine, if a little bland,but the whole process of opening
up a bird, plopping it in the pan and sliding it into the oven was a
little lacking… Where was the challenge? Where was the culinary
passion? Sure, I could experiment with a lot of exotic dressings but,
with every government agency from here to Washington D.C. issuing
terrorist-level warnings about the danger of undercooked stuffing, I
decided to go in another direction. I decided to smoke my own bird.
Finding
a smoker was easy. Like ab-crunch machines and bread-makers, every
thrift store, and rummage sale had one or seven of the things. I soon
realized why. The cheap low-end smokers are water-based smokers. The
coals go in a pan at the bottom, the grill goes in the top and
suspended, somewhere between the two, is a pan of water to lower
cooking temperatures. Online I found pages of advice on how to smoke
a bird in this manner—the most common of which was to throw the
piece of junk out and buy a more expensive box-style smoker.
Undaunted, courageous and cheap, I assembled the old parts and threw
the turkey on.
The
grill immediately collapsed, fell into the water pan that buckled,
spilled the entire pan of water into the coals and extinguished the
fire I’d so carefully started at 7 a.m. That first year I had no
idea what I was doing, no idea how long it was going to take or any
kind of thermometer to tell when it was done. We ended up eating pink
turkey at 7 p.m. Unknown to us, smoke often gives the white meat a
pinkish tint, but at the time, we were convinced we were eating raw
turkey. We were also so hungry we didn’t care.
Maybe
it was the hunger, but, even that first year, everybody loved the
taste. After that, I was trapped into doing it every year. While I
improved my techniques, every year brought a new challenge and
crisis. One year, while I desperately tried to get the coals
re-stoked, I dropped the turkey in the dirt. Another time, the water
pan collapsed again—this time spilling greasy water over my brand
new jacket. One year the turkey came out purple. No clue. But each
year, the problems were worked out. Each year the product seemed to
improve.
This
past Thanksgiving was the pinnacle. Still using my now antique
smoker, the finished product was something you’d see in a glossy
magazine. Not only were there no mishaps, but also I had the entire
process timed to perfection. The coals died away just as my digital
thermometer hit 170 degrees exactly at the hour I’d invited the
guests. People actually ooh-ed and ahh-ed as I brought the bird in
from the patio. The only tense moment was the scramble for the last
piece of delicious, succulent turkey…
There’s
satisfaction in taking on a challenge, learning the craft and
mastering it. Thus I was kind of congratulating myself the next day
as I cleaned up the patio, swept up the wood chips, gathered the
empty charcoals bags and dissembled the now trusty, old veteran
smoker. I cleaned the outside, scrubbed the grill clean and tossed
the ashes into my compost heap. I guess I was still reliving the
glory of the perfect smoked turkey when I went to bed Friday night.
My
self-satisfied sleep was soon interrupted. Matt, my stepson home from
Scottsdale, woke us up sometime after midnight pounding on our
bedroom door. He was yelling something. Something that sounded like,
“Get up! The backyard is on fire!” I rolled over and mumbled to
my wife. “What did he say?” “Something about the backyard being
on fire…” We both suddenly leaped out of bed. Dressed in skivvies
and a t-shirt, I rushed out of the house and into the freezing
morning darkness. Matt had not been exaggerating. The entire backyard
appeared to be on fire. In the middle of our yard, just beyond the
patio area, we have a series of compost bins—one for dry material,
one for wet and one for the finished compost. The wet pile was ablaze
and so was the wooden bin for the finished dirt. A giant pile of
brush and dried weeds sat next to the now encroaching flames. The
entire back yard was lit up and burning ash floated crazily all over
the yard.
Initial
shock quickly wore off. Get the hose! I ran to the outdoor
faucet in the back of the house, spun the hose onto the faucet and
turned it on. Nothing came out. It’s frozen! Shit! The
flames were now leaping higher—so bright you could hardly look at
them. My wife ran to the front to get the hose there. I grabbed the
first thing I could find—a small six-pack cooler and ran back into
the house and the kitchen sink. Our kitchen faucet is notoriously
slow, so I stood there waiting for the tiny cooler to fill while
outside the window I could watch the bonfire.
Deb
returned from the front yard with the shocking information that the
front hose was frozen too! Imagine that! She quickly redeemed herself
by remembering that we owned a fire extinguisher. “The fire
extinguisher!” “Yes! We should get the fire extinguisher!”
“Where is the fire extinguisher?” “The fire extinguisher is
around here someplace!” Of course the fire extinguisher was hanging
by the back door that we’d charged through a half dozen times
already. Matt looked at us like we were retards. He ripped the thing
off the wall with brute force and ran into the back yard.
Meanwhile my six-pack cooler was almost full of water.
By
the time I returned to the yard with my half gallon of water—Matt
had emptied the entire fire extinguisher on the inferno. While it had
definitely dampened the worst of the flames, the fire was already
coming back. My six-pack of water had virtually no effect.
Deb
then reappeared with yet another fire extinguisher she remembered we
owned. I ran back to the house for more water and almost tripped over
the dogs’ five-gallon water bucket again. A light bulb went on in
my soggy brain. It wasn’t near as bright as the fire but…
Dropping my six-pack cooler, I grabbed the five-gallon pail and threw
it on the burn. That made a difference.
Running
back to the outside faucet, I had to fumble with icy hands to take
the hose off we had just moments earlier put on. Finally I got it off
and turned the handle. Water shot everywhere. The outside faucet is
connected directly to the well pump and the water pressure is
intense. Suddenly my underwear is soaked and I’m standing barefoot
in a couple inches of cold water. I didn’t care. Now the bucket was
filling fast. By the time I got back to the flames, Matt had emptied
the second extinguisher on it and had now found a shovel and was
throwing dirt on the flames. I threw another five gallons and
suddenly we were making progress.
Now
I’m starting to look around and see if a crowd has gathered to
watch the show. Incredibly all our neighbors are apparently asleep. I
listen for the sirens, but so far hear only the hissing of the fire.
Deb found another couple buckets and we started running back and
forth from the faucet to the flames. Most of the compost bin was
gone-- only the far wall next to the dry pile was still standing. I
looked at the ten-foot high pile of dry branches and shuttered. If
that caught—and the dry wood plank fence behind it… I dropped
my bucket and started hauling wood away from the rest of the flames.
Matt started to bust up the reminding pieces of the bin and Debi
pitched in to help--running a board and nail into her foot in the
process. They don’t make house slippers like they used to… I was
still expecting to hear police and fire truck sirens any minute. I
imagined myself attempting to explain to the firemen why exactly I
dumped hot ash on a rotting pile of plant material. Obviously,
sir, alcohol WAS involved…
I
don’t know how long we continued to throw cold water on the now
soggy ground, but by the time we went inside, we were soaked,
shivering and covered in soot. Bright side to the story I reflected,
we could now understandably give up the whole smoked turkey
tradition. Time to go back to the good, old, safe roasted bird. The
other two looked at me like I was crazy. “Are you kidding?” Matt
said. “This is the BEST THANKSGIVING STORY EVER.”
Obviously
alcohol was involved.
A f
